Liese broke me.

Damn it.

Not on a college campus, but I've done that, a very long time ago.

It was fun. And, gah, could that man play! We stayed down there longer than necessary, just to hear the rest of his rehearsal.

The other fun time was when the stage started to come down and we were still under there. It wouldn't have hurt us, we were under the lift, but the doors automatically lock when the lift moves, so that no one accidentally comes in under there when it's coming down. They didn't actually take into account the fact that someone might already be under there, and locking the doors meant we wouldn't be able to get out! Fortunately, the stagehands were arguing and had forgotten something, so they stopped the stage, and we ran out.

Heh.

(Also, I wrote about sex! Yay me!)

And very well, too! Yay, you!

Anyone wanna take a look at my Buffista/Bronze paper before I finalize it?

Also, someone kick my butt into gear and remind me to do the drabbles. My creative writing prof is really encouraging us to write on a regular basis, and this is a perfect opportunity. I just always forget about it. Silly me.

I would love to see it!

insent

Backflung.

I'd like to see it, vw.

Ginger, insent.

I have just received the most perfectly awful writing in my email box in thie history of the world.

Seriously. S/he (I suspect a she) has the first name of Francesq (that is not a typo). This thing is a serious candidate for the Bulwer-Lytton contest, except s/he probably thinks it's wonderful.

Never heard of the person, so I suspect s/he got a list of writers from somewhere and sent a mass mailing.

It's HORRIBLE. Snippets (since the email is an "enclosing first two chapters, I would appreciate encouraging your friends to read it and buy it, I figure this is safe):

Snippet One. Tell not show, much?

Izzy was a twenty-seven year old youth born in Rupit, a small mountain town in the interior of Catalonia. Its steep, narrow streets have always helped defend the town from an excessive invasion of wheeled vehicles. This privileged situation has helped maintain the town's tranquillity and keep out annoying and unnecessary traffic. Things happened slowly in the sweet silence of that little mountain town. Izzy loved its pure air and birdsong.

At the time this story begins, Rupit, in spite of its small size, enjoyed a great deal of cultural activity. The moving spirits behind this were Izzy and a young married couple, Isidro and Maria. All three of them had been schoolmates and had remained close friends ever since. Isidro and Maria were the owners of the village bakery as well as fervent theater fans. The couple wanted to get Izzy involved in founding a little theater group, but they had another motive as well: they wanted to encourage Izzy out of his timidity and they thought working in the theater would be good therapy for him. But precisely because of his timidity Izzy refused to become an actor. His two friends were not put off by his refusal. They continued to insist that he would make a good actor. In an attempt to draw him out of his self-absorption, they tried to convince him that he had the attractive good looks of an actor and that he shouldn't let that go to waste. But Izzy's embarrassment was stronger than his friends' arguments to the contrary.

(I swear, I'm not making this up. This stuff was in my email. It gets, um, better. Ultimate tell not show, coming right up):

Izzy was a lad of medium height, stocky enough to be noticeably oafish in his movements. His chestnut hair was light and wavy, like wheat in a summer field, a lock of which hung over his large, green eyes that sparkled with their own light from within. The lad was the silent type. His silence and timidity shrouded him in an air of mystery which made him even more remarkable when he was with other people.

I like the lock of summer wheat hanging over his large, green eyes that sparkled with their own light from within.

But then again, the lad was the silent type.

This is sooooooooooooo bad.