Back

I took this week off from writing. I don't know why. I guess because I needed a break from the intensity of NaNoWriMo last month. But I missed it. I felt incomplete, so I'm back. Back to looking at art on a calendar page, back trying to make a little sense, create a little world from it. It' not easy to do, to dedicate yourself to writing every day, inspired or not, but that's what I try to do and I feel odd, unfulfilled, wrong if I don't write. So I'm back. Me and my little notebook are getting reacquainted with my pencils and my constant companion, the eraser stick thing-y, which is more reliable than the tiny erasers they put on pencils. I use my eraser a lot, I try not to but I stop and think about what I'm writing and then I'm doomed.

December 5--Charles de Hampeln, Troika on the Street in St. Petersburg. The light sliced through the ice cold air like the blade of a sword. In the distance the setting sun's rays made it look as if the city were on fire. Natasha wished that the heat of that imagined fire was with her in the troika. Even with the wool cloak, knitted stockings, and fur robe she was freezing. She wanted to call out to Piotr the driver to slow down. The cold wind of their flight across the city was freezing her face, her tears froze as they fell nestling like diamonds in the dark brown fur. How did Piotr stand it up there on the seat? Even with his thick beard and fur mitts his face and hands must be frozen. Alexei had given her this troika, had said that the green of it reminded him of her eyes and the three spirited horses spoke to him of her untamed spirit. But he expected too much in return. She was not a light-skirt, so she found herself out in the freezing night fleeing across the city to an uncertain welcome in the home that she hated.

Eh. Pretty trite, isn't it? I blame the art.
--Barbara