Wow, Sail that was a very hot drabble.

Deb, I posted your writer voice meme in my normal LJ. Thank you for that challenge; it was really thought-provoking for me.

I'm still thinking on the meme. I've only just started writing more than rants on my lj or term papers, so I'm not really sure if I've found my voice yet. I do know what I like to read, though, so I'll probably at least post the reader part of it.

I put the writer voice meme in my Live Journal [link] I cheated and put two; I kept trying to whittle it down, but eventually I decided it wasn't worth the head-banging. I just went with the nonfiction, which is my bread and butter. I keep putzing away at bits of fiction, but there was nothing I really liked. I also want to write long, elegant, John McPhee-style nonfiction. I would also like to be taller and have a summer house in the mountains.

Ginger, I cheated too. I put two short essay excerpts and a poem. I'm not good at following rules.

If I had to pick a passage that represents my voice, I would have to go look at old English papers because my I only feel I have found a voice in my nonfiction writing. I am still looking for a voice in fiction.

In fiction, either the current work or part of one of my fics where a woman looks deeply into her beloved's eyes and says "It matters because I love you, you idiot." Or same story "I love the People, but if the guy from Born To Run cut me off, I'd still give him the finger." I don't think anyone else would write that sentence.

erika, you're channeling Han Solo. And that's a good thing.

Ginger, I loved your pieces, and I left comments in your LJ. Kristin, off to read yours.

And thanks for the kind words about the poem.

Holding Drabble

Tom and Janet were my parents' friends, but not like their other friends. They had no children. They lived in an apartment downtown. Janet was the only woman I knew who worked, and her perfect nails seemed the height of sophistication. They took Russian lessons and went to Russia. They served wine and chicken Kiev. Their presents were always exotic. One year, I got a tiny Russian nesting doll. They are only names on Christmas cards now, but I still hold onto a wooden doll with flaking paint that holds a smaller doll that holds the love of unrelated relatives.

They are only names on Christmas cards now, but I still hold onto a wooden doll with flaking paint that holds a smaller doll that holds the love of unrelated relatives.

I hereby swear to bear Ginger's babies.