Teppy? New topic?

My agent left my agency, and now I have a new agent. I'm freaking out a little (lot) about it. Mostly because I loved my agent not just as an agent but as a whole, loveable person.

Lost, now. The plan is to keep trudging through the manuscript, beefing things up, and such.

I think it'll be okay to talk to the editor as soon as the contract is signed by them, get a little more of a sense of what their ideas are.

Still, a bit lost.

Allyson, having just changed agents myself about two weeks ago, I can empathise. It's scary.

Did she leave to go to another agency? Was there a choice to stay with her or stick with the current agency?

She doesn't really know, deb. Just a big lifechange. She's going to the Bay Area to start anew, and said of course she'll be there for me, cheering and supporting. Love. Her.

I'm sure the new agent will be cool, but I can't shake the thought that I'm a burden who has been tossed upon her, whereas Kate wanted me.

I FEEL LIKE A FOSTER KID.

I FEEL LIKE A FOSTER KID.

(sending virtual cookies, or real ones, if you'd like some)

I know. Not a good feeling - but if Bay Area Bound Agent likes the new one, you should be just fine. And no, she's unlikely to see you as a burden. For one thing? Book's sold.

So, you're proven goods.

You're not, although the picture of you holding books in a garbage bag? A little funny.

Somehow, it just seems right (to me, at least), that the 100th drabble topic is late. (Also -- 100! That's a LOT of good writing!)

Challenge #99 (the perfect vacation) is now closed.

Challenge #100 is: commemorating an event. (It just seemed to fit with reaching topic #100.)

23 February 2006

Chilly, dry, quarter-moon on the horizon. I'm meeting friends for Afghan food, over in North Beach. First, though, there's something that needs doing.

123 Valparaiso, where I ran, shut myself away, disintegrated, reintegrated. I ran from you, from needing you. Nothing I've done since was that self-destructive.

I've put this off for a quarter-century. It's time.

From up the street, I hear piano music. I remember how I ran, my cowardice, my selfishness.

Tomorrow would have been your 62nd birthday.

I lay my hand against the wall. Breathing your name, I ask you for the forgiveness I can't give myself.

Spring in Bloom

When we moved into the house my mother planted two things in the yard. One was a maple tree in the southeast corner of the lawn for shade. The second was a pussy willow next to the driveway. The maple flourished and casts its shadow across half the lawn, including the Russian sage and her currant bushes. The willow, well, it barely lasted a year. Mom pulled it out because once the fingertip plush buds bloomed, the pollen made her sneeze.

Her casket spray had spring flowers: daffodils, iris and tulips on a bed of pussy willow boughs.

A heartbreaker, Sail. But then, I have the feeling the bulk of these are going to go down that road.