Whoops, happy trigger finger.

A car drabble, in under the wire:

Senior year of high school, we drove. Anywhere, everywhere, whenever we could. We were new at it, a bit reckless with the imagined immortality of youth, but it didn’t matter. We were finally free.

Free to cruise to the next town during lunch, go to the movies out on the highway. Free to glide along the deserted streets late at night, our cigarettes lit and the radio blaring, talking. Of boys, school, boys, jobs, boys, the future. It was as indistinct and twisting as those shadowy roads, but that didn’t matter either. We would get there, and we would drive.

Oh Amy, that nails it. Perfectly. Yes, that's exactly how it was.

I wanted to write about my crush's 59 black Caddy we called "The Hearse," but all I would have come up with is your drabble, and you did it better.

Deb's copy editor needs an ectomy of her literal gland., or an imagination infusion.

Amy, that is a good one. That kind of thing and the posturing in loud cars down the main drag on a Friday night. Good times.

A Sunday Drive

“What are you doing?”

I unzipped his pants and settled in his lap. The dress had a tube top; it was a simple matter to shove it down over my breasts. He looked at them with interest, but his eyes kept darting up and away.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Come on, you like to live dangerously.”

“But I can’t see!”

“Here, let me lean this way a little.” Too late, the car veered into the ditch and just as violently careened back onto the road. We came to a jittering stop.

“Well, that was something different.”

(snerk)

Bev, what my copy editor needs is to try and understand that, if you can trust me to write a publishable novel based on the lyrics in the first place, you can probably trust me to post the right lyrics.

This sort of thing infuriates me, and it has nothing to do with ego. The problem is that it adds time and trouble to an already long editing process, and it isn't necessary.

Tell someone you're anti-homophonic, and watch their brains blank out.

...

if you can trust me to write a publishable novel based on the lyrics in the first place, you can probably trust me to post the right lyrics...

Sure. Like anyone in New York has ever trusted anyone, about anything.

The true motto of NY: "Check your trust at the border."

I am reading a "note" over and over. Editors of text do not use marks which mean things to programmers. It all seems to be about the layout of the frackin' thing.

Lay it out as you will. Just send dollars.

I am not kidding. I'm staring at these glyphs and thinking ... "Ah! They are dialing a StarGate!"

Gus, I feel your pain. I dealt with that crap last year and the guy wrote it all on post-it notes. And 99% of them were layout questions.

I have never written "Not the writer's purview" so many times before, and I'm damned if I ever intend to again.