Susan, if you're bummed that you diidn't final because you were competing with Jo Beverly, just imagine how Jo Beverly is going to feel when she loses out to another published author.

In other news - which should possibly go in Literary, but that would mean me going into Literary, which aint gonna happen - I've just received confirmation that I'm indeed doing the (not a typo) Festival of Jewish Authors in December. Ought to be interesting: Of the four writers on the panel, I had one Jewish parent, and will be talking about growing up multifaith and rejecting all of them. Ayelet Waldman is Israeli by birth, but not remotely orthodox. Ellen Sussman's favourite food is crab-based sushi, and she's essentially Buddhist in her leanings. Only Victoria Zackheim writes about Judaism (her book, The Bone Weaver, dealt with the post-Holocaust world).

But the other three are all friends, and I foresee a fun weekend, especially if Ayelet hires a babysitter and brings Mister Hotter than the Surface of Mercury Pulitzer husband Michael with her.

I'm sorry that you didn't get to the final -- but competing against published authors -- wow.

The comments should be interested.

Wow, that's good news, Deb! It sounds like fun.

Also, would you like me to do a proxy post? Just zip in at the end of Lit'ry and copy and paste the above?

Nah, Bev, not necessary. It's just a nice feeling, because it brings things a step closer to getting shit done in the name of the about to be book, which makes things a bit realer for me.

I'm sorry that you didn't get to the final -- but competing against published authors -- wow.

Last year the winners/runners-up were pretty evenly split pubbed/non-pubbed, which is why I had the guts to enter. And the judging is anonymous, which levels the playing field. But, to mix metaphors, it's swimming in a deeper pool than the usual non-pubbed only contest.

Note from the over-booked:

Drabble topic will be posted later this evening. Prolly after 8 p.m. EST.

It's a strange thing, but I've found I can't write any more in my office/library/storage room. I just sit at the keyboard and stare at the bookshelves and think of all the things I want to do in there. However, if I take my cheapie laptop to the bedroom and get comfy on the bed, I have no problems.

Maybe it's a clutter thing, but my bedroom's no more clutter-free than my office. Hopefully this block won't continue much longer, because I like my office.

Okay, I'm abusing my moderator's privilege and sneaking a doors drabble in under the wire. Drabble topic in my next post....

* * * * *

For years you've ignored this door, pretended it didn't exist...and once in a while, you even forget it's there. But memory is a tenacious thing, and eventually you remember it, this portal to your blackest secrets, your vilest demons. No heavy oaken door could be more difficult to open than this door in your psyche.

It's been locked for so long that you doubt the key will even work any more. Which is good, because surely the danger to you if you open it is too great. Remember Bluebeard's wife, after all. Here be dragons, breathing hellfire, their sharp teeth dripping red with the blood of those who dare to cross the threshold.

Or so you've always believed.

But remember: you built this door, fashioned this lock, and forged this key out of strong metal. It's yours to do with as you like; so, too, are the dragons on the other side. You can slay them. You can make pets out of them.

Or you can find that they're only shadows on the wall, that disappear as the light floods in behind you.

Open it. You can face the dragons within, and you are not Bluebeard's wife.

Okay! Sneaky last-minute-ness aside, drabble #16 (doors; red) is closed! For this week's drabble, I have one thought:

I love a parade.

Or so the song would have you believe.

This week's drabble topic is parade(s). Go to it. And please, clean up after the elephants....

Parades?

(blink)

Um...

OK. An odd interpretation, but the only thing that springs to mind at first, although this is giving me another idea:

Place de la Bastille, 14 July 1789

The girl, with dirty face and dirty feet, watches the people go by.

She's young, and rather simple. At first, the shouting and the noise catches and amuses her; so many people, with shovels and pickaxes and guns! She recognises a few as she peers out into the street: there is the baker from Rue Jacques Couer, shaking a plump fist, shouting. A bit later in the stream of people she sees Madame Beziers, who keeps an inn in the Passage du Cheval Blanc.

After a while, the great prison begins to crumble and the parade grows bloody and portentous.