Strokes of Genius, Wednesday
It had been about the time she'd caught herself making the third exceedingly confessional sketch in her sketchbook yesterday that Katchoo had gotten an inkling of what was going on. Luckily for her not having anywhere to go on Tuesdays meant very little motivation to leave her room, and therefore no particular reason to have to blab to anyone. Except for how Clocky had gotten a concession that maybe it wasn't all that bad after all.
Which was a good thing for all concerned. Or maybe just for Katchoo. Whichever.
The offending sketchbook pages had been incinerated in the deck firepit on her way in this morning, and Katchoo was sitting cross-legged on the counter today with a new Canson hardcover balanced on her right knee and a pencil in hand, sketching away with sharp, heavy strokes and jabs at the page.
If there was anything about these sketches that hinted at True Confessions Time today, it was in that Cryptic Metaphorical Artistic Way.
Clocky had accompanied her today and was rolling smugly around the store with an occasional reproachful beep at Katchoo when the pencil lead broke; Katchoo for her part wasn't speaking to the damn clock right now. Man, that was hard work.
Which was a good thing for all concerned. Or maybe just for Katchoo. Whichever.
The offending sketchbook pages had been incinerated in the deck firepit on her way in this morning, and Katchoo was sitting cross-legged on the counter today with a new Canson hardcover balanced on her right knee and a pencil in hand, sketching away with sharp, heavy strokes and jabs at the page.
If there was anything about these sketches that hinted at True Confessions Time today, it was in that Cryptic Metaphorical Artistic Way.
Clocky had accompanied her today and was rolling smugly around the store with an occasional reproachful beep at Katchoo when the pencil lead broke; Katchoo for her part wasn't speaking to the damn clock right now. Man, that was hard work.