Yeah. "Ooof" pretty much sums it up.

deb! I sent out my first batch of query letters today.

Nervous and excited and hopeful and realistic am I, all at the same time.

Allyson, you rock like a mad thing, you know that?

Let the games begin! And now we sit back, and see what comes of round one....

April is over. Since I restarted the wip in February, I'm three months in. As of tonight, I made it to p. 150, right where I want to be. Chapter Eight. Roughly 37K words. In my head the novel is split into three roughly equal acts, and I hit the end of Act I right around p. 130--perfect for my goal of a 400-page manuscript.

I feel good. And now I'm going to bed.

Yay, Allyson! It's a book I would read, for sure.

I couldn't get this down to 100 words, and this clearly has no socially redeeming value. I couldn't resist, though.

Looking back, I can see that the merger of Ace's Amazing Acts and the Gambini Family Circus was the beginning of the end for The Professor. We had been eking out a living as an "educated" horse act in a small traveling circus. The Professor amazed the audiences by her knowledge of the number of days of the week and ability to add and subtract. When asked, "Who's the stupidest person in the tent?" the Professor would point one hoof at me and nod wisely. She was, of course, reacting to my nearly inaudible clicks and subtle hand gestures, but at least half the marks seemed to believe she really was "the World's Smartest Horse." The world of the small traveling circus was getting smaller, though, and when the two circuses merged, we found ourselves on the same bill as Einstein the Genius Horse and his owner, Ray Gambini. We had much the same shtick, and we started practicing having both horses do the same sums and "compete" answering the questions. Ray and Einstein did one act that we just couldn't match. He asked Einstein to give the square roots of numbers. The Professor could never get the right answer, and she became more and more discouraged. It wasn't her fault; the problem was that I couldn't do square roots in my head. But the Professor took it personally, and she became more and more listless. I tried to add fortune telling to the act, but she would just look over at Einstein and not even try. I had to practically drag her to the water trough, and she finally just faded away. She had given up on life when she couldn't answer the square root of 169. I guess it's proof that you can lead a dead horse to water, but you can't teach her new tricks.

Looks at the sheer number of mangled cliches in Ginger's piece. Gives up and goes home.

Just call me Professor.

I take it the challenge was cliches this week? I've been gone and skimmy.

cliché drabble: Home is Where the Heart Is

My roots stretch deep into the history that saturates the earth beneath the house’s foundation. I can see the ghosts of pumpkins my grandfather harvested from that garden at Halloween, and when the sun slants at dusk, shadows of my childhood still stretch across the lawn. I love this place.

But.

My heart is weaving down a coastal highway 3000 miles away. Bougainvillea twines through my fingers and tugs me westward, promises me it will brighten every March to come. Elephant seals beckon as they scoop sand across their backs, and a new ocean murmurs to me: home, home, home.

Kristin, that's lovely. I know that feeling.