I finished some work for one of my first editing clients. I’m pumped. Have a book review to post soon for a new book I read that’s about to come out. I’m pumped about that. I’m off from the part-time job today, too. Pumped. Real pumped. Gonna go to a coffee shop and work on some short stories. Gonna get some more short stories for my blog. Gotta get a few more. Gotta have some useful stuff to tweet and post to Facebook. Gotta get my blog making money so I can quit my part-time job and do my blogging and writing and editing thing. Gotta stay pumped.
But, that’s starting to sound like a plan. Gotta stay pumped.
Don’t like plans. Plans make me totally un-pumped, unless I finish them. Then I get pumped. Seems problematic. Gotta figure out how to work around that. Getting kinda bummed out. Gotta think about the stuff I’ve accomplished this weekend so I get back in. I finally finished my first short story collection. All the stories are in it that are going to be in it. Took three years, but that’s alright. No idea who to submit the collection to, though. It also might be a little too short. Not gonna let that throw me out. Gotta stay pumped. I like short.
It’s cold, but I gotta get to the coffee shop.
Need my latte. A sugary one. Want it to taste like candy. Caramel and chocolate coffee candy. Like hot, melted candy goo with cream on it. Getting pumped on the bus just thinking about it. I’m so pumped that I forgot to think about exactly what I want. I want a white mocha. Quills doesn’t have the white mocha anymore? Deflating. De-pumped. Quills barista wants to know if regular mocha was okay. There’s also a caramel-bourbon-something latte. Yes, bourbon. That’ll do. Pump me back up. Put those pumps in there. Medium gets an extra pump, pump.
Need a table. Lots of people in here. Lots of people sitting down, dressed like they’re still outside. Thirty-somethings. Mostly late thirty-somethings. There’s a dark wooden table in the corner where there are less late thirty-somethings. Going for it. Super confident about this. The bench wobbles. Afraid to move my butt too much. Don’t wanna piss off the important-looking late thirty-somethings sitting further down the bench. Gotta get out my Moleskine quick and stay pumped.
There’s a water spot and some brown stains from my leather bag on the corner of my Moleskine.
My Moleskine should be black, always. Notebook’s not even half written in, yet. It’s got character. That’s it. Pump it. Gotta find the tension in this story. Gotta get it done. Need it. Needs to be good. Needs to get me going. I’ve been going, wiggling this whole time, pissing off the important people sitting further down the bench. This one man still in his tan jacket and his beanie is looking totally de-pumped. Just gonna write and sip and be pumped.
My hand hurts. Been pumping it too hard. Still looking for tension in there. I know it’s there, somewhere. Not getting pumped up like I usually do thinking about it, though. It’s the people down at the other end of the bench. Need to move, but I like this spot. Took a picture of it and everything. Gonna use it for some stuff, so screw those guys. I’m writing a story. It’s about a man. Something happens to him in his car. Something bad. Something so bad that it’s going to be good. Useful. Gonna get all the late-thirty-somethings wiggling their butts in their benches. It’s gonna pump everyone up so hard.
Three pages of hand shaking, pen carving, and tooth-tensing in.
Figuring out the characters. Figuring out their thing. Their issue. Their problems. They’re self-sustaining. They’re gonna go on, with or without me. I can feel it. I can feel them wiggling through. Taking my first sip of my caramel-bourbon-something-latte. Wish it was a white mocha. Getting up to pack up, wiggling the bench, pissing off the late thirty-somethings one more time. They’re watching me. Don’t care. Found my sugary spot. Cured thoughts into atoms. Tasted my thought-candy. I’m gone.