Scent of a Rose, John William Waterhouse
Today was too gorgeous to stay inside wrestling with words. Deliciously warm and sunny in mid-January–not to be missed. I took a walk down Fourth Street and wandered about the vintage stores there. Came across a collection of lovely vintage vases in one store–an emerald green vintage glass beauty fat as Cinderella’s pumpkin coach, would be striking in a corner sporting pampas grass, a slender and delicate as a fairy aquamarine vase, and a columnar yellow one caught my eye as well. Too bad my wallet said “Are you kidding me?” ’cause I wanted all three.
Wandered into another store and bought a book, 1st edition of The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, by David Wroblewski, who happens to live down the street from my best friend’s family’s house. I’m looking forward to reading it as soon as I finish the book I’m reading now.
And speaking of the book I”m reading now–it’s beautifully written, has an intriguing concept, and yet I read a few pages and put it down, read a few pages and put it down–for days and days. I’m not engaged. It’s my kind of fantasy novel–fine language, well done characters, imaginative setting, what appears to be an interesting plot, but I have not fallen into it as I’d expected I would. What’s up with that?
This week I’m going to blow off the dust and revise a short story I wrote years ago, Dead, Baby–yep that comma’s important ’cause the story’s not about a dead baby. It’s a good story and I want it to find a home.