Simultaneously, with as much force as she could muster, she brought the side of her fist down on the toes peeking out of the strappy white sandals while turning her head to spit on the exposed ankles above the Birkenstocks. The two women screamed and jumped back. Their attacker resumed her work without any lingering malice, repairing the damage the gawkers had done.
Slowly, thoughtfully she replaced a cylinder of chalk onto the battered metal tray. Her hand hovered above the dusty yet colorful array before choosing a subdued sage green and applying the color to what gawkers like the sandal wearers realized was a face – a haggard, careworn, devastating visage that made their hearts hurt just to see the pain in the eyes. It was a female figure. Beyond the gnarled fingers, straggling hair, fierce eyebrows and burning eyes, one could see a hint of a gentle curve and female nature. A reminder of breasts that might have once been voluptuous rather than sagging, lips that might once have smiled invitingly. (c) Dawn Goldsmith 2009
For some reason I awoke one morning with the vision of this street artist in my mind and I rushed to the computer to try to capture her in words. She's an elusive figure, this woman, yet I think I know what she's about. Can I accurately represent her and her life and the story she wants me to tell?
And for years I have been friends with a group of characters who inspired the name of my other blog: Subversive Stitchers: Women Armed with Needles. Here is a snippet of what I've written about them. But the story keeps beginning again and again and I can't quite decide which group is the one I want to write about or which setting or which conflict....I think there's a series here.
Working Title: Subversive Stitchers
Knowing something is not nearly as satisfying as sharing it. That was Alma Wright’s motto.
She peered through the twisted metal Art Nouveau grillwork. It separated her workspace from the tiny post office lobby. She looked out onto the government green walls and scarred black and green linoleum floor. She could also keep an eye on the bank of copper antique doors that secured each mailbox for citizens of Clarion, Ohio. Being postmistress not only gave her keys to the back room of the post office, but also opened up access to everyone’s business. She was the first to read their picture post cards, the first to know when a bill was overdue and the first to see who was corresponding with whom. Email had curtailed much of the personal letter information, but in a small town there was always gossip and she was well connected on the grapevine. Her whole world had shrunk to the size of the tiny post office. (c)Dawn Goldsmith 2008
I welcome comments and encouragement, prayers and lit candles. And I WELCOME ways to get my writing organized so I can easily find what I need and finish this project and begin a whole new chapter in my life. And if you wish to discuss the fiction I'm writing, even better!