Theodore Robinson (1852-1896)
oil on canvas.
In an effort to coax the creativity creature out of its tiny closet in a corner of my mind, I hauled up a couple of last year's files, added and exorcized, and sent them out to market like little pigs.
I hoped that the process -- the pattern of guidelines, query, synopsis and sample -- in itself would do something.
It didn't work.
All I could think of was that rejections would arrive in due course -- just in time to mark the anniversary of my husband's death and the quiet horror of that morning.
Then I began reading the archives of this blog -- and spun in a whirlpool of ideas, a mist of partial scenes, fragments of dialogue blown hither and yon, a stream of dim characters, all crying for release or capture.
And I hope I may have found, finally, an arc to link those pieces called The Minor Annals.
For an example of really good storytelling, read Scott's November 24 post, Crossing Smokey.
And for photos that send the imagination soaring, Gabriele's posts on her trip to Oban, particularly the one dated 21.11.09.