Amy, congrats!

Allyson, backsent.

(All the rest is threadsucked for later reading. This is the one thread in which I don't even skim)

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?

Not as close as I'd like to be. I'm about 60% through the ms, but since most of it's new scenes rather than editing from here out, the 40% that's left is not trivial.

That said, I've got my speech prepared for if the editor asks me for it on Jan. 2 and I'm not ready--I can say, truthfully enough, that during the week I'd set aside for a major editing push (Thanksgiving week), I had a sick child, and it slowed me down.

The most diehard A Year On The Killing Streets fans might recognize that police moment as a homage to Jay Landsman asking a rookie at a scene if they had found the pogo stick yet.(Little old lady falls out window and um, breaks in half.)

Challenge #35: The End

I grew up believing that death was a pop quiz. If I didn’t prepare every day, I would fail.

“Mommy’s in the hospital. The doctors can take of her better there.”

“Dr. Spiro wants Mom admitted, honey, but it’s just for a few days.”

“It’s Dad. Mom’s on the fourth floor this time. Pick up your brother and I’ll get a pizza on the way home.”

It’s not cancer, none of the headline-making scary diseases everyone recognizes. It doesn’t matter what it is. All I’ve ever known is that life is finite, and any day my mother’s might be over.

The Sound of One Heart, Breaking

It wasn't death.

I can only remember a few words, what I said, nothing of what you said. This is a black hole, crushing soul and heart and mind, poisoning the memory well.

What did I say? Too strong for you - need me too much - you've never let go of D - I'm bad for you...

What did you say? I can't remember.

I remember small sharp bitter edges and corners; a taxi, our friend John finding me in San Francisco, asking, where the hell is N? After that, blankness for a year.

It wasn't death. Death would have been easier.

On a slightly different note:

Five months, nine days. That's how long it's been.

The moment, the beginning, is there in your journal. "Today was genesis, day one..." A raft of comments from friends, family, associates. Huzzah and best, go for it, a whole new beginning, yay you.

Five months, nine days. If you want to be really anal-retentive, you could add "four hours, seventeen minutes" to the list.

Now you stare at it, close to panic. The last comment is made, it's over, time to go.

Your hands are clenched. You breathe deeply, relax those balled fists, and type: "The End."

The book's done.

Thanks so much for the beta help. The piece had a lot of rough edges and I hadn't realized how much unprocessed rage was seeping through the cracks. The comments really helped me pull back on some arrogance and sand down some of the shrapnel.

Allyson, you betcha.

Susan's is up next, but I'm not holding out much hope that our DSL is going to stay up better than sporadically once this damned storm settles in. Experience leads me to believe that the first big wind gust and rattle of rain, and whammo! away goes the DSL.

Chapter 12 is still a few days from completion, so no rush at all.

I was pleasantly surprised at writers group tonight to discover that my writing from this weekend, which I so thoroughly believed sucked? Didn't really. It wasn't my best work ever, but I caught all the glaring problems on the first pass, and the group thought it was a strong scene that just needed some minor tweaks here and there. Makes me feel a lot better about myself.

Drabble time.....

Dawn Flight

She’s only ridden astride once before, when she was thirteen. She was punished for it then, and her cousins for abetting her.

Cousin Richard is here this time, too. This whole mad gallop was his idea.

“Won’t it look suspicious for me to disappear?” she’d asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait till next time there’s a column or a convoy going to the rear?”

“Anna, I know you too well. If you’re not gone today, you’ll confess all to the man’s colonel by nightfall.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t be a fool. Beckwith wouldn’t thank you for it—he doesn’t want the scandal any more than we do.”

She concentrates on staying on the horse. It isn’t easy, and she’s glad of it. Otherwise she might have to wonder if she’s a murderer or not. And best not to think about Jack. If she’d known the night before last she’d never see him again….no. Best not to think.