Yeah, it can hit the Shift and stuff like that, but my attempts at two-handed typing are mostly failures because if I concentrate on keeping Lefty in the game, I can't think about what I'm typing anymore...it's just finger therapy. And, despite knowing the keyboard very well after typing for over twenty years, I still have to look. Trying not to look messes up my rhythm. And really, since the ideas are the point, I guess I can look like an amateur. Yeah, I guess you can't break the space-time continuum to confirm what you need to know anymore than I can really be a male cop that put in his paper...I need to get over that voice that says "it's because you're a helpless freak, you know." I didn't actually need to sell crack to write about a guy that does. Whether I sell that story EVER, I can't wait to show it to the next person that comes on like "Oh, honey, did you write that yourself?" That happened to me once before, actually. I wrote a story as an answer to a story my teacher wrote(my first fic!) because Women Don't Do whatever he was having this chick do, so arrogant me, I was like "This is how to write like a woman."(luckily, he loved the story, which was about a giant homewrecking slut. I gave her some humanity, though, which he didn't.) Anyway, we had a guy work on our carpet, and he was really stoked that I was a writer, in a Very Special Arts way...he had an acquaintance who painted with her mouth or something, and so he wanted to see something of mine. The slut story was the latest...and I didn't think about the shock he must have sustained until he never said another word to me.

I'm amazed and gratified that I can still play guitar; I think it's because, having done it for forty plus years, the fingers know where to go. My father was a worldclass musician, developed adult onset type 1 diabetes after he was wounded at the end of the Second World War and it got infected and suppressed his immune system. The diabetes took exactly three weeks to basically render his hans inoperable, and he'd been a piano player and a banjo player and, above all, a killer violinist.

Man, we are so damned frail, we humans.

Yeah, but so resilient in our fucked-up way.That said, repetitive-stress in this hand would ruin what is unruined in my life, and it's bad enough I ended up one-eighth Indian without a jump shot, you know?

I had this idea for doing a series of drabbles for various ballroom/latin dances -- tango, west coast swing, swing, cha cha, merenege, waltz, Bolero, rumba, etc. But I wasn't sure how to do it and make it interesting.

Then I hit on writing the progression of a relationship in the drabbles, each one influenced by a dance.

I like the way your mind works, askye. The first dance drabble you posted is wonderful.

I like the sexy one Deb posted, too. All the dance ones have been good, I think.

Ugh.

Battle scene tough to write.

I just keep telling myself that A) I can't finish the book unless I finish this scene, and B) my very smart CP Alyssa says I'm good at action scenes, so maybe it isn't really the suckiest thing I've ever written despite how it feels.

Another dancing drabble:

We’re all together for the first time in years, celebrating the last of our weddings. Our spindly dress shoes are history, and the music is loud, a delirious anthem of songs we once knew by heart. We’re not so much dancing as bouncing, singing along as the DJ changes up each tune, “Sweet Caroline…paradise by the dashboard light…baby, we were born to run…”

For the moment, flushed and panting and laughing hard, time has folded in on itself, and our blood runs thick with memories as we dance, spinning back through the years to the sweet, hot nights of childhood.

Mom! Amy just broke meeeeeeeee!

Aw.

Puts Deb back together carefully.

It's one of my true ones -- a friend's wedding back in April. Such a good time. Girls I've known since junior high.

"...glory days, they'll pass you by, glory days..."