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.)

::short descending whistle::

Ouch. Vivid. I hope getting it out helps.

Oh, Liese. That's horrible.

Ouch. I'm still glad I read it though.

Oh, Liese.

Crikey. Liese, damn.