What a dreary day. Already I'm feeling like I'll need a nap soon. I hate overcast days. But it's supposed to be warm-ish so maybe the ice floe at the end of the driveway will diminish. Maybe if I go out with some salt it'll disappear altogether. That'd be good.
March 6--John Singer Sargent, La Carmencita. Emily stood at her mirror in her golden yellow dress. She admired her narrow waist and how the skirt flared out from it like an overturned flower. The bodice, what there was of it, fitted her closely, the built-in corset holding her like a lover's hands. The neckline barely reached her shoulders and almost covered her nipples. She had a beaded and fringed wrap to cover herself with, to provide a bit of modesty on the ride to the party and to appease her dragon of a grandmother. She fully intended to leave the wrap on her chair once the dancing began. Emily was grateful for her pale gold skin and dark auburn hair. They made it possible for her to wear this vivid yellow dress instead of the insipid pastels favored by most young women. She gazed at her reflection. She wore no jewelry, nothing to interfere with the expanse of flesh she intended to show off tonight.
Enjoy your day. I hope someone else writes and posts something too. I want to read your stuff too. Please? Just a little scribble?
--Barbara
Friday, March 6, 2009
Now that's good writing!!!!
Oh my goodness Barbara...I love yesterday's blog! In my opinion, this IS the best work yet! Take this one and run with it lady....this is the stuff that readers clamor for!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
It's Writer-ing Day!
Yippee! And no snowstorm better get in the way again.
March 5--Peter Paul Rubens, Posthumous Portrait of Isabella d'Este, Marchioness of Mantua. Too soon, he thought as he sat gazing at her portrait, she died too soon. As he stared, the painted flesh grew rounded and the bosoms rose and fell with each breath. His hands ached to glide over her rosy cheeks and linger at her lips, now closed forever, but open and laughing in life. He yearned to be the string of pearls that hung from her plump shoulders and draped ever so lightly over her lush breasts, breasts that had winked at him and welcomed him into their embrace. The rich red velvet of the gown that slid so fetchingly off her shoulders reminded him that his reason to keep his estates profitable had been to provide her with only the best. Her right hand lay casually in a nest of fur made from a pelt he had shot for her. All for her. His whole long life had been for her. He could not believe she was gone after their full life together. No one had argued when he had asked the Dutch painter to make his Isabella look as she had the day he met her. They all knew that his love for her had never changed her in his eyes. The next morning his valet found him slumped in the chair across from her portrait, his hand outstretched as if to take hers as his spirit rose to rejoin her.
Aw, isn't that romantic? I like it. See you later.
--Barbara
March 5--Peter Paul Rubens, Posthumous Portrait of Isabella d'Este, Marchioness of Mantua. Too soon, he thought as he sat gazing at her portrait, she died too soon. As he stared, the painted flesh grew rounded and the bosoms rose and fell with each breath. His hands ached to glide over her rosy cheeks and linger at her lips, now closed forever, but open and laughing in life. He yearned to be the string of pearls that hung from her plump shoulders and draped ever so lightly over her lush breasts, breasts that had winked at him and welcomed him into their embrace. The rich red velvet of the gown that slid so fetchingly off her shoulders reminded him that his reason to keep his estates profitable had been to provide her with only the best. Her right hand lay casually in a nest of fur made from a pelt he had shot for her. All for her. His whole long life had been for her. He could not believe she was gone after their full life together. No one had argued when he had asked the Dutch painter to make his Isabella look as she had the day he met her. They all knew that his love for her had never changed her in his eyes. The next morning his valet found him slumped in the chair across from her portrait, his hand outstretched as if to take hers as his spirit rose to rejoin her.
Aw, isn't that romantic? I like it. See you later.
--Barbara
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Hazy Sunshine
I like it; it seems spring-y to me.
Have you got your critique ready for tomorrow night? I've got mine done and my submission. I mentioned it to Jennifer week before last, but didn't get a chance to say it to Jenny, I'd like to have Personal Project night next week if that's okay with you. I'd like to sit and write in the company of other writers to draw on the energy we generate as a group.
March 4--Eugenio Lucas y Padilla, The Bullfight. Blood on the sand. Blood of horses. Blood of the bull. Blood of men. This is a sport? It looks like barbarity confinced to an arena to me. When did carnage become a spectator sport? I know all about "nature red in tooth and claw" and I understand it, but this is not nature. This is hideous and barbaric--and entertainment evidently. I abhor it.
Not much, but it's writing and it's done. Keep smiling and keep scribbling.
--Barbara
Have you got your critique ready for tomorrow night? I've got mine done and my submission. I mentioned it to Jennifer week before last, but didn't get a chance to say it to Jenny, I'd like to have Personal Project night next week if that's okay with you. I'd like to sit and write in the company of other writers to draw on the energy we generate as a group.
