Deb, wow, how cool! Much publish~ma to you!

Susan, I haven't even had the opportunity to read your book, but I'm into it just from your description of Anna.

I need to quit my job, so that I'll have the time and the energy to write, at the same time. Damn my need for housing and food.

Amy, nope, the Arabella's on hold, although Marlene has nearly talked me into doing RWA (in Reno, so, easy) and/or Romantic Times. They concentrate half on mystery these days, apparently.

And yes, Editor Guy (whom Marlene informs me is Very Big Cheese and also a sweetie) may be digging for series paperback rights. That's why I told Jenn to send him FFoSM.

It's also why I think we should pitch Ruth on a multi-book second deal, instead of one book. I don't give a shit about the advance size; if the series sells at all, I see that money eventually anyway. What I want is for Big Cheese Editor to be thinking hmmmm, paperback, and then pick up Publishers Lunch and read "Sold: to Ruth Cavin at St. Martin's Minotaur, books four, five and six of the Murder, Music & Ghosts series, in a nice (my note: "nice" means under $100,000K, because I'm a realist) deal."

First, my own Holiday Hell drabble (I pitched the topic to my small group last week, and they loved it -- one woman's drabble was a song set to "Deck the Halls"):

* * *

First semester my freshman year of college, finals week stretched all the way to December 23. Poor planning on the college's part, which has never been repeated, due to the deluge of complaints from parents angry that their holiday schedules were ruined by their children's education.

There was no time to Christmas-shop, and even if there had been, Uptown Oxford had about 3 stores, one of which was an incense- and nose-ring-selling head shop. Not ideal for Grandma's gift. So, most students headed home empty-handed and had to speed-shop on Christmas Eve.

If they could even leave campus, that is. You see, that final Friday of exam week, the temperature never rose above 0 degrees (Fahrenheit), and not a single car would start. Walking to a 7:15 a.m. exam, I wondered if my tear ducts were actually frozen, because the arctic chill didn't even bring tears to my eyes. No one was sure if we'd actually make it home for Christmas, or if we'd be trapped on campus, celebrating the holidays on an ice floe.

Holiday Hell #2

It seemed like a good idea at the time, my grandmother told me. If Santa brought gifts, he should bring Christmas, too—tree, wreath, lights, and train set up to chug beneath the fat branches of the Fraser fir.

Nothing was ever decorated until after my father and my aunt were sent to bed, when she and my grandfather would wrap as quietly as possible, struggle to get the tree into the stand, and string lights. The record-breaking year they were up till five a.m., with the children awake an hour later.

She was thrilled when they no longer believed.
________

Fingers crossed for you, Deb! And hey, come to RWA! I'll be there. And Susan, too, if we're lucky. (RT does focus as much on mystery as romance these days, so it might actually be the better conference for you, but I'm not going to that one.)

(People, feel free to still post your Holiday Hell drabbles if you haven't already.)

Challenge #36 (the aforementioned Holiday Hell) is now closed.

Challenge #37 is: talismans. Go for it.

Great drabbles, y'all.

I'm still not sure about RWA this year. Cost is a factor, definitely, though if the freelancing goes well in the winter in spring, it should be do-able. But the other issue is I doubt I'll be finished with Anna by then. I might be better off waiting till 2006 so I'll actually have at least one completed ms to pitch.

Without conscious thought her hand went to the object that hung on a cord about her neck. Carved of white bone, the incised whorls and lines between her thumb and fingers were reassuring. The pad of her finger sought the point, tested it. Still sharp, unnecessarily sharp. The stylized fish hook would never actually pierce the lip or the palate of a watery denizen. No food would be procured by its agency, unless by the luck it carried and bestowed on its wearer. The hei matau's power and usefulness was all in its given form, and in the texture beneath her fingertips.

Her hand moves reflexively to the pendant at her throat. The metal warms easily to her body, and she savours the smoothness as she spins it between her fingers. Sometimes she wears it around her neck, sometimes at her ears, or hung around her house -- but stripped of all possessions, she'd still have it inked into her skin, but even before that ritual act, it was burned into her psyche.

She remembers that first ring, given her by her mother and soon lost. She remembers poring through the encyclopedia and history books, rapt.

She remembers, and she spins it.

::notes similarity between Beverly's drabble and hers::

::laughs::

Memento Mori

I wasn't shopping, but there it was, sitting on black felt: a man's ring, sterling silver. Mounted was a miniature piano key, white with a perfect tiny black key.

I rubbed it. The key was old ivory, made from a real piano key. Of course I bought it, put aside for the right moment.

Shortly afterward, we were over.

I only saw him once after that, at a show he was playing. I don't remember what we said, but I gave him the ring, and left, again. That was twice I left.

He's dead now. I wonder if the ring survives, somewhere?