I LOVE that one, Erika. Bet it nets you some good email from readers, too!

I love that one Erika.

That's even better, erika. (But lowercase "senator".)

Thanks, everyone.

The second one definitely rolls more smoothly. Perhaps you're not as liberal as you thought.

It sounds horrible, but it's been so long since I created a fully original character that I don't remember how I did it. Generally I get a story idea first, then I think of what kind of person might get sucked into that situation or who might be most affected by the situation. I'm very grateful that I have a knack for coming up with characters quickly, at least as far as interesting personality quirks. Eventually they coalesce on the movie screen in my head, and when I'm really on my game I can just take dictation from what they're get up to on their own.

I'm terribly lackadaisacal when it comes to various writer's exercises. I find myself resenting the time I could be writing, because if I was in the mood to write, I'd be writing what I want, not an exercise. Exercises feel too much like the little assignments you got in English class, and they make me twitchy.

Do take into account that I'm a remarkably lazy writer who has a reputation for not updating her stories very often.

I don't do any writers exercises; drabbling somtimes but that's it. Everything I write starts with characters, so basically I just follow the tricky buggers down the road.

erika, bebe. you do good bios.

Long lunch (2.5 hours) with Ruth Cavin. She seems to want New-Slain Knight. Then dinner and four hours of conversation with Daymond at the bar at the Algonquin. They've got a fantastic hotel cat named Mathilda (blue-point Birman who strolls about and gets fawned over and is given caviar as her bedtime treat) and I have three hours of tape on Daymond's history.

I am ded like a ded thing and sick as a dog. But a good trip, so far.

Long lunch (2.5 hours) with Ruth Cavin. She seems to want New-Slain Knight. Then dinner and four hours of conversation with Daymond at the bar at the Algonquin.

Good news! Sorry about the dedness and the sick, though.

I'm likely - at Daymond's suggestion - to post a few questions in here, asking for, well, questions. He's got a unique perspective, and we've agreed the book needs to contain nutrients, things that open a window into the differences and similarities within our own culture and between the genders.

I have no idea how to structure this one yet. Eeeep...

Looks like Deprivation Girl found her topic...three in a row.
If I believed in Heaven, this would make a lot more sense. Really believed in it, not just look it over like a picture of Fiji and think “Hmm, that’d be nice, but the flight’s probably a pain and it costs a ton.”I can’t, so far. So I am left without that sense of cosmic justice that tells me that someday, this will all pay off. That there will be no ramps needed in the “golden city” the President made somewhat infamous by invoking in his weird accent. It’d be easier to stem the pangs if I really thought there’d be a buffet in my future, because now my friends eat much better than I do.

Don’t get me wrong...it’s kind of a pleasure watching the combinations they get from all over the world...the sights, smells and occasional tastes, much better sometimes than hanging with my rap buddies, huddling in the dark over government cheese, always knowing every story will end in tears. And everyone knows eating lunch with a friend is more about company than actual food, but I wonder if they know how often I go back to my own table feeling hungry. Maybe before I sit down, as if there is a before, I should drink a glass of water first. Maybe gum. Gum is cheap, and with this crowd, it can never hurt to have fresh breath.

But someday, I must admit, I want to be full. Not be eating squashed peanut butter and watching people eat petit fours, telling myself their digestions will eventually catch hell to make my simplicity virtuous and healthy. Not remembering the darkest times, stuffing crumbs and the ends of crust in my tearstained face as my roiling stomach protested(Because peanut butter damn sure looks better that way.) But it’s not enough. It never is...it’s just that sometimes I become deaf to the rumbles because I can’t face peanut butter another day and I can’t pretend it’s something else. Someday, I want a plate so overflowing that people will just be too tempted not to share it with me.