Do it to it, Susan. You know you want to.

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Nilly, that's a sensational name. Loves it, I do.

And on the new topic? Oh, there are going to be a lot of drabbles coming from me on this one, methinks.

January, New York City, 1968

Whole lotta blizzard going on.

I'm fourteen, and I have a date with a cutie named Jay. I could see his penthouse from the steps of the Metropolitan Museum, if we weren't in the middle of a damned whiteout.

I'm in miniskirt, antique fur. Head down, I charge up the stairs, and slam into someone coming out. I go flying, stockings ruined.

He's very pretty, blonde, English, apologetic. Takes me to Bloomingdale's in a cab, buys me new stockings, takes me back to the museum to keep my date. As he's leaving, he introduces himself. "I'm Brian - Brian Jones."

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Susan, make the edits, mail the things, and move along. They're tiny things.

Speaking of which, have big old post office run to do myself, including ten copies of my precious authors' copies of FFoSM to my agent, as promised.

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OK. Entries will be mailed today unless I end up having to spend all my day at King Co. Public Health getting Annabel a flu shot--I'm still trying to get through to our pediatrician to get their advice.

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I'm almost ready for Beta reading of Save Firefly, which needs a sexier title but I won't deal with that til it's really most sincerely dead.

Have you considered (or otherwise used) "You Can't Take the Sky From Me"?

I missed this earlier, Cindy. I'm not dissing the ego; it just pays to remember that as a defense mechanism, designed to help keep us from breaking apart under too much criticism or what we perceive as criticism, the ego is not generally going to be your friend in terms of opening up. It's just doing its job.

I understand that. Reading what you wrote, the way you put it, it was like a break-through for me. I really appreciate it.

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The Famous Flower of Serving Men just arrived. The cover is indeed gorgeous, Deb.

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Second in a chronological series of drabbles for fateful encounters. I did warn you, there would likely be several.

Bethel, New York: 15 August 1969

It's lucky I'm not claustrophobic, because it feels as though half the population of America is here. I've come up in a helicopter, hitching a ride with my sister the rock journalist. I've got a badge, entitling me to go backstage. This is going to be fun.

Even backstage, it's tricky finding a quiet corner. Eventually, I do, and find myself being regarded by a small slender man with enormous brown eyes. He's staring at me. Recognition of fate, need, love, coming home?

"Hi." English, soft-voiced. "I'm N."

Something in my stomach turns over. I think perhaps it's my soul.

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The Famous Flower of Serving Men just arrived.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Doing the happy dance.

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The Famous Flower of Serving Men just arrived. The cover is indeed gorgeous, Deb.

Hmph. Just checked Amazon to see if mine had shipped, and it's still listed as "not yet released."

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Nothing wrong with that, Deb. Except possibly making my encounters look less than fateful. Huh. I know I can come up with something.

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