NaNoWriMo

So, I've taken on the challenge again - NaNoWriMo Write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. I did it a few years ago and completed the challenge so I am up for it again this year. The theme of my book - Writers Block. I've had a horrible case of it and I'm using NaNoWriMo to helpfully discover why I'm blocked and ways I can break through it.

I'm writing different ways, doing different stories and things during the month. Today, I started writing a story about a Vampire (something I haven't done since high school - seeing if going back to my roots help) and it somehow turned into a tale of an artist... well, here is some of it.. enjoy.....

I’ve been spending too much time in the studio these days. The oils are encrusting themselves on my skin. I refuse to bathe when I am on a creative role as its usually bad luck. I believe it’s true that the people around you can inspire you and push you. I’ve been lucky enough these days to be asked to attend a few functions with Mr. Picasso. It started innocently enough – being at the same shows, knowing some of the same people, being in the same places by circumstance. It was only a matter of time before we talked in person, really. I spoke with his wife first, a lady by the name of Jacqueline while having some port in a bar when I was visiting the south-east of France. We talked long that night – she noticed the oil paint staining my pants and when she mentioned she was married to Mr. Picasso, well, I was enthralled. She had told me she had seen me around, cavorting with friends of theirs, strolling along the streets of Mougins with a mutual friend. I told her I was thinking of moving to the area and was looking for someplace suitable for an artist to live. She asked for the phone number of the hotel I was staying in and told me she knew the perfect place. She said she would call me with a time when I could view it.
Jacqueline didn’t disappoint. She called me two days later with the address of an apartment block over-looking Cannes. The space was perfect – almost like two villas stuck together, separated by some French doors. The rent was perfect and I moved in that weekend. After that, we talked often, usually a few times a week and when we saw each other at functions, we kissed and talked like old friends. It was shortly after I moved into my apartment that she introduced me to Pablo. He was soft spoken at first and surprisingly spry for someone in their early 90’s. It was a hot afternoon in a café; we both happened to be there at the same time and shared some cool wine. Beautiful afternoon, the sun high in the sky, some old soul by Otis Redding playing over the bistro’s speakers, beautiful beads of sweat covering our knuckles. Jacqueline told Pablo I was a painter, working with oils and that she was dying to see my work, only catching a glimpse of it when she brought me a bottle of wine as a house warming present when I first moved in. We were only two blocks from the apartment, why not come over, I suggested.
We finished out drinks, Pablo paid the bill and after a short walk in the summer heat, we took the rusty fright elevator up to my apartment, on the fifth floor of the building. I was nervous, not sure, feeling some strange pressure coming down on my shoulders. This was Mr. Pablo Picasso. I studied his ‘Gluernica” over and over and over. I even had a worn out poster print of it hanging on the wall in my studio. This made me blush horribly as they both stepped into my studio. I saw him smirk slightly at the poster and continue on into the room, not saying much.
They were both quiet as they looked through the canvases and sheets of paper all over. I really didn’t have a ‘style’ back then; I was all over the board – some still life, a few horrible attempts at cubism, some Art Deco style sketches and a few huge canvases of Dali-type craziness. I felt suddenly embarrassed by my lack of focus in my works. I’ve become the personification of an artist factotum and I was disappointed in myself.
Pablo stopped at a canvas resting behind my old desk. It was about a foot tall and featured a simple picture of trees in a forest, with pages of script attached to the trunks. It was natural, yet surreal. He stared at it a long time, soon Jacqueline joined him and they both stood silent, heads both tipped to the left as they studied.
“How much?” Pablo’s voice broke the silence softly, with a slight frog-like croak.
“Pardon?”
“How much do you want for this painting? Or is it not for sale? If it’s not for sale, then I would suspect it to be in a place of more importance. If it is for sale, what would you like for it?”
My thoughts were swimming, and my mouth suddenly felt dry. I stared at the painting, one I wasn’t too proud of, that I always was touching up, always trying to finish.
“Um, I’m not sure. I never thought...”
“I’ll give you four hundred for it.” I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out, just a hiss of air. I started to stutter. Pablo sat down at my desk, pulled out a cheque book and started to write a check. “Here,” he said, handing the cheque to me. “Four hundred. Please sign the painting and bring it to me next week. My wife and I are having a dinner party. Just a few people. We would love you to join us. You can bring me my painting then.” They both started to walk to the door, smiling and make small talk with me while they gathered themselves and headed back down in the elevator. I watched the elevator disappear into the darkness of the shaft and walked back to my studio, sat at my desk and stared at the cheque before me.

For the next few days, my attention was always drawn to the painting. I always felt it was never finished, that I had so much more to do to it, but now felt like I had run out of time to perfect it. After drinking much wine and smoking too many cigarettes, I decided to sign the painting and put it in the front hall, picture facing the wall so I wouldn’t think of it anymore.

April 8th was a surprisingly warm day. One week had passed since the Picasso’s were at my studio. The painting they had purchased was still leaning against the wall. I had not touched it since I signed it and when I turned it around to have another good look at it, I suddenly regretted my decision to sign it and put it aside. The leaves needed work and one of the papers coming from the tree was left completely blank. I was embarrassed and felt like a child giving one of the most famous painters in the world a horrible picture I did in crayons and markers, with no thought or reason behind it. I was beyond disappointed. I sat looking at the painting, opened a bottle of wine and started to drink. The more I ingested, the more I hated the picture. I knew if I drank enough, my hate would turn to some kind of bloated, egotistical love for the thing, knowing that I, James Herbone had sold a painting to the great Pablo Picasso.