Deena, nope, that wasn't a nod-wink-ahem thing; the time away from the book is good for me. When I get stuff back, I have to go back into it and read it, both in parts and in whole, considering the feedback and seeing where things coincide. I like at least two weeks after finishing a book before I do that, to freshen my own take.

No probs, m'dear. No probs at all. Take your time, truly.

Oh, and did I mention that Plei's and ita's tied up together (no, I do not mean porn, thank you) beautifully in my head? ANd that this:

"Seven years of bad luck," she thought. "I wonder if I'll notice the difference."

nearly killed me?

Jeeeeeeeepers.

Me too... thought of tagging it.

Here's one, a genuine memory. The title says it all:

Loma Prieta

The first crash from the bedroom should have warned me.

Fifteen years later, I'm still unsure as to what fell first, and afterward? There was too much broken glass, from too many fragile former possessions, to sort out the chronology. I was in the living room; I'd just had a lump removed from one breast and I was groggy from the drugs.

But I heard that first crash, and lifted my head, in time to see the microwave cart go sailing by.

After that, it was straight into the kitchen doorway, feeling the ground heave, glass breaking all around me.

The title says it all:

No. Shit. Very nice, Deb.

Heh. Thanks, Sean. My memories of that quake are reeeeeally fucking fuzzy.

Nothing like being doped up during a 7.1 quake to remember the odder bits of it.

{{Erika}} I can't imagine why the person didn't have the taste to accept your story, but arse 'em in the ear and keep sending. You write brilliantly.

Deb, didn't think you were doing the wink, nudge. Just wanted to let you know why I was slow while I was thinking about it.

I want all your muse(s) to belong to me. There's some amazing stuff in this thread these days. I love it. Kudos to the Tep, again.

Rushing to post my broken glass drabble before the end of the week. It's not as dark/intense as most of the others - but I know breaking things very well.

Nine o'clock, breakfast rush just starting and she's already in the weeds. And now they're out of coffee. She sweeps an empty pot up, recognizing the burnt-oil smell of evaporated coffee one second too late. Overheated glass clicks against hot metal and cracks; a rain of brown-glazed shards falls over and around her feet. Glass dust crunches under her black shoes, grinds into the soft rubber soles.

"Fuck fuck fuck!" Goddamn Lisa leaving a goddamn empty pot on a hot burner. Her third breakage this week and now they'll take it off her fucking cheque.

"Miss? Miss! More coffee, please."

It was a contest, Deena. Competition is not my friend, generally. My stories don't have enough death and T&A for that. Except when I steal.It hurts, of course, but, actually my attitude about writing has changed since I read How To Be A Stand-Up Comic ironically. Because in that book, it says "Prepare to fail. Because you're going to. And if you can't handle that, don't quit your day job, babe." (And I haven't got a day job. So I guess I'll stick it out.) Belzer also says you can make fun of anybody you want, without apologies, except Sinatra.(He got "Just kidding, Frank.") And being a writer, nobody can hear me bomb. Small mercies, right?

Oh Dani, I can relate that SO well to stuff in everyday life, even though I've never waitressed.