So far, the only thing that rubbed me was the L&O reference. You can't assume your readers watch the show - besides, it isn't needed in there.

That line about reading her husband's mind and not finding herself there just about broke me in half. Damn it.

Thanks.

I love the opening imagery in the piece, erika. I didn't mind the Law & Order reference -- I never watch the show, but it made sense in context. The "flicking mashed potatoes," though, did bother me a bit. I can see seriously angry adults throwing lamps, pots of coffee, paperback novels, houseplants or dirty diapers, but food fights to me are kidn of a frat boy, juvenile thing. Which may be what you want.

Well, I want them to be having a dumb argument and doing something physically stupid, but maybe that isn't the right kind of stupid.

I think what it is for me is, I can't imagine throwing mashed potatoes without laughing. And I can't laugh and fight at the same time. You could establish that her parents were deadly serious about it, but that would take a longer flashback for me.

Physically stupid, hmmm. I'll have to think on that.

A lot of times, the first image isn't quite right... Maybe somebody can lock themselves in the bathroom or throw dishes.

Punching walls is pretty stupid (voice of experience). But it's much more strongly destructive, and the violence isn't directed at the other person physically. So, not sure if that's the sort of thing you're after.

I remember Nic slowly losing his temper with his insane ex Annie, as she picked and picked and picked, and watching him suddenly turn and slam a half-formed patty of ground beef into the wall. Not at her, or near her; it was pure frustration.

Trust me, it was not remotely comical.

For new challenge:

Glastonbury

My first sense of this place is its size: it feels simply enormous.

I expected that, of course; from the outside, the Abbey Barn is imposing. But the soaring heights of the ceiling, the terrifying solidity of the oak-crucked supports, the endless sense that something is moving just beyond the edges of waking vision, leave me wanting to stand very still, so as not to disturn what might wait in those blurred corners.

Glastonbury Abbey is haunted ground. I wonder if this place is haunted, as well, and so a book is seeded, and left fallow, to grow over time.

Another...

Erica Road

I'm helped out of the van and, enraged, I propel the wheelchair up the steep path to the side door, through an evening fragrant with night-blooming plants and eucalyptus. It's an assault on the senses: stars pock the great overhead and spill down onto my broken legs.

I peer through the sliding doors into a filthy kitchen. He's curled up, drunk. Inside, where I'm going, are his wife and her lover and the lover's dog. They're about to feel my wrath.

It's my first time here, my first sight of this house from hell, and I never want to leave.

I messed around with that section I asked everyone about earlier ( KristinT "The Great Write Way" Nov 28, 2004 5:14:29 pm PST ). Here's where I ended up:

Just days before they graduated, I asked them to write a letter to themselves that I would never see. They could write about anything: how it felt to be graduating, what they wanted in their futures, where they thought they’d be in a few years. They could have friends write them notes, include pictures, or even fold a couple of bucks into the envelope. I gave them suggestions, but what they chose to include, or not to include, was their secret.

Even my most reluctant students became uncharacteristically excited when they turned in their envelopes, usually decorated with stickers or puffy pink lettering or ominous warnings of “From your past! Beware!” scribbled on the back. They wondered out loud where they would be when it arrived. They asked to hear again about the student who returned to tell me he’d received his letter in the Persian Gulf where he was serving in the military, and they joked that they were in big trouble if their parents opened their letter by mistake. The day they handed in their letters was always festive.

The last step was for them to jot a year on the back of the envelope—any within the next five—seal it, and give the letter to me to be stored in a special desk drawer, unopened, until that New Year’s Eve. I loved the connection I felt to my former students as I flipped through the envelopes each January. I loved the unexpected memories provoked by their handwriting, and I loved imagining the kind of adults those 18-year-olds had become.

Opening the drawer today was different.

I added a little context that I felt I needed, cut a bunch out, and reorganized for clarity. What do you think? Did it work?

Also, on the second question ( KristinT "The Great Write Way" Nov 28, 2004 5:32:26 pm PST ), I decided on this:

There were as many possibilities for the blankness as there were paths he could have taken.

Someday, I will actually finish this damn thing.