Rebecca
Grrr.
Those lines look…terrible. I put the pencil down and glance at my sketches.
What is wrong with me today? How many hours have I been sitting here drawing one useless sketch after another?
Too many, that’s for sure.
Randomly, I pick up another piece. This one looks a bit like an angry monster about to devour a vegetable that looks remarkably like Killian.
The eyes are especially reminiscent of him. Even without color, I’d somehow captured that essence all too well.
Before I can delve deeper into the resemblance, I rip it into as many tiny little pieces as I can in a few frustrated seconds.
Garbage. The entire morning—the entire day—has been a waste.
Nothing is useable.
I sigh and scatter the pages across my desk.
This one looks like an evil alien on a mission of apocalyptic destruction.
Even I shiver looking at this creature.
What has happened to my imagination? It looks like it’s had a brush with the dark side. Come to think of it, my drawings look like they’re pushing the boundaries of the dark side far enough to make Darth Vader blush under his helmet.
My contract allows for quite a bit of creative freedom but not this much. Not for a children’s book.
I sigh again.
What should I do?
I could keep going until I get something right or I could accept an entire wasted day and go back to it later.
Neither option seem attractive.
I chew on the bottom of my pencil, a habit I thought I’d broken years ago.
My inner voice, the responsible one, reminds me of the deadline.
It’s not like it’s tomorrow, but if I don’t stay on top of things, then it’ll really be tomorrow sooner than I realize.
One minute you think you’ve got plenty of time, the next you’re doing all-nighters because you’ve spent too much time doing nothing.
Rapidly, my pencil moves across the page again.
I convert the blank space into something I can’t recognize.
I was going for a literal food fight of sorts, processed food versus fruits and vegetables, going along with the book’s theme of natural versus artificial.
It doesn’t work when the carrots look like evil gnomes.
Instead of a likeable banana, I’ve created a monster with no arms or legs and a bent body.
Perhaps a horror movie producer would be interested if I let them have it? If only I had some connections in that world. Looks like all these will end up in recycling.
Or in the fireplace.
Sketching kid’s drawings is clearly not going to work today. After a day of these attempts turning out so disturbingly, I don’t know if my future lies in that arena, either.
After I pack up my pencils and paper, I prowl around the house. I’m not exactly sure what’s distressing me, but my universe is clearly out of sync.
I mean, usually I don’t get artist’s block, not for this damned long.
How long have I been on this little retreat? I’ve smashed through a few personal records of unproductivity and useless, discarded ideas and sketches.
Is it really Killian who’s doing this to me?
My first impulse is to blame that whole situation. The divorce is over, and the Killian thing is all that’s been currently happening in my life.
I try and dismiss the notion. I mean, it’s not like we were an item or anything. He could have called in on me today, but it’s not like he’d have a reason to.
And maybe this is the start of the trouble. Maybe I was expecting him to call, and now that he hasn’t, I’m out of sorts.
Only one thing to do.
I grab my keys and handbag and walk out the door.
On my last two attempts to get in and out of town safely, I had failed miserably—it’s time to try one last time. After all, third time’s the charm.
I swear if something happens to me today, walking in and out of town, I’ll think either the place is possessed or has it in for me.
With the late afternoon sun dipping its rays for a final farewell, there’s enough warmth left in the day for me not to take a jacket.
I try and focus on looking at the scenery.
Breathing in the fresh air and looking at my surroundings often work wonders to get me creative and improve my drawing.
Nature is such a wonderful classroom. There are so many things she can teach us.
Remarkable colors are an ongoing lesson in aesthetics I never want to stop learning.
The fascinating differences between the way everything looks here compared to what I’m used to will never leave me bored.
The landscape, the vegetation, even the implication of the unseen...
Behind each rock and tree, I imagine an entire little world of special creatures only those of a certain temperament can see.
The minute I leave my creaky, rusty gate behind, I feel my mood lighten already. I knew I wasn’t in the best mood in the cottage, but I start to realize just how grim things were getting in there.
Going for a walk was obviously the right thing to do. As I stroll along the road, I take deep inhalations of the clean spring air.
I pass quaint little cottages and magnificent gardens. Even the garden sheds are interesting and charming.
There are fields with farm animals and crops, and already I’m getting a sense of how to draw some of those creatures I attempted this morning.
With renewed spirits, I pull out my small sketchpad I always carry and make some preliminary sketches.
Not bad.
Even though I’m walking, I’ve got quite a steady hand.
Now I’ve got a laughing carrot waving back at me from the page. Much better.
There’s a chance this carrot won’t even give people nightmares.
A car horn beeping at me makes me realize I’ve drifted onto the road. I lift my hand in an apologetic gesture and keep walking.
Perhaps I better continue with the sketches back at the cottage.
Later.
After what seems like five minutes—but is probably a lot longer—I find myself outside the pub again. It seems as if this place holds some magic over me.
Just the other day, I crashed right outside the pub of all places.
Seeing as I’ve already arrived, I might as well go in and have a drink. Nothing wrong with that, is there?
For a few more minutes, I rationalize my actions. It’s not unusual for someone wandering on their own, like myself, to go into a pub for a drink, right?
Eventually, I decide that if I don’t go in, I’ll be growing roots out here and attract unwanted attention.
And if there’s one thing I want to avoid, it’s unwanted attention.
I push the door open and hesitate. I’m not good with these things. What if someone was to challenge me being here? It’s a totally silly thought, but it’s one I can’t push aside.
But, alas, no one is paying me any attention.
Slowly, I enter and walk toward the back of the bar. There’s one stool, and I sit on it.
It feels strange. I’m not exactly a pub kind of lady, and this one is totally foreign to me. Okay, so it is literally foreign, but that’s not what I mean.
So far, no one has paid me any attention. No one has uttered a greeting, and the bar man is doing his very best to ignore me.
The pub is busy, but I would have thought someone would at least nod in my direction or something.
I take a few deep breaths and try to signal the bartender with a subtle hand wave so as not to seem rude.
There’s so much noise I can hardly hear myself think. My eyes scan the area—he’s not here.
There’s a couple playing billiards on the solitary pool table by the restrooms.
When they, an attractive and unmistakably Irish-looking young couple, embrace and start kissing, I try to look away.
They don’t seem to care they’re in public. Usually, I’d be unsettled by this, but for a moment I can’t look away.
By now the bloke’s—that means guy, right?
Anyway, the bloke’s hands are on her ass, and she has hers around his neck. Pool sticks fall on the ground. No one besides myself seems to be paying them any attention.
I look away and try and signal the barman again. But he’s at the other end.
Like a school girl, I lift my hand. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. But nothing happens.
My eyes find the couple again. By now he’s pushed her against one of the walls, and she has her legs wrapped around his waist.
Is his zipper open and is he actually...?
No. Now, it’s definitely time to look away.
Since my current seating position gives me an unobstructed view of their display—and because I’m not getting a drink right now—I merely opt for a change in location.
Frustration wells up in me as I storm the bar. Now, I’m practically in the bartender’s face, and the prick still ignores me.
“What does a girl have to do to order coffee around here?” I yell and wait.
If this doesn’t produce a result, I don’t know what will.