Don't you love them? I do. I think just about every writer does. I get to go to the office supplies store to get flags and post-its, index cards in lots of colors, and maybe some colored pencils so I can mark scenes and follow threads through my manuscript in my Revision class. I even unearthed an old mini-recorder so I can dictate notes if I'm too absorbed to stop and write them out. Ooh, cool.
January 19--Tanah Lot, Bali. It was the worst road she had ever been on. Tony, the taxi driver she had hired from the resort lobby for an island tour, had seemed the most reliable and his car had looked less decrepit than the rest, but she was certain that they were in danger of getting a flat tire or bending a rim from all the potholes in the road. Actually a flat tire was the least of Claire's worries. The wild country they drove through looked ready to swallow them up. In her imagination the holes in the pavement had been made by the caustic saliva of the giant beasts that hid in the jungle. That was silly, she knew, but the looks on the faces of the people they passed did nothing to ease her disquiet. All of the people on the roadside, men, women and children, looked haunted, hunted, beaten down by the heat and humid air. And the monsters in the jungle, her imagination added. Tony kept up a running commentary about the villages they bumped through and the history of the island, but Claire barely listened. She was too consumed by the wet, green light in the tunnel of the road and watching out for signs of claws and fangs.
Hmm. Never did get to the place in the picture but it's not bad. Oh, for a while there it was sunny out but now the clouds are rolling in. We need a little snow this week; my knitting group wants to try snowshoeing on Sunday, so a little fresh snow would be nice. Just a bit, nothing catastrophic or deep.
--Barbara
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