Oy. I suck at organisation, TB, but I'll be here cheering you on.

OK. On "Lost in Translation". This isn't a drabble.

Lost Between the Ear and the Heart

"Damn, that's pretty."

It starts out low on the piano's range, deep-voiced, mournful. Something about it is faraway, remote. It's as if he can't connect with it. I can; I'm just not sure I want to. Something about the piece is cutting at me.

"You like it, then? Good. You should."

It moves up into the midrange, a bit of dissonance, a lot of consonance. My stomach is tight, my eyes weighted with held-back tears.

"It's beautiful. Painful, though. What do you mean, I should like it?"

He looks up at me over the mile-long expanse of piano lid. Hands moving up the keys, taking it higher, sex and joy but it never hits the highest notes, the tiara tinkle as he calls it. Always, somehow, there's darkness, and love, and loss to come.

"I wrote it for you, lady."

It will be years before I can let myself believe him, years before I can listen to it again, years before I understand that he must have known what I couldn't know.

Deb, that's gorgeous, and very painful. Still amazes how you find the language to write about music so well -- it's one thing I can *never* translate very well.

Insent, deb and Amy!

Happy to, if you want to send it to my profile address. What's this one about?

The book is about spending my formative years in retail, lessons learned behind the cash register.

This essay is supposed to be about figuring out that there's such a thing as a decent and kind pervert.

Allyson, backsent, bebe. My feeling is that you need the connection right upfront. Open with it. The awkward bits, such as they are, are right there near the beginning. If you have the theme right there at the start, the first half becomes history rather than exposition.

Still amazes how you find the language to write about music so well

Amy, there are days when I wish I could just shut the fuck up about it, already. Not likely to happen anytime soon, though. (edit: and if I did shut up, I wouldn't be writing Kinkaid. Meh.)

We're off to Napa for wine and olive oil and stuff. I'm-a take a break and start chapter eight tomorrow.

Allyson, backflung. Really powerful essay. I think I said pretty much what Deb said above, if I'm reading her comments right. You just need to clarify where you're going in the essay a little sooner, I think.

What I need to do is Outline X, and state that to prove X I have to prove A, B, C etc in the INTRODUCTION.

That sounds right, although your explanation was confusing to me, but I'm awful at math and logic stuff, so I kept getting lost.

t /dumb

Amy, there are days when I wish I could just shut the fuck up about it, already.

Nah. Like you said, then no Kincaid. And I am a firm believer in writing what wants out.

Thanks so much to both of you!

Yes, Virginia, there really is a thesis statement. Duh.

I'm going back to Composition 101.

I feel like one of those people who calls tech support, hysterical, and when the help desk person comes all the way down to check the problem, finds that the computer is not plugged in.

smacks forehead

And sorry for not proofing before sending. Again, smacks forehead.

I've got a deadline tomorrow, typing up this interview...don't wanna. My honeymoon with the new "gig" did not last long. Blah. Tired of busting my butt for no dead presidents so twelve people can read it. Tired of over-enthusiastic crip chicks and their forty-seven !!! about everything. Tired of always being the loose cannon new guy everywhere I go. Tired of reading people that can't write(Not my interview subject...she is talented and articulate, just the boredom spilling over.) Does not befit the second coming of Leigh Brackett.(/faux flouncing) They don't know what genius rolls among them, that's all.

Tired of over-enthusiastic crip chicks and their forty-seven !!! about everything.

I just choked on coffee. I want to tag it.

Yes, Virginia, there really is a thesis statement. Duh.

That's what always been challenging for me about writing nonfiction, Allyson -- it's not just you. Fiction is a lot easier, in a way, at least for me.

And it's all there, which is the thing. Some of it is just a little obscured.

They don't know what genius rolls among them, that's all.

But we know!

I've been thinking about a television series I'd love to pitch, and the bones are all there, but I find that the meat of it, the characters with their voices that should be so different from mine, is impossible for me to do.

I can't write fiction. At all. It's a different sort of imagination, and I'm rather embarassed to say, I think it's a character flaw on my part.

Writing essays seems an excercise in arrogance. Look at my life and how I see things. Me me me me me. Isn't it so interesting? Am I not just the most special girl?

Add to that my supreme feelings of worthlessness and what you get is insanity in paragraph form.