Sail, even without spelling out one year, the content is both gorgeously written and appropos for the topic. (And you make me giggle.)

Thank you, Steph!

Question is, did you find the "one year" I inserted in the drabble (and I don't mean the title?) I'm afraid I got too cute and think I'm smarter than I really am.

Question is, did you find the "one year" I inserted in the drabble (and I don't mean the title?) I'm afraid I got too cute and think I'm smarter than I really am.

I didn't notice it the first time I read it, but once you said this, I looked back and saw it.

Cool! I wanted it hidden, but not so hard to find that people would get pissed that they couldn't find it.

Question is, did you find the "one year" I inserted in the drabble (and I don't mean the title?)

Heh. Yes, I did. I was trying to allude to that without giving it away to other readers. In fact, as soon as I read the way you phrased your note at the beginning -- about spelling it out -- I figured it was a clue, so I looked for "one year" first and *then* read the drabble.

Which is still a good drabble, clever cryptogram or no.

The March of Moments

December: I watch you from the wings. A moment of hope, wondering if we can save it.

January: Completely against my wishes, it comes clear that the love we have isn't enough, and will never be enough.

February: something breaks, seemingly beyond repair.

March
April
May
June
July
August
September
October
November:

There is nothing at all. I wait, cocooned like a spider's dinner, in a haze of despair that I'm ill-equipped to handle. Death would be easier than this; death would be preferable.

December: I drag the remnant of myself into SIR Studios, to another Nicholas, another moment of hope.

Huh. Dead thread. Will post anyway.

Like Bryan Adams Says...

It's dizzying. What did I do, that one year, not measurable by human standards of time?

I met him, he said later, but I never noticed. I found the sounds, the sensibilities, of the music coming out of San Francisco. I chased it; it took me in.

I wandered into Sarah Lawrence, met a man who knew about myth, sowed the seeds for Plainsong.

I hitched a 'copter ride, up to Woodstock, Yasgur's farm. I met him again. This time, I noticed.

In November, at Altamont, I watched a man die.

It was the summer, the spring, all of 1969.

I'm having writing contest nerves. This is something of a new experience for me, because when I entered them last year, I did it with the full and naive expectation that I would final right from the get-go. I'm a little humbler now. A little.

The finalists for the first contest I entered this year are supposed to be announced next week. And the entries for the second contest were just mailed to the judges. These will be the first anonymous feedback I get on the current version of the wip, the first readers who aren't at least partly motivated by friendship and interest in me. So I keep thinking about my poor little first chapter floating out there in postal limbo, and picturing it coming back to me with scoresheets full of straight 1's on all elements. Which is unrealistic, because, if nothing else, my grammar is strong, my manuscript is properly formatted, and I think I'd be hard to mark down much on craft issues like clarity of POV. And I also know that these contests aren't perfect--they're worthwhile for the feedback and the chance to final and get your work in front of th editors and/or agents who judge the finalists, but the judging is inherently subjective. In many cases it's biased toward a certain type of setpiece opening chapter/scene that lines up the characters and central conflict just so, and that's not really how I write.

But still. Finaling, or at least getting high scores and positive comments, would be a huge ego boost. And the suspense of waiting is nervewracking.

It's all in the game, Susan.(Though originally a saying about the drug corners, it's surprising how many games are in "citizen" life.) Writers win, and lose, and revise, and wait to get our stuff back. At least in our game, people don't die. Much. It's just part of the deal. If you're sure it's as strong as it could be, there isn't much more you could do...wait, how is this consoling again? I'm not sure...I just mutter "It's all in the game," when I get rejected these days. But I've BTDT, except for that short fiction contests don't offer feedback, which used to disappoint until I've heard about some of your contradictory fb.

Thanks, erika. I think the reason I'm so nervous is that this is the first time this version of the story has ever been out there in the great, cold, anonymous world. After I get that first set of scores/critiques back, I'll have some idea how it's going to do out there. I hope I'll get useful feedback. And I may decide I have a good story, but not a good contest entry, in which case I'll just deemphasize "try to final in contests to get past the slush pile" and spend more money and effort on "meet editors and agents at conferences to try to get past the slush pile, and while I'm at it try to write such a kickass query letter that I can thrive in slushland."