Thanks, Susan. Connie, I've only read pieces and parts... the closest I've gotten to SF in eons is "Gun, With Occasional Music" which is a hard-boiled mystery with genetically altered animals.

Damn, erika. Just - damn.

Betsy, I've never been able to get into Le Guin myself, partly because there are very few things in the genre that echo in me, and partly for the reasons cited in that particular rejection slip.

The difference is, had I been the editor, I would have bought and published LHoD in a heartbeat. She must have been out of her mind - it's extremely saleable.

The point of that one, to me, is that devastating rejection note does NOT mean either bad book or unsaleable book. Just means "not my taste, dear."

Yes, exactly. That was my point, too.

But what was trying to emphasise was that some editors can't see something that will make them rich right in front of their noses. Individual taste needs to share quality time with an understanding of what's likely to sell.

Sucks if you aren't a commercial writer, though. As I know...

I'm done! I'm done! I sent off the file to my editor and am now eating leftover pizza! Relief is sweet. I'll be emailing the whole file to those that asked for it shortly.

He simply lacks the panache to make up for the fortune he was born without.

Susan, I especially liked this line. And when you're feeling like nothing's coming, have you ever tried writing something else completely? Just as an exercise, not the same characters or story, just a memory piece or a short poem or anything that's not what's sticking you. Sometimes I can get unstuck that way.

Ooh, nice new drabble topic.

This is more the end to expect from me, even if it's not a drabble anymore.

This may sound shallow, but my first thought on coming upon Jessica’s body in the shower room was how much different that scene usually felt. She was really dead, not just an actress smeared with stage blood waiting for some brilliant TV detective to try his skills. Then, I felt guilty. I had made up a “family emergency” and gone home for the weekend. Being a patient had become wearing on me. I looked and saw that blood was soaked into her hair, and that her beautiful face? Wasn’t so beautiful anymore.

”Oh, crap,” a uniform I couldn’t identify, said. “We’ve got another one back there. Looks like she fought like hell, too.” It was April, so called flake, possible ex-felon attendant. Whatever Jessica had thought of her, in the end she had tried to save her life.

“Well,” a familiar voice said, “That blows my suicide theory all to hell then.” Petrosky and his sense of humor.

“Suicide?” the uniform, still wet behind the ears and academy serious said, “How do you figure?"

“Banging her head against a wall. Every year 24 Americans beat their own brains out. Don’t you know anything?”

“I guess not, sir.”

“Don’t listen to him, “ I said, “He’s just yanking your chain.”

I was a horrible person for even thinking about that. I should be...praying or something. But that made me think of meeting Jessica in the chapel, of being so sure I could right her wrongs...where had we gone wrong with this case?

“What are you even doing here, Allyson?"

“Recuperating. I fell a few weeks back, did a job on the tendons in my knee.”

“Uh huh.” He wasn’t even trying to believe me.

“OK, so Tommy wanted me to get inside this shithole...I’m an operative. If you read my chart, more of a post-operative, but... Have you found anything?”

“I can’t tell you that...”

“You know you can trust me.”

“Ma’am, you have to stand, uh, whatever, behind the tape.” He gave his team a hand signal and he walked out with me. “You know on...a personal level that I am discreet.”

“You’d have something to lose, too, if that got around.”

”Not as much as you.”I don’t have a wife.
“Ok...well, it’s your basic rage-filled blunt force trauma...we haven’t found the blunt instrument yet...it left some kind of pattern on her skin.”

“Let me see the pattern, please. This place is boring...I know it backwards and forwards.

He sighed. “I’ll try and get you some photos. But don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“You did. Twice.”

“Ok, wiseass...forget the photos. You’re going to have to make do with my pencil sketch.”
I’d been bluffing Brian earlier, but the pattern did look familiar...I’d usually seen it in kind of a wet track.”Wet,” made me think of all I’d witnessed, and I choked back my emotions. Suddenly, a light came on. “Where are her crutches?”

“What?”

”She was getting better,” I said, “back on crutches. But she couldn’t get far without them.”

“You’re not saying...”

“Yes. I think a crutch was the weapon.”

Susan, I especially liked this line. And when you're feeling like nothing's coming, have you ever tried writing something else completely? Just as an exercise, not the same characters or story, just a memory piece or a short poem or anything that's not what's sticking you. Sometimes I can get unstuck that way.

I should try that more often. Part of my problem now is I've reached the burnout point on the Lucy edit, but I'm forcing my way through anyway. I mentioned over on Bitches that I'm half-praying for a rejection letter from that editor I met at conference so I can give myself a break on it. I'd probably finish anyway, if for no other reason to establish all the parts that are backstory for Anna firmly in my mind, but then it wouldn't matter if A) it took me to Jan. 15 and B) the whole thing sucked.

Maybe you just need a short break from the Regency period, Susan.

Maybe you just need a short break from the Regency period, Susan.

I don't think that's it, mostly because for now Regencies are What I Write. I mean, I guess I could drabble a bit with that time travel baseball story that's been percolating in my brain for awhile, but before I can actually write it I have a ton of homework to do.

Susan, do what feels right. If you want a break, just jot down the parts of backstory you need for Anna. Or if it will nag you till it's done, finish it, but don't worry if you don't meet your 12/31 deadline. You're pretty close already, aren't you?

Deb, Bev, and Ginger, insent.