this boxes drabble rocks.

:: cheers on bev and laura, and Perkins (because), and amy and connie::

Update for my betas (nothin' but love fo' ya): Nearly done with Chapter Four and have made further revisions to the other three. I may be bothering you again in the next day or so.

You Are Warned.

What advice would you have for me about getting new writing assignments? All I've proven I can write is disability and television.

All I've proven I can write is disability and television.

And often they're the same thing!

Ba-DUM-bum! Wakka wakka.

More than I would like, yeah. And I'm not even talking about "House" this time.

Honor Thy Father

There had been no surprises when she packed up the first floor. Nothing had changed since her mother died ten years before. She could tell because nothing had changed since she’d walked out thirty years ago, either. Not even the bottles of vodka hidden everywhere.

She decided to repack the boxes in the attic. The Goodwill probably wouldn’t find anything surprising, but better safe than sorry.

At the bottom of one box she found a green jewelry box. Inside, a star-shaped medallion hung from a blue ribbon sprinkled with white stars. She was surprised to find tears in her eyes.

First of all, the drabbles do rock.

Secondly - writing tip of the day: read your entire work out loud from beginning to end - yes even if it is a novel or an 85,000 word work of non-fiction. You will catch all sorts of problems no amount of silent reading can spot. This is especially important for people who tend to make lots small errors (for instance someone nicknamed Typo Boy), but anyone will benefit, unless your writing is completely error free.

Do you folks want me to go on sharing this type of thing? Or are they stuff everybody but me already knows?

if you want.

Erika, there's always Drollerie Press and the 'zine, Membra Disjecta. I'm pretty sure you have an in with the editors.

Good drabbles, guys. I haven't had the brain to write one, but I've been reading.

Ok, I'm twelve. Forgive me.

The woman tells me to relax and then I know she’s insane. Nobody could find lying on a hard table with paper rustling under her ass to be relaxing. And that’s before they stick the instrument in, and ask me to take a deep breath while Mom holds my leg. I feel pathetic, even at sixteen that my doctor is the only one who has touched me like this, even though I only went on one hopeless “date” at crip camp and I don’t know who that other person would be. I still wish there was one, and suddenly the teen magazine I brought in trying to feel like the other girls is a stupid choice. These girls freak out about a bloodstain on their white pants. If they were me, they’d have to live in a cave for a week.