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.)

Unfortunately, the only journalism-for-pay assignments I've had were for an editor who liked me real well and was in a pinch to get material that month, so when I sent him stuff it was in regular fiction story submission form (Courier, standard margins, regular header format, word count and contact info on the first page) which he didn't have a problem with. Thinking back to my college newspaper writing, I can't remember much about the formatting we used, but then that was a student-run paper....

THIS is not a memememe post -- this is writing that I'd like to be evaluated for the writing, not just the content. It's probably going to end up at my writing class; I may read it for our public reading, when we have guests.

That said, keep in mind this is a first draft.

*****

Pain

It consumes me, devours me whole. It's become the primary focus of my every waking moment, an overlay obscuring everything else in my life, my mind, my body. Above everything I do, my overriding awareness is of pain. First, last, and always.

This is actual physical pain, mind you, not emotional or psychic pain. Not angst, not a broken heart, not war-induced terror. Physical pain, which started as searing sharp pain in my lower back, and has metamorphosed into unrelenting burning pulling aching pain down the entire length of my left leg, from my hip to my toes. The sole of my left foot is partially numb, a sensation which ranges from pins-and-needles to a cold dead feeling.

And the pain is constant. It's always there. No drugs, no position - sitting, standing, or lying down - alleviates it. I've been able to subdue it some days, but never to eliminate it. Even when I'm lying perfectly still, in the most comfortable position I've found (flat on my stomach, leg extended fully), the pain is still there.

It's almost an entity that has possessed my body, a demon that has taken up residence and refuses to leave. My losing battles with it leave me exhausted and emotionally ravaged. My personality has changed during the course of this constant aching burning pain. It's always there, it's the foremost thought in my mind, and as such, I find I can't deal very well right now with the demands other people put on me - simple, normal demands, like an innocuous conversation, like a question at work. I only have the energy and strength for this pain, and anything more is too much. So I snap. I snarl. I click my teeth together furiously, like a wounded animal who doesn't know how else to react other than to bite out of fear and hurt and helplessness.

I am not me. This pain has obscured me. I know I'm still in here, and there are occasional moments when I am able to break through the miasma of pain and ache and be me, react normally to a conversation or a smile. But those are very few and incredibly far between.

My body is betraying me. That's what I feel. But then I know, logically, that my body is trying to save itself, to tell me that there is something wrong, something that needs to be fixed right away. I know this. Dear God, I know this. I am doing everything I can, taking every opportunity presented, and it's not enough. I'm willing to have needles jabbed into my spinal column, steroids injected directly into the discs. I'm willing to have surgery, lasers - or maybe knives - cutting out the source of this pain.

I'm willing to do anything. To exorcise this demon that has taken over my life without my consent. To wrest control once again of my life, to be me again and able to fully engage with others without this endless searing pain getting between me and the world.

Steph, do you want deep editing/commentary, or general?

Fire away with anything. Really. Because by virtue of it being a first draft, it may end up a totally different creature. I just have to core-dump my first drafts so that they're out of my head. Then I can stand back and look at them and see where changes need to be made.