So who does Joseph Stella remind me of (see below). How about Henri Rousseau, painter of The Dream, 1910, who painted quite a bit earlier than Joseph Stella, who wasn't born until early 1940s. This image is from Wikipedia but I'm noticing the same vivid colors, the flat images, and a sense of innocence.

We're in Philadelphia now, the dreaded snow is not here, and we had a lovely first night with family, brisket and lots of talk. Gordy and Lynda came over and all is well. How strange it feels to be in a house again, with an upstairs and a downstairs and lots of different rooms. This morning, we'll have a real breakfast, bagels and whitefish, and I can do dishes and cook. We can walk around the block and return to the same place. Later we'll explore a little of the city and, I think, get Allen's mom a library card so we can bring home piles of books.

How strange it feels to not be working a regular job, to disconnect from the routine of Monday through Friday. Perhaps this feeling is more pronounced when we're in one place rather than traveling about. But I have my writing projects, and a developing story, so all is well. Allen says my current project should take me about three years, one year for drafting, then two more for editing. I fear I'm not that patient, but I agree about the one year for drafting, at between 400 and 600 words a day, but the story is developing AND I do have about 14,000 words so far! And yesterday I may have found a useful online writing critique group. All is well. May it be so for you! Beth