My favorite redneck joke:
"What are a redneck's last words?"
"Y'all watch this..."

Ok, I've just got an idea and maybe this is the best place to air it out. I'm applying for a job with a non-profit, and they want a writing sample. Everything recent I've got is fiction and not appropriate, so I started combing through older stuff. Most of what I've got there are analytic papers. Again, no good. But when I go back to freshman year and start looking at some of the journalism stuff, it isn't bad. Topically, though, it's clear that I wrote it years ago. (It dealt with the closing of my college, which happened in 2000.)

There's one piece that I wrote though, after talking to alumni about the school's closing, before the final graduation. What if I presented an excerpt from that and framed it with my own perpective on what it is to be alumni, etc. That way, it could look like something I'd written to submit to the alumni magazine. I'd start something fresh, but I'm seriously blocked for topics and strapped for time.

Would that work?

Lilty, seems like a good plan, give it a try.

SailAweigh, cutting the story down to drabble size made it sound more dramatic than it was. Hod (short for Howard) was an awesome pilot, but a terrible instructor.

He was the gliderport bum -- he lived in a trailer next to the field, and flew every day there was lift. He had two sailplanes, one for summer thermal flying and one for winter wave flying. He could stay aloft when no one else could, and he liked to be the last one landing so that he could finish with his trademark -- a high-speed low-altitude inverted pass down the runway, followed by a quarter roll upright that became a tight 180° turn to final, finishing up by rolling to a stop within 10 feet of his hangar door.

I was thrilled when he offered to take me up with him for some aerobatics, and thoroughly pissed at him by the end of the flight. He had no clue how to communicate how he did what he did, or to observe how what I was doing affected how the sailplane flew.

The SO has a story like that about his pilot buddy in their youth, the pivotal line of which is the SO speaking to his buddy in a low, calm voice, "Start the plane, Dave," repeated at varying intervals and volumes. Heh. Must be a pilot thing.

I'm putting together a list of agents who handle romance as a preliminary step to finding 2-3 of them to come to our conference. The conference chair wants a West Coast agent, and I think we should have at least one NYC agent, since we didn't have one last year. And of course we want a nice, balanced panel, maybe with someone young and hungry and looking for clients, maybe someone from a big, well-known agency, since that could be a lure to draw registrants to the conference.

I'm working from the Writer's Market 2005 agent guide, entering info into a spreadsheet, because I'm all picky and organized. I enter in a Los Angeles agent, nice mid-sized agency, member of all the relevant organizations, and think that this one looks good and would be perfect to fill our CA slot. I'm about to highlight it as one of my "call first" agencies, and am pleased that they're one of the few that lists a website. I check it. Contrary to WM, which lists them as moderately open to new clients, the website says they're not taking on new clients at all. Market conditions. So sorry.

So next up is an NYC agency whose name I recognize. Perfect candidate for the East Coast prestige slot. I check the website. Only taking on unpublished clients in nonfiction. Tight market. They hate it, too.

Of course, these are only two agencies, and I've got others to choose from that are in the market for new clients. But it does A) suck, and B) reinforce the idea that if I'm committed to this, it needs to be for the long haul and without any immediate expectations, even if I am as brilliant as I like to think I am on my optimistic days.

Susan, edits and comments insent.

To Be or Not To Be: Upside Down Drabble

The anticipation was excruciating.

Trips into Madison two or three times a year were very special occasions. Christmas was coming. I felt on tenterhooks as the car cruised down the highway. Despite the snow in the fields, the road was clear. Coming in to the S-curve, it suddenly felt like we were skating. As the car fishtailed into the second half of the curve we went airborn over the cornstalks. My brother’s body dropped onto mine, slamming me into the door. While the car hovered there, on the edge of uncertainty, all I wondered was “would it or wouldn’t it?”

Hi!

It's very late and I doubt anyone's around, but I just finished another essay and am looking for beta readers. Any takers?

If no one is around tonight, I'll ask again tomorrow.

I'm in.

Hey Kristin, I'm still up (I don't leave the mountain time zone until tomorrow). I could give some quick feedback tonight, then more measured feedback late tomorrow night.