Erika, I went to school with moneyed people. Some of it old money like Betsy is describing, but some of it quite new and gauche.
The key thing that shows money, in my mind, is the pursuit of high-quality (or high-name) items without an inverse devaluation of something else in the budget. (Among young people who have money, it's the pursuit of high-quality/name without any understanding that most people buy their socks at Target.)
A not-rich woman might have an excellent suit and cheap shoes. Although not all rich people invest in both shoes and suit, they're more likely to, and more likely to match the quality of one to the other, rather than splurge on the one and scrimp on the other.
Right. An old-money woman may be wearing thirty-year-old shoes, but they'll be hand-made. Stuff may be incredibly scruffy, but it started out its life expensive.
Terry Pratchett has something on this re: Captain Vimes marrying the richest woman in the city. Vimes is thinking that the rich are the only ones who can afford to be poor. The rich buy their shoes every five years or so because they can afford to buy stuff that will last, while the poor can only afford crap.
Deb, is the CS section different than what you sent out earlier? If so, I'd be happy to look at it as well.
erika, that was gorgeous. I love the way you write.
Thanks for the praise, Joe and Deb!
It's not the pain, it's the shame.
Pain alone is...not okay, but bearable. Pain in public is weakness, shame, incapability witnessed. They may not be looking, but they know, and no one should ever know.
She sucks in air again, clutching her knees to her chest, despite the darting pains. Shame makes crying, crying makes shame.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," says the hopeless and cruel part of her brain.
No. Her eyes are aflame and she has two choices - she can douse it with tears, or she can damp it with calm.
So she breathes again.
Anne, I thought of that Pratchett bit too.
This is basically unedited, unworkshopped, and scribbled while I watched the sunset this evening.
Breath
And then the sun slips down
below the cloak of grey the sky
has worn this day.
There's wonder in this gilded world
of promise, and the hope
gone missing, recent days.
This golden city, set in shining hills,
is mere illusion; in a single
exhalation the sun is gone
the world consigned to dullness
and the grey of everyday, dusk
and quickly, dark.
We huddle close to ground
for meagre warmth, the memory
of sun, and hope for dawn.
