I am so getting cremated. Nic can make CDs out of my ashes if he wants to. I want a noisy happy catered goodbye party, with live music, and two particular songs played.

Susan, excellent on the feedback!

masks

When did the face I knew so well become a facade? Why did you go to so much trouble tending the false front, when behind it you were discarding the familiar trappings and moving the bits you wanted to keep to some place far away?

I talked for hours to a puppet, controlled by forces I had no suspicion of. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, indeed.

Then I received notice that the show was closed, had, in fact, left town long ago. The lights went out, leaving me with props. Did I love the mask or the person behind it?

Mask drabble:

"It's a mask."

"No, it's not. It's a bra."

"No way. It's a mask. See, there are cut-outs here for the headlights and the grill. It's like a mask over the car's face."

"See the curves and the clips and the elastic and the straps? It's a bra. The only people who call them masks are salesmen and the suckers who just bought them. Take it back and try to get a refund."

"It'll protect the paint job."

"No, it won't. A little dust and a little vibration and it'll strip the clearcoat underneath it."

"It looks cool."

"It's not. Trust me."

Drabble (though I'm not sure I like it...)

“You should quit. You don’t have to take that.”

Eyeliner, dark grey today. It goes on thick and heavy, but it’s bold, so you leave it be.

“It’s a good job, and I’m not quitting just because Harris can be a jerk.”

Eyeshadow next. You pick a bright one, but you know it’s wrong after it’s on. He looks at you in the mirror, angry at Harris but swinging at you.

“You look like you’re wearing a clown mask.”

A dark drip slides down your pale cheek. You wear a mask, but Harris isn’t who makes you put it on.

(though I'm not sure I like it...)

I do. A whole lot, too.

Whenever I write something that wanders away from what I sat down to say, I end up feeling like it's not as good, because it wasn't what I was trying to say....

This writing a book thing is going to be hard... you can wander a lot farther afield in 50,000 words.

Oh, mos def. I did.

you can wander a lot farther afield in 50,000 words.

Turns out there can be some very interesting things in those fields, though.

Nothing wrong with wandering, in my world. I can't imagine not wandering; hell, that's where the interesting shit lives.

I'm getting my rejection letters back. Just about all of them say the same thing, "great voice, unsure where this fits."

Which is frustrating, because I can't figure out how to fix that.