This weekend was not a writing one, no, siree. I sat here avoiding it for hours yesterday doing everything but writing. I don't feel too bad about it. I caught up this morning and now I'm going to share it with you before I leave for work. Some of us have to work today, or at least go there, I'm not going to predict how much actual work will be done. I am planning to call Bob at his work to ask him if he's coming to writer's on Thursday so we can give him his critique. I'll let you know.
February 28-March 1--Rembrandt Harmensz van Rijn, Woman Bathing in a Stream. Violet hiked up her shift and waded away from the stream bank. She concentrated on keeping her footing on the slippery rounded stones underfoot. The silky feeling of the clear cool water wrapping around her ankles caught her attention and made her stop. She stood there holding the white fabric up at her hips, looking at her feet like pale fish lying on the smooth bottom stones, feeling the green weed tugged by the current tickle her ankles, seeing the tiny silver fish dart around like arrows of light.
March 2--Vincent van Gogh, Irises. The artist sat in the garden, his sketchpad on his knees, and stared at the riot of colors. He couldn't decide where to start, what to make the focus of his painting. The heat of the sun through his straw hat and the buzzing of the bees tempted him to retreat to the cool blue shade with a beer but he stayed there, pencil flying, to capture the silver-green spears of iris leaves restlessly pointing to their royal purple and white blossoms borne like flags into battle.
Not bad for 2 things dashed off in a hurry. I think I do my best work when I'm rushed or tired. One of these days I'll stop overthinking these things when I'm feeling normal.
--Barbara
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