Deb, you're not hogging. I love your drabbles. I'm not getting anything for this one, other than falling in love, and that was more of a sharp smack in the forehead for me. And I've got all fingers crossed for you this year -- I'm about three chapters away from done with Weaver, which rocks so very hard. I looove Penny and Ringan, and Penny and Ringan together, and all of it. The way you describe their encounters with Will and Betsy give me goosebumps.

Kristin, that sounds wonderful! I have a blog on blogspot which I just started updating again, and I will gladly link to your site when it's ready, not that I imagine too many people will be reading my blog. But I do have books coming out in March and May and next January, so hopefully some of those readers will check in. (And they told two friends, and they told two friends...)

I'll let y'all know when mine is up, but I think I'm going to see how well I can sustain it before I make much of an effort to spread the word. I'm afraid that life will, once again, get in the way, and it will turn into one of the thousands of orphan websites that no one has swept or dusted for years.

AtlanticRock.com, "your one-stop information site for all things African in America," is republishing an old essay of mine, "Once Again, Poetry Is Dead?: It must be true, because Newsweek said it."

[link]

Odd when total strangers take interest in things I wrote ages ago. But hey, I'm honored just to be here, y'know?

one of the thousands of orphan websites that no one has swept or dusted for years

That's what mine looks like now -- the website, not the blog. I kept thinking it would be easier than it is to put one together, and, uh, not so much, it turns out. I'm hoping my thirteen-year-old will pick up Dreamweaver faster than I am.

You all RAWK.

Web design is one of the things I do to make a living, but my business website is like the shoemaker's children. I would never let a client's website get so out of date.

woot! Go, Victor!

Kristin is reading two of my early short stories. One was written when Jo was a newborn, the other in 1988 or thereabouts.

woot! Go, Victor!

Thanks. Strange being asked for something by a predominatly Afro-centric Web site, but then, I always marvel at where these things end up.

I suppose it would have been possible to lean back, to breathe, to look around the room. But what would have been the point? What possible reward could be gained from breaking contact with those sharp black eyes, what if I missed a flash of the bright teeth set in dark gums, or if that lock of hair dropped into his face again without me to witness it?

His hands are articulate, and I try not to touch them, but suddenly we're somewhere else, and I'm reaching out for him, holding, grabbing, trying not to fall away in the dark.

The floor was a long way away, which made me giggle.

It wasn’t the first time I’d smoked pot, but it was the first time it had had any effect. I didn’t think it had this time either, until I was home, in bed, and looked over the edge of the mattress.

I tried to stifle the giggle, since mom and dad were in the room directly below mine. I suppose they might not have heard it, if it hadn’t been for me falling out of bed, still giggling.