Cooking the Hook - NEW

I had to save it. It was a good scene, hot as hell. Too hot. Hot but pointless. So I took it apart, line by line, threw out the ones that didn't serve and crafted new ones. I poured cold water on the lovers, retarded their spark and made the waiting serve the story. Ding.

Lately, whenever Inspiration and the Muse want to go  for a ride I  can't  find the damn keys. A friend said "get out and push it."

"Writing is like sex.   If you’re doing it right, you will not be thinking about success."  (From somewhere on the internet, font of all wisdom, right?) Wow. What if you are writing sex?   Damn.

"Using vintage fabrics in my art is a constant and welcome reminder of the character and original purpose of this cloth - beautiful utility. Old damasks and linens take to contemporary surface design techniques , such as dyes and resists, in unexpected and satisfying ways. This composition came about while waiting in my car in the winter sunshine outside the laundromat and observing several women inside go back and forth between heated arguing and companionable agreement as they watched their own laundry churning. "The fabrics of our lives" seemed to be the theme of the day for all of us." Artist statements have been the bane of my existence, but they are required for many exhibitions. Just LOOK at the shit folks!  This piece was juried into Art Quilt Elements in Philadelphia, PA and sold the last night of the exhibit. I miss it.

I knew he'd come. The same buttery moon who kissed me between the eyes last evening,  now probes my eyelashes from the blueblack of the west. I got up, shed my gown and stepped outside  to show him what a woman has to offer.  “Bring it braggart.” I said  and give him a twirl. Back inside, my husband was watching from the warmth of our bed. He pulled me in all chilled to points  and said “He'll have to wait his turn.”

It's not the first time it's happened, but I'm going to make sure that it's the last. While I was doing the dishes this morning a half dozen scenarios, threads of action and dialogue camped out briefly in my head. Rather than peel of those rubber gloves and take off after those ideas, I parked them in my brain. Right. And forget to set the parking brake. A busy, emotionally and physically taxing day passed and by the time I sat down here, all the birds had flown the coop. Next time I do the dishes (it's not a daily event) I'll make sure that the laptop is down in the kitchen with me. This is NANOWRIMO month. Rather than commit to pounding out what might be 50K of nonsense, I plan on culling the 110K that I already have and reading a couple of novels that have been on my list and celebrating someone elses  hard fought victories.  

Have I mentioned the fine pack of jackals that I run with twice a month? I used to think that being a visual artist working in textiles was a solitary pursuit, but stitchers  everywhere are finding ways to "bee" together. They gather in public places, gang up in each other's living rooms, or meet in the ether through the web. They knit, spin, crochet, quilt and embroid er  for each others edification, envy or the pure pleasure of just sharing. It's nice. There is nothing as solitary as writing. Long periods of being alone inside your head with your characters and your doubts will make you crazy. Getting together once and a while with similarly plagued individuals is both daunting and uplifting. We learn about the craft from the more experienced members of the group and take turns reading from our works in progress. It's a diverse bunch. We meet in a local, family style restaurant where we used to command a back room, but lately have had to share the space an...