In my Monday night critique group, we bring in enough copies for everyone, and one member (never the writer) reads it aloud to the group.

Ah, no, different setting. As I say, Bea's natal language isn't English, although she speaks and writes it beautifully. These are live reads, with copies of the read stuff sent to the group afterward. Copies to everyone in situ would slow things down massively for us.

Tell that to your pupils and tear ducts and sclera.

That whole reflect/refract thang...

Although I think it's perfectly reasonable to include the muscles around the eye in the whole "eye" thing.

So do I. And I disagree with her about the eyes themselves just being body parts, especially with the muscle usage; widening them makes a person look surprised. Narrowing them makes a person look suspicious, or angry, or wary.

Hemingway did it well (although Hammett did it better)

Sing it! I love Hammett.

But on the other end of the scale? There's my favourite in that genre, Raymond Chandler. He managed to do what I always want to do: use the language like freight cars, every sentence giving a universe of visuals that carry other visuals. You couldn't just see post-war Los Angeles, you could taste it.

And I disagree with her about the eyes themselves just being body parts, especially with the muscle usage; widening them makes a person look surprised. Narrowing them makes a person look suspicious, or angry, or wary.

What's not a body part, you know? My eyes are much more expressive than my pencil.

Oh, yeah. It is something that is icky if misused, but hello? Language? It all is.I remember in "Partners" I wrote that somebody could hear a twinkle in somebody's eye. Should I send it to the copy desk Deb? Give her an Episode? Chandler's descriptions are sexy, too.Although as a blonde, I feel that I should be Outraged a good deal of the time by them.

ita, is that a pencil in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Also, can I send you a piece for permission to use your name, or do ya just trust me?

You have to send it to me, Allyson, because I want to read it.

I opened the door. Outside, it was cold. I was a bit tight.

[I thought about it, and realised that I wanted a Pepsi. "Wanted" was the wrong word; I needed it. The cold matched my mood. Bleak. Self-absorbed. This stuff? Tricky. I tilted my head back, tipping the cold wet brownness that was my personal choice of caffeine down my throat, feeling it tickle my tonsils. This was a bad day. Cold. I couldn't seem to get a handle on all the bad things I'd done today, the crimes I'd committed, the feeling that everyone and everything in the universe was in some way affected by my tiniest decision, I mean every decision. The shade of my underwear. Cream in my coffee. Sugar.]

Should I send it to the copy desk Deb? Give her an Episode?

Heh. erika, at her age, she doesn't have episodes. She lets it go in most things, providing it isn't overused.

What's not a body part, you know? My eyes are much more expressive than my pencil.

See, I have no idea whether my eyes are expressive or not...

Don't make me use the word effulgent in something long and twisted, folks. Just--don't. Subject-verb is your friend!

You realise, between me and Teppy, we've got the beginnings of a perfect candidate for our very own Bulwer-Lytton contest?

I mean, really. Overwritten, underwritten, pretentious....

TEP! Can we have a weekly challenge for "really really really shitty fiction" please?

Crime Fiction has its own special sins. Some cop's dinner is always getting puked in the gutter. They always hover over the nubile female vic all "What a waste."The Serial Killer italic flashback. Don't hold my fingers over the stove, Mommy. But Mommy always did. To purify Roger's flesh. Roger hated Mommy