March 4--Eugenio Lucas y Padilla, The Bullfight. Blood on the sand. Blood of horses. Blood of the bull. Blood of men. This is a sport? It looks like barbarity confinced to an arena to me. When did carnage become a spectator sport? I know all about "nature red in tooth and claw" and I understand it, but this is not nature. This is hideous and barbaric--and entertainment evidently. I abhor it.
Not much, but it's writing and it's done. Keep smiling and keep scribbling.
--Barbara
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Bounty!
I stopped at Hobby Lobby this morning. They were closing out a bunch of wool at only $1.99 a skein. I bought a lot. But it won't go to waste. Once again my resolution to only buy yarn I need went right out the window.
Nobody Tells Me Nothing
I didn't know Bob was moving either, except that he posted it yesterday. He never said anything at our meetings. He keeps things close to the vest, our Bob.
And, Bob, I hesitate to guess where your cell phone was. In your pocket? In your car? Up your nose? I'm just glad you found it. Maybe I'll make you a nice knitted holder you can hook to your belt loop so you don't lose it. Kind of a mitten-string of the new millennium. In manly colors, of course.
I emailed in the first 10 pages of Horizon today so there'll be a critique for me when I get to the conference in Madison. Ooh, I should have saved this for writerly activities. Oh well. Now I have to write my pitch and log line, whatever that is. I'm sure I saw a FAQ about it. I'll look it up.
March 3--Jacques Louis David, Napoleon Crossing the Alps on 20 May 1800. The Little General sat on his battle horse, his favorite, Bucephalus, the white charger with the black strip in his mane. The wind blew up the pass making his red wool cape sail around him like a banner leading the men onward, giving them courage. An unimpressive man at first glance, Napoleon, when on horseback, was the equal of any monarch in grandeur and dignity. He pulled the collar of his navy blue coat up to protect his neck and stretched his right hand up and out to show the way, but also to grasp the chance as he made his way uphill to greatness. the Little General felt the power of his horse radiate up his back to vibrate through his very core. His sensuous mouth curved in satisfaction to see the admiration and loyalty in the men's eyes. His victory was so near he could almost taste it. "Mr. Burton," the nurse called, "it's time to come in for lunch." Nathan stopped striding up and down on the gray cement walk and turned toward the door. Today was tapioca day and he didn't want to miss it. His black and white cane made him feel more secure on his feet as he made his way inside.
Oh, I like this. It turned out just the way I imagined it. See you on Thursday. Bob's coming too so we can give him our critiques.
--Barbara
And, Bob, I hesitate to guess where your cell phone was. In your pocket? In your car? Up your nose? I'm just glad you found it. Maybe I'll make you a nice knitted holder you can hook to your belt loop so you don't lose it. Kind of a mitten-string of the new millennium. In manly colors, of course.
I emailed in the first 10 pages of Horizon today so there'll be a critique for me when I get to the conference in Madison. Ooh, I should have saved this for writerly activities. Oh well. Now I have to write my pitch and log line, whatever that is. I'm sure I saw a FAQ about it. I'll look it up.
March 3--Jacques Louis David, Napoleon Crossing the Alps on 20 May 1800. The Little General sat on his battle horse, his favorite, Bucephalus, the white charger with the black strip in his mane. The wind blew up the pass making his red wool cape sail around him like a banner leading the men onward, giving them courage. An unimpressive man at first glance, Napoleon, when on horseback, was the equal of any monarch in grandeur and dignity. He pulled the collar of his navy blue coat up to protect his neck and stretched his right hand up and out to show the way, but also to grasp the chance as he made his way uphill to greatness. the Little General felt the power of his horse radiate up his back to vibrate through his very core. His sensuous mouth curved in satisfaction to see the admiration and loyalty in the men's eyes. His victory was so near he could almost taste it. "Mr. Burton," the nurse called, "it's time to come in for lunch." Nathan stopped striding up and down on the gray cement walk and turned toward the door. Today was tapioca day and he didn't want to miss it. His black and white cane made him feel more secure on his feet as he made his way inside.
Oh, I like this. It turned out just the way I imagined it. See you on Thursday. Bob's coming too so we can give him our critiques.
--Barbara
Goods News...
It turns out I didn't misplace my cellphone after all. (Guess where it was.) And so, I am once again reachable. The sun is out this morning and the weather is supposed to warm up in the next few days. Things are looking good.
Oh, I am moving, actually. (Didn't I say?) I'll be moving to 1205 Hastings Street, just down from Schroeder's Flowers. See you all Thursday evening.
Bob ;-)
Oh, I am moving, actually. (Didn't I say?) I'll be moving to 1205 Hastings Street, just down from Schroeder's Flowers. See you all Thursday evening.
Bob ;-)
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