Tired. No run tonight, as the day beat me, persistently. No matter. I’m writing. Today, didn’t have a Lit Lunch. Profoundly disappointed in Self. Tried something different, resulting in no fortune. It’s alright, thought, I reason. I learned. Sipping the last of this Kaz blend, then to bed. Today, in cube, took over 3 FULL pages of notes. All to book, the novel. Going to finish this bloody novel. Almost cursed, but refrained. Somehow.
Tomorrow night, writing binge. I demand of Self something lengthy, but focused, simple. All for novel. I want my project to have fifty solid pages. Granted, not yet edited. But, still, 50 pages. Last of the 50/50 Cab/Petite Verdot blend, sipped. For tomorrow night’s session, opening an ’04 Napa Cab that SHOULD be mind-blowing. That’s what I’ve been told, but I’ll let my continuously particular palate evaluate the bottle’s contents.
But, I need to chip away--no, seriously contribute, significantly add to--the novel. The novel needs to be finished. Need a deadline, like with log. This log ends at this year’s end. Unavoidable. I need one similar, but mental, with my fiction debut. Keep piling material from the cubeNOTES. Wine for tomorrow night, maybe the Pinot I just bought in Monterey, with Jimbo. Haven’t opened a Pinot in a while, it seems. Have to break out my Computer tomorrow, in my adored café, from 12:30-something to 1:30-ish. Need to write more narrowly, I’m thinking. I’m also of mind, now, that the new blog, next to 1Stop, will be completely Literary; addressing theory, criticism, fiction, verse, everything. Even history. Sure, I’ll throw in a wine word every so often, but it won’t be like mikeslognoblog, in the there’ll be more Lit than vino, if you catch. When my book lands on a shelf, or in an inevitable category, I want it to be Literary, fiction, or nonfiction. Or poetry. Not anything wined. I’m an author, one from a world COMPLETELY Literary, academic. Nothing touching wine’s wobble.
Missing studies. Missing grad school. Teaching, lecturing, helping my beloved students with their papers. Seeing their eyes widen. Wine, no matter how amazing it tastes, or how provocatively it cuddles palate, could never have that caliber gravity grabbing me. Sipping to tomorrow, scribbling for now.