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."

Some interesting results from a survey of SF/F authors about advances: [link]

Also some interesting feedback comments.

Interesting stuff. Similar info for romance: [link]

Okay. I'm sorry, guys. Sometimes I worry that in my journal I freak too much, that I'm bringing you down. Because of that and because I just can't handle it, I didn't talk about this episode when it happened a few weeks ago. But it's in there, it's gotta get out. It's just the dirt that's already there.

So I'm going to post the drabble, and I'll whitefont it in case you want to skim. Upsetting child story. But that's one of the things the drabbles are for, for me. So.

Oh, and it's closer to 200 words than 100, but I just gotta get it out. I shredded the first version, and it probably said better what I feel. Anyway.

The Difference A Year Makes

Our big white van pulled up outside your house and you, with your brother and sister, came running before we even honked the horn. Hair flying, precious folder of piano music tucked under your arm, you were chattering before you hit the seat.

(Your parents went on another drug binge and locked you out of the house. You wandered around the neighborhood for hours in the freezing cold, trying to protect the baby, shepherding your terrified younger siblings.)

The last time I saw you, you came bounding to hug me. You told me you'd been practicing, and could I bring you another copy of "America, the Beautiful."

(You were living with your grandmother then, hopeful, but it wasn't the first or the last time you'd been shuffled in and out of state custody.)

I didn't have to ask why when they told me. When did you learn to tie a rope into a noose? It must have been somewhere between twelve and thirteen. Your little sister, she'll learn sooner because she walked in on your second attempt.

(Now you're in a mental institution somewhere, and all I can think is, it's got to be better than this.)