I'm tired of words for the moment so let's do pictures--I've rummaged around in the archives again.

First, another trip to Maine, this time with friends. Does anyone look familiar to anyone? (Too bad about the coffee stains.)








A couple of random pages. That's my Grandma Fanny up in the corner there. The caption on the beach scene says "Labor Day 1981." The boat says "Jones Beach." This is good because it confirms for me once and for all that I moved to Dallas in early 1982. I never could quite remember. Sad, really...


And brother Nick.

Using my imagination.


I have no idea if this one was real or imagined, I just like it.

And finally, I was tickled to find this sketch:

Which became this mailer:

I sent this out when I first moved to Dallas. It got me lots of work, including at The Dallas Morning News, beginning the chain of events that brought me where I am today.

Tomorrow, I think I'll scan and post my very first story for the newspaper, which I also just found. I wrote it on a used electric typewriter I bought for $100 when I decided to be a writer in my spare time. I'm so old.

Labels: sketchbook

Hey look! My first feet photo was not a photo at all. My toenails are like Monet's water lilies--I never tire of their many moods. I made this sketch on my first and only visit (so far) to Washington D.C., in 1976.

My best friend Susan and I went to celebrate our HS graduation. (Our nation's Bicentennial. We have the Bicentennial yearbook to prove it and a tassel with a little Liberty Bell on it.) We stayed in the Howard Johnson's where Nixon's henchmen listened to bugged conversations from the DNC offices across the street, at the Watergate. Too bad I didn't sketch the view of the room beyond my own feet. But drawing feet is hard enough. I probably exhausted myself on that.



Here is Susan lolling in the room.

I've never been good at sketching landscapes but at least I tried.





I preferred sketching the people. These aren't great but at least I was in there swinging. Haven't done it in years and I'm afraid to try 'cause I know I've lost it.





And there you go, today's Lazy Gal post.

Labels: art, memoir, sketchbook, travel, washington d.c.

Any time I’m in Austin, I make a point of visiting the galleries of the fabulous Harry Ransom Center, which has one of the world’s premier collections of original manuscripts and cultural ephemera.

Last time I went, I saw the original scroll of Kerouac’s On the Road along with other fascinating stuff at an extensive exhibit on the beat writers. You can read my small story about it here.

Currently, the Center has an exhibit about archives in general-—their acquisition, uses, quirks. In truth, when I read about the exhibit I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept at all. But I was immediately and deeply sucked in when I got there. Along with the usual manuscripts, letters and photos, there were oddities that came long with various archives, such as horribly defiled photos of Gloria Swanson, sent to her by Kenneth Anger after she filed a lawsuit related to his book, Hollywood Babylon. I enjoyed reading a series of letters related to the acquisition of an archive and a slideshow about the arrival at the Center of John Fowles’ archive, which includes his desk drawers and their contents. (Brass knuckles?)

And all this got me thinking about my own archives. For someone who’s a nobody, I have a very well documented life. Hundreds and hundreds of travel photos. Dozens of sketchbooks. Old manuscripts, both in hard copy and on floppy disks. (I was gratified to learn at the Center that the archive of Isaac Bashevis Singer contains three unpublished novels. Nice to know even revered authors have unpublished manuscripts.) Boxes and boxes of newspaper clips of my articles, turning to dust in the garage. Ticket stubs from shows I don’t remember seeing.

Those of you who read me on MySpace probably remember my diaries. For newcomers, you may read about my exciting youth here, and my embarrassing youth here.

I decided to start exploring my own archives from time to time. This morning, I reached into a box and pulled out a little book that turns out to be a journal/sketchbook of a trip I took to Maine by myself when I was probably about 19 or 20 years old.

My own little exhibit of a few random excerpts and pages:

I’ve gotten myself a nice room on Sebago Lake. It’s called “Anderson’s Motel & Kitchenette Cottages” It’s within walking distance (I believe) of the beach. It’s run by an old Maine man. He sits on a lawn chair outside the office, which is a tiny one room shack. My room is all yellow with a couple of lawn chairs with cushions on them and pictures stuck on the wall with thumbtacks. One is a picture of a cowgirl & her horse.





Walking to the beach in the morning is one of those picture book experiences. All I hear are the pines rustling, & an occasional child’s voice or car engine. One sight that suddenly confronted me was a dirt road lined by pines with the lake in the distance and three little children meandering along.










The woman with the black beehive comes every day in a new bathing suit & big, plastic colour-coordinated earrings.



I saw a fox tonight! The first one I’ve ever seen running wild. I slowed down when I saw him & he stopped and looked at me.
Frogs kept hopping in front of the car. I think I must have killed a few. I tried to go over them.

Labels: maine, sketchbook, travel, writing