I worship her.

She's definitely one of my favorite authors. Nice to know she's a nice person, too!

You bring the deathbombs and I'll bring some decent wine.

Prosecco! and peaches.

Sail, that's a gorgeous, evocative piece.

Jennifer Crusie currently does a column for Romance Writers Report, and she rocks.

This is *key*. I had authors who were on manuscripts seven or eight before I bought something from them.

I always enjoy reading the First Sales column in RWR, especially when there's one that reads, "Mary Jones has been writing for 15 years. Forbidden Ecstasy is the eighteenth manuscript she completed before selling." We've got an author like that in our chapter--kept at it and kept at it, and now she's not only published, she's completely supporting herself as a full-time author. Of course, I'd rather be Julia Quinn and sell the first book I ever wrote, but I figure that ship has sailed.

Deb, Sail, love it. (Though Sail, I have to admit I heard Inigo Montoya in my head at the end... "Because I know something you don't know...")

I agree with the consensus that this topic is HUGE. I'm getting to the point in life where different directions are going to be taken, and home starts to become something completely different. Of course, I'm a Packrat Extraordinaire, so home is where all my junk lives. :)

(Want to drabble more... allergies are invading my brain...)

Inigo Montoya

Anything can be made better with a judicious application of Inigo Montoya.

Anything can be made better with a judicious application of Inigo Montoya.

One of my favourite taglines during the ramp-up to the invasion of Iraq: "My name is George W Bush! You defeated my father! Prepare to DIE!"

I'm sitting here with an acoustic guitar and one of my earlier drabbles, In Winter Darkness, which was a poem written for the "Holiday Hell" challenge. It was suggested it ought to be a song lyric.

It's kicking my ass. Something about the structure wants to be almost Gregorian chant or church music or Edmund Purcellish, and I can't work it out.

Feh.

"My name is George W Bush! You defeated my father! Prepare to DIE!"

I'm sorry, nothing can beat the good Goofy bad Goofy sitting on the voter's shoulders, "My dad wears pants." "I invented pants!"

That was adorable, but was it Inigo-related? (memfault)

I'm asking this here because it's less "noisy" than hte other threads--tonight notwithstanding--and Susan's generally here.

I'm reading Jane Austen's "Northanger Abbey," and our heroine is in Bath. One of the fashionable places she's hanging out is the pump room.

What the hell is the pump room? The only mental image I'm getting is the turbine rooms of huge hydroelectric dams, and it's screwing up the appreciation of fashionable people wandering around and seeing and being seen. All those trains and feathers would be hell to manage around the turbines.