Heh. Kristin, received and backsent.

For those who read "Matty Groves" in beta, you will be pleased at the events referenced on page one of chapter one of "Cruel Sister".

A slightly different meaning of "first impression." Painful, to me, anyway.

Someone Else's Bed

In the darkness, moonrise tickling the edges of this room with pearl, I try to sort out my thoughts, feelings, senses.

You're sleeping, smiling into the night. We've just made love for the first time, my instigation, a demand really. The universe seems to be our sanctuary.

You aren't mine, you probably never will be; I know this. Yet I turn my head on the pillow and think, tonight this place is mine, this man, this bed.

All lies. This is Dolly's bed. That tonight I've left the impression of my body in it for the first time, gives me nothing.

The first thing I think is "annoying". Too perky. Her classroom is probably filled with apple paraphernalia. I resent the way she bubbles into my space and wins my mother’s heart immediately with her cheerful greeting and insistence on giving me her number, printed perfectly on “Teaching Touches Lives” notepaper.

“I’m really looking forward to working with you!” she chirps on her way back out into locker-filled hallways. I make a note to avoid her at faculty meetings.

How could I have known, seven years later, that the saddest day of my career would be learning she wasn’t coming back?

Deb, insent, but no rush at all.

Right now I'm working on the Lucy rewrite out of sheer stubborness and desire to have it done so I can get back to Anna with a clear conscience. I really don't care if it sucks, because I'm 99% certain the editor who has the partial won't request the full, and I'm OK with that. (For now. If she sends me a form or otherwise harsh rejection, I can't promise to remain OK.) I just want it done.

Will crosspost to Bitches.

OK, just back from the afternoon literary festival, and it basically turned into the Ayelet Waldman/Deborah Grabien Comedy Hour. DAMN, we had fun. I have been raffled off to something called the South Bay Writers Club, for an evening of conversation.

I am chuffed as all hell, because Ayelet - former federal public defender, not a shy bone in her body - asked if I was planning on making any of my ginger cake any time soon. Sure, I said, do you want some? Yes please - last year, we waited until the kids were asleep and opened the package and then Michael took a sniff and pushed me out of the way and locked himself in the bathroom with it. So, maybe two....?

Me. So, you're saying my ginger cake brings Michael Chabon to the yard?

Mrs. Chabon: Screw that, I'm saying it brings ME to the yard.

A very nice afternoon.

Wow, Deb. Sounds like you had one helluva weekend.

Ha, ha...Michael Chabon wants Deb's goodies. (Munchly smirk) If you didn't know his wife, you could brag about being eaten by Chabon. (When GWW gets Bitchy, film at 11.)

Kristin, if you ever get the chance to hear Ayelet lecture or read, run don't walk. She is insanely funny, sharp as one of Sweeny Todd's razors, and you will be able to look her in the eye. Five feet tall exactly.

The panel segment was a blast. Julie Orringer and I got to trade really bad poetry back and forth, and had the fifty or so people at the event howling.

But I have a request for ginger cake, and knowing that Mister Pulitzer - I'm still waiting for the day I slip and call him that, hopefully not to his face - wants it specifically? I am sooooooo gonna be baking.

I've got Save Firefly ready for beta, if anyone can stomach it. It's heftier coming in at over 5000 words, I usually only send out shorter stuff.

Squeezing a set of drabbles in under the wire. I've been battling writer's block all weekend, so if y'all see anything at all worthwhile in any of these, can you tell me so and stroke my pathetic beaten-down excuse for an ego?

The Two Men Anna Marries, and the One She Kills

Sebastian Arrington, May 1809

She’s unused to serious men. Her brother and her cousins are wits, and while she has no trouble at all keeping up, conversation with them is a performance, and sometimes it grows wearing. And the men who pursue her in London are nothing but a pack of silly fops.

This one is different. She likes his grave demeanor, his slow, deliberate speech, so precise and grammatical. And she likes the way he’s still serious even when he smiles at her. She wonders if anything ever ruffles his gravity, his formality. Maybe he’s what she has been looking for all along.

Jack Wilcox, June 1811

She’s never seen eyes quite that color before, such a clear amber brown. Warm eyes, though she senses they can turn keen and predatory in an instant, to match the lean, soldierly, self-assured masculinity of the rest of him.

She’ll probably never see him again, and for some reason she regrets this. She wishes they could be friends. He looks like a man who could appreciate a joke, and it’s been too long since she’s had a good laugh. These days she’d give anything for a nice honest friendship with someone intelligent but uncomplicated. If only she didn’t have so much to hide.

George Tracy, July 1811

“Mr. Tracy dines with us tonight, Mrs. Arrington. He’s a gentleman volunteer, here in hopes of gaining a commission soon.”

She glances at him and sees a pale young man, no older than she, dressed as an ordinary rifleman. He’s anxious and self-important, and colorless and uninteresting to boot. If he was at all likeable she’d pity him, because she can’t imagine him winning his commission. He simply lacks the panache to make up for the fortune he was born without. She pays him the usual civilities, but inwardly she dismisses him.