Allyson, great article. I will be buying your book. Absolutly. I also sent the url to a friend of mine who writes for a BIG computer magazine. He can refer it on.

I just made a longish list of agents and a shorter list of publishing houses. I intend to submit to them, in order (agents first, 3-4 at a time, except in cases where I make direct contact with an editor at a conference or by other means), until I either find myself agented or contracted or have made it to the end of the list. Only then am I allowed to give up and consign Jack and Anna's story to a box under my bed.

I need to do this, because otherwise the submission jitters are going to slay me. Obviously if it becomes obvious there's some problem with the story I haven't noticed yet, I'll stop querying long enough to fix it, and I'll add and subtract from the list if industry buzz warrants, but I'm not allowing myself to give up after the first 5-10 no's.

Allyson, the excerpt is fantastic! I'm so looking forward to reading the whole book.

Wait, did Allyson find a publisher?! (Sorry -- been teaching)

That's FANTASTIC! So cool!!

Go, you!

I made the masthead, here. [link] (click on staff) (I don't know why my name is spelled incorrectly, I e-mail it to them at least once a week. Grr. You're fricking writers, people. Look alive! Look...up.) It's not as impressive as it looks...they have the mother of all slush piles so my biggest accomplishments will never be seen, ie, keeping the crap OUT more than the good stuff in. But I stuck up for something last week. Although I'm Shroedinger's staff because I do not get paid for that. But I will be able to claim editorial experience from here on, so yay.

It's not as impressive as it looks...

Bullshit. Don't minimize it. It's pretty damn cool.

(Though I *do* know what you mean, in general. When I tell people I'm an editor, they react as if I just told them I split the atom. And I just want to laugh.)

drabble

Shadows sway, hiding the target. With a deep breath, I reach in slowly, not sure what I'll find. Something cool slides against the back of my hand, leaving the illusion of dampness. I jerk, but my fingers catch in a hard net. I freeze, and slowly the net falls away.

I reach again. A cold shaft slides into my grip. I pull too eagerly, and grasping claws clutch my prize. I tug desperately, unable to think clearly enough to slow down, let the trap loosen itself.

Finally the restraints give, and I lurch backwards, swearing in relief.

This is far too much trouble to go to just to vacuum the carpet.

That's so cool, Erika! And Teppy is right, don't minimize,. 90% of all editing is knowing how to find the good stuff in the pile of crap, doesn't matter whether you work at a small journal or at the New Yorker.

Yeah...I'm glad about it. But I'm not Jonah Jameson yet. And I read all the stuff that is really bad out loud and point and laugh so I flunk the Colbert "gravitas" test, too. Although not always...sometimes it makes me sad in the way that the badfic does(not the LFN badfic...that's like laughing at Anne Rice) but I mean the kind where somebody's got this story, right, and it's been keeping them up nights and it may not even be a bad *concept*, but they don't have a clue how to tell it at ALL. And I can tell they spent hours...more so with this 'zine maybe because of the impairment thing, but I know that I could live in their house and write the story that I think is in their head and heart and they will never see how mine might be better. So there is no point in revisions or anything because...they're tone-deaf or something. But those are the people who believe in their work the strongest, and that makes me sad. For a lot of reasons. Mostly cause they're so *proud*, and I hate to squash that, but in the cold light of day, sometimes...somebody should...okay, maybe not squash, but I've read a lot of stuff that made me say "oh, dear Lord," this month. And there seems to be inverse relationship between websites and the quality of stuff that's on them for our wanna be contributors.

erika, woot! And connie, major fun.

Two drabbles:

Where the Bat Lives

There's no light in here, but I know him, every inch. I know his height, the sharp triangular planes of his face. I know his long cape, becoming wings to make him part of the shadow for those not permitted to see. I know his teeth.

My big sister's out there, with some schoolfriends.

"Hey, Alice, where's Deb?"

My sister's voice, bored. "Probably in the closet with her imaginary playmate. She's got an invisible vampire bat who looks like Humphrey Bogart. Fruitcake."

In the closet, the bat and I agree. She'll be the first to go when Mr. Bat emerges.

Where the Birds Live

One big closet, in the bedroom at Erica Road. Showtime at Winterland in a couple of hours; he's already dressed, and I'm rummaging frantically.

"FUCK!"

He lifts and eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing to wear." I wore the cocoa lace last time; the blue velvet's at the drycleaner. Too warm for leather. "ShitshitSHIT."

"No worries. Just wear anything. Jeans, whatever." He reaches in beside me, and pulls out his jacket of choice: blue velvet, embroidered birds up the sleeves, flash for miles. "You always look fantastic, baby."

Truth is, no matter what I wear? There's no competing with Mr. Rock Star's wardrobe.