Congrats, Kristin! (And further reminder why I want you to write for me. :)

Oh, Kristin! I remember you posting an earlier version of that last year, and it still packs a powerful punch. Beautiful work, m'dear.

That's such a powerful piece, Kristin. Congratulations!

I love that damned piece, Kristin. It's really amazing.

t beaming

Thank you!

Kristin, I loved that piece when I read it the first time around (in your LJ, I think?) Congratulations on getting it published! (Oh, and yeah for having a palce to live!)

Very excited! The piece of fiction I wrote the Reading Report for for B&S this week is actually really great and reminds me why I wanted to do that(Although building a resume and snarking at the bad stuff are good, too, but not as...elevated.)

I'm in San Francisco for a wee vacation, and yet I'm posting a new topic! That's just how much I love you guys.

Challenge #83 (little gods) is now closed.

Challenge #84 is lost in translation. NOT the movie. Don't even go there. Or I KEEL YOU!!!

Ahem.

Have fun!

My muses left me something scary this time. “So, have you always been...like this?”

What? Blonde, foulmouthed, a flaming liberal?

Yeah, once the hair grew in...I’m happy it doesn’t glow in the dark anymore. No, came late to cursing, I might have been even seventeen.(Which is late for us baby busters.) I think I’ve been a liberal since middle school or something, Phoenix’s own Lisa Simpson...

Oh, shit, it is all too obvious, he wants to know what they all want to know...scream of sirens, flashing lights, have you ever walked? Do you miss it? Would I, in your place? From that angle, this is the most boring story in America. No Michael Landon therapist ever held my hand and told me I was “gonna beat this thing,” to my knowledge anyway.(I can’t quite discount it though...it was the ‘70s. My mother would have been more comfortable with inspiration that looked like Graham Greene or Isaac Hayes, but she never mentioned Graham or Isaac either; I’m not sure how much they knew about what went wrong, right then, anyway, and she’s never been one to talk about that.

“Why do you want to know?” she says, with the kind of skepticism that would have been nice in our family at treaty time.

“Because...”feeling lame in more ways than one...”people keep asking.”

“Fuck ‘em...” my tree of a mom that I didn’t fall far from says “it’s not their business. Tell ‘em to read a fucking book.”

“Ok, so I wanna know because I wanna know...it’s my business, right?” The search for knowledge angle never fails to work on my mother.

But still she sighs...my touchy-feely, get deep and intimate urges never have sat right with Mom since I was eight and learned to write poems from a book.”You didn’t get that from me,” she said, when I showed her. “I don’t know why you have to dig up this old crap...one question. One, okay?”

That’s what I think of when I say “ Yeah. When I was born. Brain injury.”

And I get the well-worn punch line “Gee, you seem so...normal.’

Damn, erika, just...damn.