My mother could have been on The United States Functioning Team I think...no time for that.
She had a tumor removed, on like a Thursday and was back at work on Monday( We didn't have a lot of choice, but I bet 97 out of a hundred women? Might have taken a day.)
Yes, I'm Wonder Woman's daughter. She's spent my whole life trying to crimp me up.
ETA: I just go into cornerspeak without provocation now. To crimp somebody up means to make them tough, teach them how hard life is.(In West Baltimore, this is viewed as a favor to the youth.) As opposed to cripping them up, which is mostly an accidental object lesson, unintended by anyone.
The messenger shuttles toward his destination. Once there, the gate opens.
Hundreds, thousands of—fuck metaphor, it goes down like this:
Sodium ions rush the hell in, and the membrane potential shoots from negative to positive. The cell responds by shuttling potassium ions out to bring the voltage down, but it has to overshoot in order to stop. Now the potential’s more negative than it should be, and the channel lets a few potassium ions back in. The membrane potential’s returned to normal, but the event
happened,
and nothing can change that.
This is what happens when a neuron fires.
Fire
He finally called. The phone had rung, and she had taken a deep breath, calmed her nerves and pasted a smile on her face, like he was there to see it.
All these months of equivocating, of riding the seesaw up and down,, and it was finally going to happen. She's slow and deliberate, going about her preparations; this isn't something to take lightly. She feels the needs for riutal, a geneflection to the need that drives her.
Her best dress? Yes, a blue silk the color of his eyes.
Perfume? She sprays on a bit of the kind, fancy and French, that he once remarked in passing made him think of chocolate and fur: rich and sweet and sinful.
She glances around the apartment once. She wants everything to be neat, tidy, in order. There are candles burning on each flat surface.
She grasps one, and spills it down the front of her fluid-soaked silk, setting herself on fire.
He said he didn't love her after all.
Wow, Erin, that gives me chills.
Thanks. I was trying to evoke ice, out of fire.
Wow. These drabbles are amazing.
My happy news of the day: Reading one of my newsletters, I just discovered that Harlequin has changed its mind about pulling its historical series books out of American retail outlets. They wouldn't be my first choice publisher, because your book is just out there for a month and then it's gone, but this news has put them back on my list of publishers I'd be willing to go with. But the main reason it's happy news is that I feel like it's a good sign for the historical romance market in general--reports of its death greatly exaggerated and all that.
And they DO reprint old books by authors who go on to publish lots. Look at Nora Roberts. Or Elizabeth Lowell.
Yup. And I'm just starting serious in-depth research to figure out which publishers are the best match for me, but so far I've been very favorably impressed with Harlequin's single title imprints, MIRA and HQN. Which, of course, is a whole different world than the Harlequin series lines, but it says something about the house as a whole.
