A drabble:

Scar

I don’t remember my worst fall. Though I carry its scar for all to see, I still forget it’s there, and few people notice unless I point it out.

But once you happen to look, you can’t miss where the stitches were, so very close to my left eye. It happened when I was two, and newly in a bed instead of a crib. I rolled out in the night, struck my head against a baseboard heater.

Most days I take my eyes for granted, in all their beauty and functionality. But sometimes I see my scar and shiver.

And another one:

Fracture

I didn’t see her fall, but I can picture what it took to snap her forearm to that horrible, unnatural angle. The loss of balance. The desperate flailing. Landing hard, all weight on one rigid outstretched arm.

You cannot skate without falling. If you embrace the fall, roll with it, let your body slide over the ice, it rarely breaks you. Bruises you, sure. But the real damage, the kind that puts you in the ER, doesn’t come from falling. You break when you fight the fall. I don’t tell her that—it’d tempt fate. But I believe it all the same.

Good point, Victor. Although I usually don't think about it that way.

Well, it's the thesis of the book I'm writing ...

Susan, I especially like that second one. It covers all points, and very crisply, too.

I like them both Susan. But I don't understand this line:

I don’t tell her that—it’d tempt fate.

Deb, received. Thanks! Looking forward to reading.

Strangely, the fanfic thing for me is completely different. I write very little of it, and rarely share it, but it's totally pressure-free writing since I know it won't be published. I can play with someone else's characters and twist the familiar stories (or fit new ones between the cracks) and it's like a leisurely dip in a warm pool rather than rigorous, focused laps.

I have been made speechless by how many really fabulous fanfic writers there are in the Jossverse, and I always wonder if they're writing original stuff, too. Connie, I don't think (not sure, though) if I've read any of yours. Now I want to.

If you set out to be a "great" writer, you will accomplish absolutely nothing. It's a ridiculous bar, and it will prove nothing but counterproductive.

"Greatness" is for other people to decide and frankly, it's for you to ignore. Because looking to be great is sinmply seeking validation from others, and that will prove detrimental to both yourself and your writing.

Anne Lamott says something like this in Bird by Bird:

"I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is. Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. The act of writing turns out to be its own reward."

"The problem that comes up over and over again is that these people want to be published. They kind of want to write, but they really want to be published."

NB: I'm not AT ALL implying that Susan feels this way; Victor's comments just reminded me of this.

I don’t tell her that—it’d tempt fate.

What I meant is that I wouldn't dare lecture someone on what they should've done to avoid getting injured, because I'd be asking the universe to break my arm the next time I set foot on the ice. But maybe I could've come up with a better way of saying it.

And victor, I think you're right. But OTOH, I don't feel like being competitive is a bad thing in all cases, even as a writer. And I'm stuck with it to some degree--it's possibly the most hard-wired thing in my personality. I just need to figure out how to manage it properly.

Annie has moments of being right. Yep, she does.

edit:

But maybe I could've come up with a better way of saying it.

FWIW, I knew straight off what you meant. Warn her, and the eye swings toward the warner.

And one last drabble. I'm not sure I like this one or not--my brain has been full of images for this scene ever since a drive through really dark countryside under an almost-full moon earlier this week, and I'm afraid I'm trying to say too many things at once.

Fallen

The black dress must come off, and it does. If a few buttons break loose in the process, what of it? Having decided to be wanton and wicked, she’s not about to wear mourning for Sebastian while she falls.

Even in July the nights are cool, and she quivers when the breeze caresses her bare arms and neck. She delights in how the moonlight bathes her pale skin and snow-white petticoat. The night is beautiful, and she belongs to it. And never before has anyone looked at her the way Jack does now, all hunger and half-heartbroken longing.

She’s ready.