Constructive Criticism

I'm not going to blog about Mark's birthday party.

forget you saw this

And not because I'm trying to block out the memory of seven screaming, yelling, competing, singing different Christmas carols loudly at the same time (off-key) boys.

No, I'm not going to blog about Mark's birthday party because my nieces (who are otherwise very supportive) are displeased that I write about Mark more than my other children.

Mark may beg to differ but he really isn't my favorite.

I think he ends up often being my muse because he's usually swirling around me saying, "Mom, Mom, Mom" while I write and also he doesn't read my blog.  I can get away with more.

Emma and Braeden read my blog.

And Emma especially tells me I got it wrong.  Adam explained to her that I write like an Impressionist painter paints (which I'm OK with...who doesn't admire Monet?) and all I have to say is, "Write your own blog then."

Because she who writes, writes history.

So, for Desi, here's something about Emma.  Actually it's by Emma (I asked for permission) which will make Emma happy because if I'm copying her writing, can she tell me I got it wrong?

Emma presented this to me the other day.  She said, "It's the prologue to my new book."  (At any given time, Emma has about three books in the works.)

She said, "Think about the Mona Lisa while you read it."

(I caution you, it's creepy.  Where does she get these ideas?  As Mark would say, it will freak your freaky out so much it will leave the building...oops sorry girls, there I go again with Mark.)

"No!" a black haired woman cried, "Please, no!"

A cold laugh erupted from the shadows. "It is too late for you now, my dear," the voice said, "And how will I ever make any money if you leave?  But for now there are other matters to attend to."  There was a short scuffling noise and a man left, carrying with him a picture frame with a painting of a room inside.

The woman looked around frantically.  She was in a dark valley in front of mountains.  She had to escape!  She ran around looking for another frame.  There one was!  She ran to it as fast as she could.

She never got there.  A hand closed on her shoulder, and she was forced into a chair.

Her scream was cut off as the man stretched a paintbrush onto her face, and her face was changed to an expression of calmness, forever freezing her in front of the frame.

She would now forever look at the world she could no longer be a part of.

I told Emma it was spooky and she said, "Don't worry, in the first chapter she's going to have a dream about chocolate and marshmallows."

I guess that makes it all better.