... bitterchick, if I pout and throw things, or, alternately, look really really cute, is there any chance I might be able to see it?

RL, insent.

Deena is a goddess and John is freaking BRILLIANT.

Way cool. Thank you. I wouldn't mind being a brilliant goddess, but, you know, that probably takes time and growth and I'm really supposed to be napping now. I'm grinning. I'm so glad I got to help. Do I get to read it after you've made changes? And/or, will you let us know how you do?

Deena, insent.

And yes. I will let you know if I hear anything. Truth be told, I won't be able to shut up about it.

was there a massive and incorrect assumption that all soldiers are male in there somewhere too?

If they're infantry, that's the way to bet. There are laws on the books that you don't send women into front-line battle. They can fly fighter jets, man guns in the Navy, but not invade on the ground.

Okay, folks. My submission is now winging its way to the Sautter people. Well, no. It's actually in a postal truck driving to Van Nuys.

Thanks to all for the mucho support.

Okay, posting this from my new songwriting sessions before I don't feel this way anymore. Not that it's actually a song. But still.

---

Expression. Lack of passion. Envision
a future divergent. A past recurrent.
Like exercised freedom. A brand new run.
Dominant vision. Erosion of friction.

          There is future. New is possible.
          Regret leaves creation for potential revision.
          There is eternity. Now is impending.
          History leaves opportunity for anticipation.

Liberty. Existence of gravity. Impact
of future enlivened. A glance of parity.
Like embodied victory. An opportunity.
Claustrophobic heresy. A party of alacrity.

          There is tomorrow. Next is possible.
          Regret leaves open potential recursion.
          There is recovery. Soon is forever.
          History leaves opportunity for collusion.

Exacting. Fiction redacting. Reacting
to future enacting. A chance of refracting.
Like envious retracting. A brand new thing.
Redundant extracting. Evicting the fracturing.

          There is promise. Now is possible.

Erm...so I'm really self-conscious about this, but still wanted to show it. I don't know what it is exactly, a poem, I guess. I wrote it after watching Bush give his speech last night.

Don't Ask - Don't Tell

We sing your songs, say your prayers
We tuck you in and you snuggle down tight
We kiss and hug you and bid you goodnight
We come back for "just one more" as many times as you ask, but...
We're hurrying to watch him tell us all the things that
We don't tell you.

You are sweetly sleepy, but not yet ready
You are awash in the soft blue light given off by your globe
You chose Ireland tonight and we'll leave on its light 'til you fall asleep
You talk, giggle, think you're being quiet, but...
You don't understand why we shush you so much on this night, still
You don't ask us.

Of course you don't!
Why would you, how could you --
Ever imagine...even suspect...ever conceive...even understand...want to know
What's happening to the world that you think you see on your globe?

You are so sheltered. Your world -- smaller than Ireland looks on your globe
You - who laugh in shock when a singer shows her belly button on TV
You - who didn't know 'til this night that some people put salt on peas --
What could you know of the bits of this world that we don't share? When
You don't ask us. We don't tell you.

And of course we don't!
Why would we, how could we --
Ever begin...even introduce...ever explain...even justify 
That in this world mommies and daddies and their babies will die.

Yes! Die. That's what we don't tell you.
That's what you don't ask us.
There are those -- like us...
Like you.

They sing and pray, snuggle when tucked, kiss, hug, giggle, talk, imagine --
They - who don't know Grampy put salt on his apples and cheese on apple pie
They - who don't know he snuck you candy when he thought I wasn't looking
They will die. But not like he did.

Oh you asked about that.
And we told you
about
Holding his hand, kissing him, giving him medicine to take away the pain
-- putting your picture by his bed so he'd know
the angels
when he saw them
when they came for him
And he wouldn't have to ask them, and they wouldn't have to tell him

These ones you don't ask us about - about whom we don't tell you
They don't have us holding their hands
They don't know what you look like.
How will they know the angels?
You should have prayed for them, so that they'd know their angels!
But
How could you?
When
You don't ask us. And
we don't tell you.

Magazine submission question:

So I've got my little 900-word personal experience column that a magazine might be interested in, but it's basically on spec. I've polished it carefully so that it sings, and it's right at 903 words. The editor told me it was fine to email it as a word attachment. My question is about formatting. Only one of my freelancing guides even shows a submission format template, and I'm not sure it applies to an emailed submission. She says double-space it, which I did, and put a header at the top left with your name, address, phone, and SSN, which I also did. Then, centered, the title and "by Susan W------."

So far so good. But she also says to put "MORE" centered at the bottom of every page but the last page, and "END" on the last page. (It's 3 pages.) The second and third pages should have a header that says "W------/Bookworm/Page #".

Does all that apply for an emailed document? Because Word isn't cooperating with the letting me change the headers and footers the way I need, and it seems wrong to interrupt the TEXT with all that MORE and page numbering stuff. I'm freaking out over this because I want the format at least to be perfect and professional, so the editor won't guess just how new I am.

I decided I wanted to go ahead and get the submission in while the editor I've been corresponding with is still likely to recognize my name, so I went with what seemed like a commonsense approach, but I'd still be glad to hear what, if anything, is the Official Right Way, if anyone knows.

(And no, I don't do run-onalicious sentences like that in my official writing. At least, not once I'm past the rough drafts.)