You remember what it was like before him. And it was good. You remember what it was like meeting him - awful. You remember the perfection, and then when it became real, where it was good again, different from before, and you'd not undo any of it.
You remember your last dance, and if you'd known it would be the last last dance, you'd have picked something less...ironic.
You remember dithering over a sweater this morning. But picking the pretty bra and panties.
You don't remember ever having been this cold. And you can't remember the last time you breathed in.
I would totally agree that it sounds as though your work just wasn't to the taste of the second judge.
I would totally agree that it sounds as though your work just wasn't to the taste of the second judge.
Yup. It wouldn't surprise me if the judge who gave me perfect sevens has reading tastes that almost directly overlap mine, at least when it comes to romance, while the judge with the threes probably loves the books that make me scratch my head in puzzlement that they're published. Luck of the draw. And while I'd rather have lucked into three judges who all loved me, because then my chapter would be sitting on an editor's desk for the final round, it's instructive to get a broad cross-section of opinion, too.
I'd say that sounds like a good result, if not the one you were ultimately hoping for when you entered, Susan.
Go, you!!
jeepers, ita.
Susan, yup on the contest - personal taste issues on the part of the judges, both yea and nay.
Just in case it wasn't clear, I really am feeling good about this. To have three complete strangers who don't know or care anything about me read my work and get positive reactions from two out of three is validating.
Heh. Susan, you were totally clear, and I'm with you, you should feel validated. Plus, all feedback is useful.
Speaking of which, two big errands to run today plus cleaning the house, but also I need to be writing and editing today, so please do kick me out if I'm in here for more than a few minutes (I do check between bits).
I finally got a thought.
Ten times
During open heart surgery, three times. Waking from each death cursing the doctor who brought him back.
A stroke, twice. “I want to go home,” he said.
Congestive heart failure, 4 times. “Is this your fault? Did you pray to bring me back?”
In a fetal position, curled over his favorite La-Z-Boy, once. Alone. Finally free to go.
I dream of the funeral, over and over. In my dream, he sits up from the casket and laughs his caustic Muttley snicker. “Suckers,” he crows, and points at us, the body of us. We should not be sad he is gone.
Jeepers. Deena, that's brilliant.
