This is going to be serial, because stuff is moving around.

Crossposted from Fic, because this covers both. I am a happy, pleased woman.

Crossposting with Great Write, because I am an excited woman.

Roz Kaveney had the livejournal "post something you'd like to do with me" meme, and I posted, "co-write something."

She said yes, please, in the short term, this is absolutely something we can do together. What follows:

Me: SQUEEE! I'm completely and totally open. Do you fancy a joint fic, or some genuine fiction together?

Roz: Yes, and yes. We should do a fic together as a way of finding out how collaboration between us works. How about post-Chosen, post S3 BtVS/Six Feet Under crossover?

We should try and write something serious together.

Dude. I get to write with Roz Kaveney. This makes yet one more cool writer I'm working with!

edit: Oh, and I got a card from my copy editor! Turns out Ruth at St. Martin's forwarded her my "thank you I love this person I want to work with them again" note, and she wrote me back. Her name is Anne Adelman, she's a Brit living in the US and married to an American, and she wants "Matty Groves". Woot!

Deb that rocks!

Go you!

(Backflung, btw)

Deb, I would love to read more of the clowns story if you want to send it to me. I probably won't get to it until tommorrow, when hopeful my head will no longer be pounding.

I'm much happier about my career than I am about my hockey team tonight.

And backflung-redux, with answers on editing prefs.

sj, sending momentarily. Whenever you're up to it is fine. You go rest.

Ahem. For Teppy's challenge, a piece of erotica.

Game

Leather, steel, the soft padding of lambswool.

They both know how to play this game. Today, she's the one spread out and open to him; other days, she calls the plays.

It's never predictable, never the same as any other time. It takes fearlessness, absolute trust, a temporary abandonment of will.

He pushes the cuffs away, reaching instead for lengths of rope. She tastes her own anticipation, rising like a sirocco, as he loops the rope over one ankle, the second ankle, both wrists. He stands back, impassive, testing the tension.

He plays this game well. He knows his knots.

GUH. Oh, yeah. Yeah, that'll do it.

Huh. Teppy, livejournal won't let me post in Great Write. It keeps saying the journal's temporarily in "read-only" mode. Any idea what's up?

rrrrrrroooooowwww!

Nummy, Deb!

Working on comments now.

Deb, backflung with comments.

Man, I am in a strange mood tonight. Third Knots drabble; hoping Plei stops by for this one.

Dryad

The man stands, staring.

It's only a tree. The bole is gnarled with age, dark patches of bark peeling like sunburned skin. The root system, a massive twisting as hard as iron, curls above ground, taking in as much water as the tree needs.

The man stares at the bark. Inimical, ironic, a woman's face stares back at him.

It's only a knot, he tells himself, only a knot in the wood.

The knot, if knot it is, leers suddenly, her expression changing. He steps back, swallowing a whimper. Only a knot.

He's afraid to turn his back on it.