holland-mitchell:
.
Holland snorted out a laugh. “Like … grapes … and cheese and crackers and shit?” She asked, raising an eyebrow in question. “That’s definitely something. Very, very important work. Those are only good for so long, you know.”
The procrastination of artistic work was something Holland knew very well. Her father had been the same way. He’d get into in a new project and for months fall into one of two extremes: either he’d lock himself in his office, pounding away on the piano until it drove everyone insane, or he’d expertly avoid what he couldn’t crack by cleaning the house, washing the cars, learning to cook – obsessing over Holland’s every little move. Holland much preferred the former. He seemed not to. “What are you working on right now?” Holland asked. She paused a beat, then shook her head. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I get the whole … artistic process thing. But if you ever want to talk about it, I spent time with a few writers back in New York. I mean, they wrote like, shitty fiction and pretentious poetry but it’s something. I’m a decent sounding board for ideas.”
“Yes exactly like that.” Katya said with a smile. “Throw on some meat, arrange it nicely, and you can pretend that you have your life together.” She chuckled.
She cringed a little at Holland’s question, embarrassed and flushed. “I...I’m thinking about writing biographies on my family.” She said quietly. “There are some publishers in Russia that are interested in that and...I don’t know. I can see why the demand is there, and I understand why I was asked for it but...I don’t know.” She sighed. “I’ve never written that kind of stuff before, and it being about my family...” She bit her bottom lip. “Ah, I’m just going to shut up now. Sorry.”
