Never say I don't climb right back on the horse that threw me:

I spent a stray half hour today while Annabel was napping looking up info on every RWA contest I could find throughout the year, trying to get a feel for which might be the best fits for my work. I really wasn't planning to enter anything else until sometime in 2005, when I came across the New England Chapter's First Kiss contest, with a deadline of Nov. 1. "Hmm," read the thought bubble above my head. "AmyLiz specifically praised the first kiss in the castle tower in Lucy's book. And you yourself think the near-kiss in Anna's is the most romantic and sexy thing you've ever written. All you've got to do is make it into an actual kiss instead of just 'lips so close their breath mingled', and it's eligible. And the final round judge is from Warner. You'd love to be published there."

So I promptly fired off an email to the contest coordinator to make sure I wasn't limited to just the one entry.

And then I looked at my score sheets from yesterday a little more closely, and it's not quite as horrible as I thought. The scores are disappointing, but the comments were broadly positive--one judge praised my style and liked my heroine, the other just said I needed to do some polishing and tighten up my synopsis a whole lot, but to keep at it. And with one or two exceptions, the criticism was all for areas I already suspected needed work. I'm just trying to reconcile the decent feedback with the less-than-decent scores! But I'm feeling cool enough about it to sit down and write thank-you notes tonight.

Patches

She slides the film casually, easily, up against a backlit screen.

"Here."

I stare at it. In my day, I've had polio, pneumonia, cancer, bones rebuilt using plastic, reversible osteoporosis. This is the first time I've ever seen MRIs of my brain.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Those white patches." She points, showing me, damning me. "Those are typical lesions for someone with multiple sclerosis."

Seven discrete patches. Each one indicates lost myelin, nerves dying, pain and disability and a long slow march to nowhere.

"So." She mistakes my lack of reaction for calm. "Let's discuss options."

Apparently, I killed the thread.

Sorry.

I was just offline for a few hours.

That's a very powerful piece, deb.

I read that in your LJ Deb, and couldn't find the words.... That's how I respond to very bad news. I freeze. It made it very personal and powerful to me.

Bicycle

"Try again. Remember, if it tips, turn that way."

"Yeah."

A smooth hard push, the release, and then he's on his own.

He's staring so hard at the handle-bars and the front wheel that he doesn't notice he's gone twice around a circle about twelve feet across. But he hasn't fallen over yet, and he is pedalling just enough to keep going.

He finally straightens out, manages to go half-way across the parking lot, turn around, and come back. There is a big smile on his face, and a hint of fear still in his eyes.

"How do I stop?"

Susan, good plan. And I did love that kiss.

Deb, you captured a really painful, terrifying moment. "Long slow march to nowhere" really stung. Glad you're here, by the way!

dcp, I love this. God, I know that look, "staring so hard at the handle-bars."

I don't think I mentioned it, but Teppy, your coffee drabble was brilliant. Ooh! That gives me an idea.

I had technical problems last night, Deb. I suspect a conspiracy.

Heh. dcp, that was a definite memory, of watching my daughter learn to ride a bike. She never really took to it - I think your "how do I stop?" may be a universal moment, or close to it.

Drabble #24, First Time

The smell of sulphur is sharp and kind of sweet—even Carol is too new at this to own a lighter. The cigarette itself is a Marlboro Light, short and all white, and the filter paper sticks to my bottom lip as I cautiously inhale.

I have a mouthful—no, a lungful—of burnt tobacco, but I hold it in, desperate not to cough. I pass the butt back to Carol as I exhale, watching the thin gray trail disappear. Our shoulders touch as we huddle on her back porch in the twilight, wreathed in smoke, absurdly proud of ourselves.