I agree, Bob, that the meeting had a different feeling. Lately I've been feeling like Jacob Marley dragging the chains of my past deeds when it comes to writing, and I'm damned if I can figure out how to throw them off. Maybe telling stories rather than writing them is an answer. Beats the hell out of me. And it's driving me freaking nuts.
July 25--Write about asking for mercy--"Please." The word rang in my ears from every direction. Dirty hands held out, dirty faces upturned as I passed. Every additional plea, every voice, every face streaked with tears warms me. Fills me with the heat of my power. I walk through the town on purpose. In my house I am insulated, used to the obsequious faces, the submissive postures. All around me are clean and groomed. Too boring. I walk among the peasants, I appreciate the cleanliness of my home because of the stench out there. I see their filthy hair and dirt-smudged faces. I see their tumbledown hovels and the scurrying curs. They should eat the dogs; they are too poor to have pets. When I am feeling especially bored I fling a handful of coins into the mud and watch them scrabble unself-consciously for the money. It amuses me.
Not the most sympathetic woman I've ever written about, but she might be fun. So, Bob, is your piece fiction or a retelling of an old story? I like it's possibilities.
--Barbara
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