Well, as promised, here's another excerpt from my novel. It's a little short, but I hope you enjoy it.
The table itself was crude. Workbench would be a more appropriate title. It was scarred here and there with cracks and indentations. Paint of various shades covered it. A bit of rusty orange here, violet there. It seemed worn, and yet satisfied. Like an apron passed from mother to daughter, its stains being markers of memories. Abigail pulled out a palette.
“All right,” she said, “now the first thing you have to know about painting is that I haven’t done it in years. So, if you’re determined to do something-” she spread her arms “-now’s the time.” Robin laughed. She looked from the paints to Abigail and laughed again.
“I can’t paint.”
“Of course you can’t. But how do you think I got started?” Robin shook her head.
“You’ve been doing this for a long time. I never-”
“Doodled in your notes? Used finger paints in kindergarten? Honey, you must realize that there was a point for me, too, when I had never painted before. Now come on.” Robin sighed, then laughed again. Abigail was squeezing paints onto a palette. Handing this to Robin, she stepped to the canvas.
“What am I supposed to paint?” The protest was weak at this point.
“Whatever you’d like to paint.”
“Well… how about a tree?” That seemed simple enough. Abigail gestured to the canvas in answer.