Well, in the time it took me to tell DH what happened and feed Annabel, I found some perspective. Maybe tonight or tomorrow I'll look at the comments again and see which I think are helpful for my rewrite. For the rest--it's a matter of luck. This result doesn't invalidate the good feedback I've gotten elsewhere. It just means that no book is for every reader, and I happened to have the bad luck to get only the wrong readers this time around. My estimation based on previous feedback that I've already hooked about a third of the readers who'd be inclined to try my book, that a third would never like it no matter how much I edited it because they look for different things, and another third likes my ideas but still sees flaws in execution, is probably accurate enough.

Sex is out, I've not really solved a crime, so that leaves politics.

My First Ballot

I’m eighteen. I have heard about this my whole life, literally, and I cannot wait. Women went to jail so I could do it, but I still don’t feel like a woman, yet, just like a girl that signs stuff sometimes. I can’t make the machine work, myself, so a woman helps me. I hope I can trust her but she looks like the kind of Grey Panther old broad I wish I was related to. I feel a little bit like those other women were pulling for me. Because I voted, today. My first time was with Bill Clinton.

My first time was with Bill Clinton.

No doubt.(although I didn't get to see him till the second term.Swoon.) Photos do not do justice to the foamy of the Big Dog.

I haven't seen him in person, yet. Someday. I hope his recovery goes well. Gah, that was scary. And if they're going to change the natural born citizen requirement for Ahnold, they ought to change the term limit requirement, for Big Dawg.

Oooh, Cindy, very nice! So glad you're joining the ranks of drabblers.

erika, that was wonderful. I love "I still don't feel like a woman yet". Very powerful stuff.

Susan, can I offer a little more perspective? (And ask a question, actually.) Were the judges for this contest other unpublished writers, or published ones? Unpublished writers can be tough -- I think it's the score sheet that maybe brings out the secret need to grade someone else down for once, as awful as it sounds. "Look, here's something that might possibly be wrong -- I can take a point off!"

Published writers can be tough, too, albeit one would hope with a little more perspective, but overall, I found contests awful to judge when I was working, usually when I had too many entries to read all at once, and I hated the scoring aspect of it. Editors don't read submissions that way at all -- it's a gestalt, gut-reaction thing, and little plot problems (for instance) are no big deal if you like the writing. Just try to remember how many people do like your writing aside from these three random judges who all could have been having a shitty day, you know?

Yeah, AmyLiz, thanks. It's still weird to me, that one day you are considered not to have that kind of capacity...and then, you have your birthday, and bang.

Birth of a Junkie

Erikson Dining Hall, freshman year. Sunday night, after dinner, loafing and laughing with new friends. Suddenly, an idea seized me. "I'm in college now," I declared. "I should start drinking coffee!" My friends laughed, but I ambled over to the coffeepots, trying to decide what I might like in my java.

Two cups, black. Cup number one: straight black. Not bad. Next I added cream, no sugar. Hey, this was pretty good! Then sugar; I grimaced and spit it out. Started over. Cup number two: coffee with cream, no sugar. Hot, strong, slightly burnt dining-hall coffee. Love at first sip.

(This is a very silly one. I don't know if I'll put it in the lj. Y'all are about the only people who'll get it. There are giant hints, throughout. It shouldn't be hard for you.)

(subject: First Time; word count: 100)

Previously...

I'd been dancing with you for weeks. Finally, Tuesday, December 8, 1998, you took possession of me. I’d never felt anything like it before, and never will, again.

You said, "We're young and free in America. How dare we be spun by love, or the lack of same?"

My breath caught. My heart beat in my throat.

You said, "World is what it is. We fight, we die. Wishing doesn't change that." And you were right. When he told you that he has to believe in a better world, you said, "Go ahead. I have to live in this one."

drabble

They won't shut up. Screaming, crying, fighting, loving. It never stops. And the pictures. Epic battles, tense confrontations, the love of true friends, the passion of ill-advised lovers.

I didn't know it was all in there. Nowhere in my mind can I turn without these people confronting me, demanding that I listen. How can this all be in here?

Late night, the noise won't stop. I want to listen, but too many voices to follow the tale. I find blank paper, a pen--pause, listen for the main voice.

I write.