Jenny, neither Bob nor I are having much better luck. I'm thinking that just taking satisfaction in showing up at the paper no matter what comes out on the page is a step in the right direction. You've got an interesting idea in your little drivel. I like that it's salt water and that it keeps refilling. Bob said he may not have a submission on Thursday and I think it's not going to be the end of the world. Bring your Bananagrams and I'll bring a book and we'll muddle through. I told Bob that I didn't think we were in critical condition--yet--because we still write exercises when we're together. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.
July 8--Write about a gate--Lucy's fingers looked like bones as she reached out to touch the wrought iron gate. Her hand shook and her nails looked like pools of blood against the stark white of her flesh. She looked at the generous garden stretching from the sidewalk to the porch steps, and thought it looked like something out of an early Hitchcock film or maybe one of those late '60s horror flicks with Bette Davis and Joan Crawford made up to look like grotesques. She smiled at her imagination and shook her head at how suggestible she was. The woman in that house down the flagstone path was her grandmother. No matter how angry Mama had been, she never wanted Lucy to hate or fear her grandmother. Lucy lifted the latch and pushed the gate inward, surprised that the metal hinges made no sound. As she stepped through and paused to close it behind her a chilly mist began to weave around her ankles and spread across the lush lawn and twine through the towering blue spruces that staggered toward the garage. Lucy stood bemused, tempted to probe the hedge for a smoke machine.
Okay. A week into writing daily and I see a little bit of story seeping into the gibberish. This is a good thing.
See y'all tomorrow night.
--Barbara
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