We got about 2" of snow yesterday so now the world looks cleaner, not so gray and dirty, and I went to bed at 10 o'clock, wrote in my notebook, read a bit, and still turned out the light before 11. Much better.
February 2--Djurgarden, Stockholm, Sweden. Summer in Sweden was borrowed time. Everyone knew how short, how precious the warm months are, how quickly the light would fade to blue early in the afternoon and the wind shift to blow out of the north. People made summer count in these latitudes. Ilsa was no different. She rode her bicycle to work in the Budget Department of the Mayor's office. She ate her sack lunch in one of the parks within a few blocks of work and she spent as much time as she could down by the harbor watching the flotilla of sailboats skim over the water like water bugs. She had always loved sailing and so she had struck up a conversation with the handsome, middle-aged man scrubbing the deck of the restored 45-footer tied up to the pier nearest her office. They had talked and laughed, his name was Piet just like her brother's; she thought it was funny and nice. Yesterday he had invited her for a sail this morning. They had taken a route that took them away from the rest of the boats. Now she found herself in the cabin below deck, her hands tied to a ring in the ceiling, a gag in her mouth, and a very determined Piet cutting off her clothes with a bandage scissors.
Okay. So far I can put my character in trouble, I just have to write down the action of getting in trouble. I'm getting there. Remember, no more Mrs. Nice Guy.
--Barbara
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