DAMN, that's vivid.

This:

It echoes in here, and smells like sawdust and fireworks.

is brief, and sharp, and smacks it home, and is viscerally perfect. Sounds and smells and there the whole thing just is.

t envies Allyson

Got it, deb, and backsent.

I'm writing about the campaign to save Firefly now, and it's so hard. There's too much story. It's difficult to simplify. Trying to put it in some kind of order...there's so much exposition involved. Explaining who Joss is, who Kristen is, who Tim is, why we were able to make calls to Mutant Enemy and get whatever we needed for the campaign, no questions asked.

I'm getting dizzy just trying to outline it. It seems like it should be simpler:

Didn't care.

Cared.

Tried to save show.

Failed.

Got set tour.

And yet? So much 'splainin to do. Can't the reader just know the boring details? Aren't the details boring? Can't the details just put on little red dresses and dance about the page while I whistle a happy tune?

Allyson, have you considered splitting it into different sections? People, a quickie with punch. The show itself. The mechanics.

I mean, there's no one holding a gun to your head, demanding a specific format - and this one seems to me as if it deserves you give it a prairie to thunder across.

I really liked that one, deb. I was thinking about doing a stage one, but I couldn't work it out without being pretentious.

Allyson, very nice work. I can feel it. After reading it, I think I was there. I particularly like your Sally Ride bit, it makes it feel so real and just...present.

And it depends on how boring your boring details are. Can the reader pick up from context things like who Tim is? You shouldn't have to completely explain yourself and where you are.

(I hope this isn't too far off protocol. I was on the road during the last challenge, so I didn't get it in then. I still wanna post it, so...this is for 'under the bed')

---

dog ears

Douglas Adams is not dead. He is bantering with Neil Gaiman. He still loves me and has adventures waiting in some galaxy just left of reality.

William Gibson is pondering fame and fandom, and comparing notes with Irvine Welsh. They conclude that they believe in the visceral.

Madeleine L’engle is debating philosophy and Greek architecture with Aristophanes. Aristophanes is winning, but one gets the distinct impression he is being humored.

And Dostoyevsky is sitting, crankily, in the corner, and refuses to talk to anyone.

Men and demons lie under my bed, waiting with silvered tongues to woo me into slumber.

I'm hoping that little paperclip cartoon in MS Word that pops up to ask if I'd like help writing a letter will just write the details for me. I mean, if it's going to be a presumptuous little fucker, it should have the skillz to back its smarmy little grin, shouldn't it?

I'm pulling a Minear and starting at the end. The glorious thing about paragraphs is that you can cut and paste them in chronological order if it all goes awry.

Yeah, cut and paste a very handy thing.

Liese, that's gorgeous.

winslow

On the commute home, I realized I could just go to the bookstore. I didn't have anybody waiting at home. No obligations. I could make my own plans.

When I had cried at the train station, this wasn't what I imagined. Married at eighteen meant I went straight from the folks' house to the dorm to our apartment. I'd never lived independently, and it seemed terrifying.

Instead, it was liberating. I didn't love him any less, and when he came home, I wouldn't be any less glad. But I would be more confident, less reliant, stronger.

I took the next exit.