...woman?

Hush, you.

poppet?? (heh)

Amy, what's the sentence, otherwise? You don't want to over-slang it.

No one sentence. I've got a Brit hero, and I had him calling her a pretty bird at one point, and it just felt ... weird. I wanted to know if there was something I could plug in at different points (because he's North London, uses a lot of slang).

So I submitted a story in response to a call for submissions by an environmental magazine that doesn't usually run fiction. But it was a concept I thought I could do a decent job with, and I got some great beta on it (::waves at Betsy and Katie::). I was not surprised to receive a nicely-worded rejection, including a hand-written note from the fiction editor for the issue (a Hugo nominee this year).

All this happened months ago, but the SF issue of the magazine was supposed to run this summer, so I stopped by the website to see what they chose.

Turned out that they didn't accept any stories. The writers submitting had all failed to include one particular element in their stories--an element that the call for submissions had never mentioned.

Contrary to acknowledging this, the editor of the magazine merely snarked that the SF community "couldn't rise to the challenge", and published only the novella by the fiction editor of the issue.

I'm quite put out. I waste enough time in my professional life responding to poorly-written requests for proposals: why should I do it for fun?

You might be able to approach Barnes and Noble, Target, Costco and the like, and end up with gift certificates, with which you can purchase more books. The Target corporation has all sorts of community programs, including a grant program: [link]

Cindy, great idea. I'm scheduling ameeting with B&N, and I will look into Target -- god knows I've pumped enough into their coffers, esp. for prescriptions!

Oh, that's aggravating, Consuela.

I hope that that's not a common failing of requests for submissions.

On her deathbed, she gave her diamond and platinum ring to Gladys, her neighbor and daughter in her heart.

After my parents had gone through the house, donating most, they came back with only a small box of ends and odds. Inside was a ring we'd given her: reflective hematite clasped in silver, subtly southwestern. You can still see the slight weld where it was sized to fit her finger.

I claimed it. First, on my middle finger, now on the ring.

I didn't always like her. I only really knew her after she was dead. I am more a descendant of the southwest than of Sweden. But I've worn a reminder of my grandmother, and of my home, for a decade now. It's a part of me.

Nice one, Sarameg.