This gallery contains 15 photos.
This gallery contains 15 photos.
“I don’t believe that responsibility in an author ever worked. I don’t believe that any author ever did any good because he was feeling a responsibility. I believe some authors instinctively feel a certain love for the human being, and they will do a lot of good, I hope. And some of the ones don’t, and that’s all.”-Jean Renoir

Jean Renoir Drawing by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1901
Weekly Writing Challenge: Fifty
“No rules. Just stick to the word count-no more, no less than fifty words.”
Here is my entry.
Third-wave
Rosamund was born disliking two things: being ordered about, and the baffling human impulse to join social clubs. At five, she was horrified to discover that girls were expected to politely comply with those very requests. She thought, “To hell with that!”, and screamed so long that her throat soured.
How does that make you feel?

You’ll never perfect your craft.

The idea that you can perfect your craft is a chimera, a distraction.

Allen Ginsberg Quote
Marguerite Duras was born on 4 April 1914.
“She had lived her early years as though she were waiting for something she might, but never did, become.”-Marguerite Duras, The Ravishing of Lol Stein

The tomb of Marguerite Duras
Washington Irving, a titan in the annals of American Literature, was born on 3 April 1783.
“There is a serene and settled majesty to woodland scenery that enters into the soul and delights and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations.”-Washington Irving
Surprisingly, the father of Ichabod and Rip was something of a dreamboat as a young man.

Washington Irving at 22.

Portrait of Washington Irving by John Wesley Jarvis, 1809.

Washington Irving in 1820.
“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.”-Émile Zola (born 2 April 1840)

Buddy Ebsen, 1936. He was born on 2 April 1908.

Shirley Temple and Buddy Ebsen in Captain January (1936).
The winter-encrusted inhabitants of this drafty house are agog at the most gladsome of all tidings: spring is here! It is here! It is here! Glorious. Insistent. Blustery. She’s a grand dame, is Spring. I should be writing. I could be cleaning. I would, I would…but it is 77 degrees outside! The day that a season elbows her way back into our lives is a cause for celebration, not concentration.

I’m as happy as Clara Bow with a beach ball!
This is where I put words about how the contented chirping of birds, barking of dogs, and mewing of small children have all joined to create the newest soundtrack sensation. Ice cream trucks, green shoots of plants I am constitutionally unable to recognize but overjoyed to see, and motorcycle engines belong here, too. Tank tops, sandals, and Margaritas for the win!
The front porch boards are warm beneath my feet.