So, Deb, re: that chunk of the novel I sent you. I'm assuming your current busyness has distracted you, and it's not a case of "My god, how do I tell her it sucks large donkey dong", that's kept you from responding.

Connie has superlative timing.

I say this because I have got rid of my writers group for the evening and just opened yours in another window.

Should have something for you shortly.

Then I'll peruse it in the morning, because I'm falling asleep at the keyboard. Night, all.

Night!

one at a time

From the cessation of breath to the onset of rigor mortis.

Taking notice, panic, action. Fear, assurances, realization.

Phone calls to the husbands, to the mortuary, to the preacher. Reservations to make, arrangements with the graveyard in Hawaii. The relatives must be told.

The insurance, Medicare, the will. What to do with the property.

Guilt, lies told to bring comfort, voices to be heard. Words to be said.

But for now, after the cessation of breath, I must change her stained gown for a clean one, before it is too difficult. As her body cools, one degree at a time.

Whuf, Liese. So many things to be done at a time like that. I remember going with my mother to buy a new shirt for my father when he died.

Damn, Liese.

Oh, yes. Yes indeed, Liese.

Dayum.

Kauai 1974

There is warmth, and light, and permanence.

I lay in the sand. There are still scars visible from the accident and the surgeries. I don't give a damn. They're mine; the world can deal, or not.

Warmth, light, permanence.

Spouting Horn blows spray, cooling the air. On the crest above Poipu Beach, someone's got a radio on: bang a gong, get it on... I roll over, warmth rising on my cheekbones.

You don't like the sun; your pale English skin turns angry. I open my eyes, and realise you've left my side, gone back indoors, distant.

Light, warmth. No permanence.

But you're laying a value judgment on them as storytellers, and I wanted to know whether you'd read them from the perspective of a kid gobbling down a good story, or whether you were trying for the crit attitude.

Whether I try to use critical perspective or no, I agree with P-C -- Christopher Pike was better than R.L. Stine. While Stine has interesting quotes on writing, even at age 13 or 14 I thought his books were dreadful. As P-C says, Stine's chapters formulaically end with cliffhangers, which got incredibly tedious. Also, he just didn't have any gift for making characters live, while Pike did. I can still remember specific incidents and lines of dialogue from Pike, whereas Stine is just one big sucky blur 10 years on. To me, saying it's about "resonance" makes it sound like I'm picking chocolate over vanilla, whereas really this is (in terms of YA thrillers) Haagen-Dazs Dulce du Leche vs. freezer-burned bargain-basement vanilla. Now, I would say Pike had a better grasp of the mechanics of storytelling; then, I probably just thought he was scarier and funnier and sexier and wittier and, yes, better.

many of Stine's series books were eventually written by ghostwriters/packagers.

I was wondering this. There was Goosebumps a month in the heyday, wasn't there? A hard pace to keep up.