erika, the thing about voice is, there are so many damned definitions of the thing that I expect it's impossible to define.

I can speak about mine, because my editor already did; in the 1993 edition of Writing Mysteries: A Handbook by the Mystery Writers of America (Genre Writing Series) by Sue Grafton (Editor), she cited me as an example of it.

Ruth's take is that voice is a mystical thing that can't be taught, is either there or isn't (and she has to be the world's biggest pragmatist, so that's really extreme, coming from her), and is the one thing every editor falls to their knees and prays to walk in their office. That's the basic quote from her essay in Writing Mysteries.

I also think voice is there, inborn to the writer in the same way it's likely to be inborn to a singer. But I also think a lot more people have that particular quality than are aware of even its existence.

At the editors and agents panel at the writers conference in October, all five panelists emphatically agreed that when they open a new manuscript, what they're dreaming of discovering is a strong, sure, unique voice, because above all else that's what makes or breaks a book, and shows if the author has the talent to sustain a career.

Susan, exactly.

The thing about the "Writing Mysteries" deal is that I didn't know Ruth had done that until eight or so years later.

But the voice - what she remembered from "Plainsong" and "Eyes in the Fire" - was apparently still there in the first draft of "Weaver" I sent her.

Lucky for me...

I like Deena's idea of a plant set up. Editors and agents get lots of signed stuff. Not tha Joss's autograph is something to cough at, but a plant, yeh. An amyrillis. Yum.

mart, she may well be like me, and glare at anything resembling a potted plant in complete dismay. And since she lives in the wilds of the east Coast, no idea what would grow out of doors.

Amyrillis grow on window sills just fine. And they can be tossed out after the season is over. If you forget to water them, seems to be ok. I had one and when it was done I put the pot on the back porch. It has been without water or love for two years. It is sprouting as we speak. You have some in the yard. The 'pink ladies'.

Marty, would you like to be my mother-in-law too? My current one's not nearly as cool as you are.

Nobody's mother in law is as cool as mine.

But I'm thinking not flowers for Jenn. A piece of incunabula, that she can enjoy, plus something non-sweet to eat, really strike me as best bet.

Just, not "bodice-ripper chocolates" as she calls the syndrome.

Next year's NaNo, I'm going to just enter all the frelling code I've written in the month into the word count thingy.

Yeah, word count of zero here. But I'm still glad for the thing, in that it got me thinking again about a project I hadn't even looked at in months. Oh, well.

Deena, you can be my daughter, but Nic belongs to Deb. Sorry.