My laptop had to spend a night with the Geek Squad to get its brains washed out and rebooted so I spent last night copying all my writing and picture files back onto the hard drive. This is a reminder to go to Walmart or Office Depot or someplace like that and get a nice, roomy jump drive and back up your computer files RIGHT NOW. *ahem* Sorry for the yelling but it's that important. My computer's brain ate itself once about 10 years ago and I lost all sorts of stories and other things I didn't have hard copies of, so now I'm a fool for backing up my files. I have backups of my backups. Memory is cheap, people, it's not worth losing your brilliance to laziness. On to the writing stuff.
You know how they say that it takes 21 days of doing something to make it a habit? I'm here to tell you that it doesn't take anywhere that long to break the habit, especially if it's something you think is good for you, like, say, writing a little every day. I didn't write when I was feeling bad and was under the influence of the pain-removing ants, so now I'm back to square one with the whole building-good-writing-habits thing. Sheesh. Here we go again. This time I'd like it if someone did it with me. Anybody game? Anybody?
From last night...
April 29--American School, Portrait of Two Children. Matthew dreaded his latest commission. He was grateful to have it, don't misunderstand. He was grateful to have a place to sleep under roof and to have meals served to him regularly through the day, but the work on the commission was becoming more onerous by the hour. On the surface it seemed to be the same as so many before it, a prosperous businessman paid to have a portrait of his children, but Jared and Justus were not ordinary children. They gave off waves of, well, of pure evil. His fingers burned when he touched their skin to pose them, the smell that rose from their bodies choked his lungs, and the piercing stare of those four eyes looking at him while he painted made his hand shake. Matthew did not care what Mister Jerusalem Yost thought of the painting of his sons, he just wanted to finish, get paid his twenty-five dollars, and escape.
and for today...
April 30--Pierre-August Renoir, Roses. "Like an armful of roses," he murmured as he plunged his face into her breasts. The pink of her flesh was like the palest rose that bloomed in the dooryard of his cottage. His kisses followed his eyes into the shadow between the perfumed mounds and he thought again of flowers as he gather her luscious flesh to him. The earthy aroma of spring and life rose to his senses as he moved down her soft white belly to her dark center. He inhaled the intoxicating bouquet as he plunged into her depths. "Roses," he said into her hair, "roses, you are made of roses." She sighed and wrapped her arms and legs around him as the trailing rose gathers the trellis to its heart.
A trifle trite but acceptable. See you tonight, Jenny and Jennifer. I'll be the one in the new (to me) red car.
--Barbara
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