I should think a pre-contract book doctor would be (a) possibly a scam and (b) a really good bid for a nice copyright lawsuit somewhere down the line, since all the contracts I've seen have a whole "Author affirms this work is original and hers and nobody else can lay claim to it". (Scrupulous book doctors have "work-made-for-hire" written into their agreements, but it's the sort of thing people don't think about most of the time without a publishers' law department breathing down their necks.)

(I also think "natural storyteller, but not a natural writer" is a sign that the person in question needs a co-author, not a simple hired gun.)

My experience with book doctors is that they're often called in when an author just doesn't feel like doing the work, but the book is too valuable a commodity to cancel its publication. I don't know what book doctors do in the fiction market, but considering I've put out books where the lead author is dead, anything that happens after a contract is signed no longer surprises me.

Heh. No, you weren't - I was befuddled with the tired. I read it again this morning and it make perfect sense.

OK, good. Because I know I'm bad about rambling and crafting technically grammatical but excessively long and complex sentences that don't always make the kind of sense they did in my head. That's a big part of my first editing pass on anything I write--seeing how many sentences I can chop in half without ruining the flow of the piece.

I'm having fun working on the scene from the novel from just upthread. Last night I sat up late typing in several pages I'd written longhand at the mall yesterday (where I'd fled to find AC). At the end I was kind of dancing at the computer and chanting, "I'm a good writer, I'm such a good writer."

Quoth DH: "Nice shooting, kid. Now don't get cocky."

At the end I was kind of dancing at the computer and chanting, "I'm a good writer, I'm such a good writer."

Aww. Cute.

Quoth DH: "Nice shooting, kid. Now don't get cocky."

Ibid.

Susan, a story for you, which (as a baseball fan), you'll probably especially appreciate. The reference is to what George Brett's batting coach used to tell him during the season where he nearly hit .400.

Nic used to be my one WIP editor. He's a beautiful, beautiful editor: literally can split the left side (pure technics) and the right (flow and emotional impact) down the middle, and wear both hats. These days, I have other beta readers and WIP editors, but he used to be It, period.

He didn't WIP-edit Plainsong because I wrote it so quickly - first sit-down to "finis", six weeks. I finished it in a blissed-out trance - really, I felt stoned - and left it on the desk. I headed past Nic, who was watching TV, told him I was done, it was ready for him, I was going to bed, and did.

I got up the next morning and found the manuscript on the kitchen table. There were three yellow post-its sticking out: two typos and a continuity question.

Atop the pile was a note from my husband. It simply said "Atta way to write, George."

I'd love to do that to someone again.

I finally got caught up in this thread. Some lovely, lovely pieces. I really enjoy the quality of work in this thread. Fabulous.

Now that I'm caught up I can post this week's drabble here. I wasn't really pleased with it, overall, but I'm not sure why. It was a strong pivotal experience for me, but I don't think I captured that at all. And I think I didn't illustrate the representative nature of the shoes really either. Anyway. 'Nough deconstructing for a hundred words.

--- Ballydowse. July 6th, 2002. Midnight.

Heat. Motion. Musk of a thousand bodies. Brace for it, they’re coming 'round the corner. Arms up to hold them in.

Under the yellow striped tent, amps blare. Boots pound the sand. Crowd shouts. A banner. Unity.

Someone falls. A dozen hands reach to pick him up.

The flautist hops off the stage. “Humidity’s jacked up my flutes anyway.” Bone in his nose flashes white as he whirls by.

The vocalist calls. "I miss your voice." But cedes to inevitability and jumps down himself.

I glance down. Am I ready? Docs secure, no dangling strings. I step into the fray.

Liese, that's gorgeous.

Humour:

The Proper Tool

"Do I have what?"

"A hammer." He's staring at the door handle. Sports cars are delicate beasts, country roads require hardiness. She'd told him to slow down, bumps ahead, but no, the Alfa could handle anything the Haute Savoy could throw at them.

"Of course I don't." She considers the dangling handle for a moment. It's threatening to fall off entirely. It needs serious hammering with a small, solid, flat surface...

The lightbulb goes off in her mind. "Here," she says, and pulls off one grey calfskin four-inch heel. "How about this?"

They continue their drive, courtesy of Charles Jourdan.

Ah, the true use of the platform sole after the fashion fades--the first time around, that is: alternate hammer. For the last two years of college, I didn't even worry about having a hammer, I just kept my platform sandals.

Heh. I never wore platforms - plastic in both ankles, not a good idea. But the very tip of a medium-thin heel makes a great small hammer.

OK, lovely writers, help me brainstorm again. I've drafted a lovely little dance scene off in the shadows for Jack and Anna, in her POV, culminating in what I happen to think is a wonderfully romantic and poignant near-kiss that he pulls away from at the last minute. I've got them awkwardly avoiding any mention of what just happened, him escorting her back to the tent she's sharing with another lady, and them having the bad luck to get there just in time to run into the dreaded villain-to-be lieutenant walking the other lady back.

But I'm having trouble figuring out what to do with them now. I feel like I should stay in Anna's POV just a little longer, but I can't for the life of me manage to write the combo of horniness and guilt over being attracted to another man with her husband just dead that she ought to be feeling without it falling flat. So I'm tempted to go straight to Jack's head, because I think I know exactly what he's thinking and feeling right now. But I'll have to get Anna's reaction eventually, and I am stuck stuck stuck. A major comedown from my giddy writer-high of the last week, this is.

To elaborate a little, I need them to be aware of the mutual attraction, but in just enough denial about what it means that they think the mere fact of the social gulf between them is enough to keep them from acting on their feelings no matter what the circumstances. And I feel like he's probably just a little angry at her at the moment--that he (at least somewhat justifiably) senses that she was using him for her own comfort without thinking about the consequences because he's so far beneath her socially. However, he can't be TOO angry, because the whole plot hinges on him being able to say wholeheartedly two days from now that anyone who means harm toward Anna will have to come through him first.