Ailleann, what I've been told about cover letters is it's an opportunity to build yourself up even more as well as better define what kind of position you're looking for. Be confident but not cocky. Apparently you're allowed to tell them how fucking cool you are, because when they meet you, they'll find out you're not actually a prick. Or something like that.

Ailleann, I'd be happy to help you as soon as my back improves, which my doctor thinks it will, though she can't yet say if that'll happen in 24 hours or more like 10 days.

I didn't final in the contest. I am, however, friendly online with someone who double-finaled. Time to practice my graciousness.

I think I may have another detective story in mind...lurching out of the gate, but hey... I would like my process to be more of a process and less like a Cordy-vision.

Hey! Do not diss the Cordy-like visions!

signed, the Crazy Writer Lady who has written 91 pages and almost 19000 words since last Thursday.

But I do not have a Wesley to explain it as it happens. Upside, I don't puke like Cordy.

It wanted the line breaks. 100 words, exactly, according to Word.

We walk into
the room with the too-cold air conditioning and the patterned carpet
and set down our baggage which
sits like elephants
or backpacks you didn’t even notice at first.
We pick our way through this field of
the bags the TSA warns you about, reasonably and incessantly,
and cringe when someone stumbles on one they don’t see
but we do.
Or we watch
as we talk
each other fold and unfold t-shirts from this baggage, dedicated to one another,
“And I happen to know that’s factually true”
“Fuck you, bitch”
“For the love of God,
talk to me”

Susan, insent with comments on that chapter from last week. Sorry I took so long on it.

I'm supposed to be writing the jacket copy for Matty Groves.

My creative so-called brain is definitively elsewhere....

Got another bite from an agent requesting my manuscript.

Keep fingers crossed....

Go, Allyson!

ita! I just wrote The Section, where the reader gets their first solid introduction to Domitra Calley, the bodyguard. You're very recognisable, physically, in this.

She gets to call my protagonist - based on the original love of my life - a dick.

I am soooooooooo happy.

Let me know if you want it on its own, or with the rest.

edit: oh, man, my daughter is of the funny. I'd said, A question: Scene is a medical clinic, funded and licensed to treat heroin addicts. They have drugs, are licensed to store them for the treatment of said addicts. What in hell is the proper term for the room where those drugs would be locked, stored, kept, and inventoried?

My daughter's response?

Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston's house.

What?