Oh, we do; the first two novels are safely backed up onto CD. But the third one, Matty Groves, is going so fast that figuring out what the most recent backup is would be tricky. I started the damned thing five weeks ago and I have 26,000 words and 116 pages.

This is short (continuation on Needfire, just written). Is it too lyrical? I'm hoping not, because it's relevant to who and what Amanda is and has been since birth, and it's also her first sight of Rupert:

---

They led the way, Richard Giles and my mother, and I followed behind. As we moved into the dimly lit bookshop, my steps slowed, faltered, stopped altogether. I stood, ignored by the now more easily conversing adults and ignoring them as well. My head tilted to one side.

There was power in here. There was music, as well. I could hear it, an odd distant thing, a chime, a tone, a deep humming. Something in my head locked on to this, understanding that a visual also was trying to make me see it. Eyes fixed and staring, I emptied myself out until the image and the music came together.

Planets, worlds, dimensions, shuttered and then unshuttered, moving in a huge endless harmonious burst, darkness and shadow and light and all the place in between where the universe walks softly, rubbing together. The images poured in, and the music with it. It came from somewhere in the shop itself, inside this odd dark place with its blind harper hanging over the door, and the voice of eternity whispering from the volumes.

Once, twice, three times, the same note. Three times, the same hum. Always in threes. A phrase came into my mind, watching the firmament wheeling into the vast reaches of forever, for my pleasure and amusement, hearing the triads pouring like cold distant starlight into my witch's ear.

"The music of the spheres."

"What did you say?"

It took me a moment to come back, and a bit longer to realise that I had spoken aloud, and was being answered. I looked up at Richard Giles and, instead, found myself confronting a boy, not very much older than I was.

I haven't said anything about these, deborah, because I've got a mental blind spot about 1st person narrative. I like the immediacy, but sometimes it feels too immediate to me. It's not too lyrical, because all the images are clear, but it a little--dense? Overly rich? Sensory overload? Gah, I can't put it into words that explain I think it's beautiful but maybe overwhelmingly so.

That said, I'm plot's bitch. I enjoy reading other people's descriptions, but I never seem to write anything so rich myself.

I like it. And I'm very glad your computer troubles came up all right.

By the way, did you know there was something that you could buy to install on your computer to safeguard it against cats walking across the keyboard and reformatting your hard drive? (Or baby toddlers getting to it, and banging on the keyboard as though it were a cheap piano, or whatever.) It watches for suspicious patterns of nonsensical clusters of near keys all being pressed at once, and if that happens it freezes up the computer. To regain control, you type "human".

rebecca, I was planning on doing some research and finding one of those things. Enough is enough. I don't mind them farting but paws off the hard drive, damnit!

Connie, I'm totally the opposite; I suck at plot. I differentiate between plot and story, though, which may be peculiar to me. But I'm a storyteller, and for me, the people drive the story and are what make the story interesting. Interesting characters for me will stay interesting, no matter the events. (and I'm not sure that's remotely coherent; it's been a ferwonkety long day)

Also, it is relevant to who Amanda is and becomes; in "Pensioner", she uses the music of the spheres to access Willow in the chaos dimension.

I love immediacy, generally, although I totally agree that you have to be very careful with first person. Mostly, I dislike it because I can see the author's voice in there; writing in first person is unusual for me, but a good exercise.

Oh, Deb, so glad about the remote fix. Bad kitties, bad! But pretty.

I'm a character-person, myself. I can't seem to plot worth a damn, but a fully(or nearly) realized character will pull me along in his/her wake while getting on with whatever comes next. And after that follows. I know no other way.

You're probably right about the Giles and Wyndam-Price age difference. Just Joss' daddy issues surfacing with different characters. I don't think your description is too lyrical at all, since it's first impressions of a young child, and a fey one, at that.

One of the emails awaiting me once Nic remote-fixed the problem was from my agent, Jenn, wanting to know if I'd heard from Ruth (my publisher) about the current MS. What, like I wouldn't tell you? You're my agent.

She also wanted to discuss last night's Buffyep. This was how I knew Jenn was going to be my agent; first time we spoke on the phone, ever, we were winding up the call, it was after four pm her time (she works mostly out of her farmhouse in Connecticut) and said it was great to be able to talk to a real live human being this late on a Friday, because mostly at this point in the week, she just looked at the dead phones and the upcoming weekend and said, Bored Now.

In just that tone of voice.

My sister!

The show ate me last night, but I have a little more of the story written. Continued from where I left off.

"Sure," she called down. She wasn't especially hungry, but she wasn't up to seeing the wounded look she'd get if she refused breakfast again.

Waffles again. A large, steaming, syrupy plate of them. On second thought, the wounded disappointment face was starting to look good. Waffles were code for "forced bonding attempt". She pushed a forkful of fluffy cryptography into her mouth and made herself chew it while she waited for the inevitable. It wasn't a long wait; she didn't even have time to swallow before it hit.

"Why don't we go Christmas shopping? We can go to the mall, get you some new outfits, and stop off somewhere for a nice lunch." A calm, reasonable proposition that Buffy would have jumped at a year earlier.

She would rather poke out her own eyes with the waffle fork than agree to the suggestion. Choking down he mouthful of food allowed her enough time to come up with a slightly less knee-jerk response, one that she hoped didn't seem hostile, distant, or disheartening.

"I thought you'd be at the gallery. You know, taking advantage of the holiday rush." The attempted perkiness of her tone didn't fool either of them.

"You don't want to go, do you?"

Ouch. Forced bonding attempt and wounded disappointment face. If Buffy wanted to, she could try for the trifecta and add an extra helping of guilt to her morning.

Not that she wanted to, of course. Go or get the trifecta, either one, but it was starting to look like it would be one or the other. She pushed the plate away, no longer willing to try and pretend she was hungry.

"Not especially," she admitted, refusing to look at her mother's face. "Maybe later?"

"Sure, honey."

Buffy kept her eyes on the abandoned waffles, watching the syrup sink into the holes and disappear, leaving just a soggy mess. Great. Now she was feeling guilty about breakfast foods. Maybe her regrets really were mating while she slept; it would explain their sudden multiplication.

I like that, but one sentence:

Go or get the trifecta, either one, but it was starting to look like it would be one or the other.

I can't get that to make sense to me. It's early (I overslept and am still barely into first cup of coffee), so it's probably my brain not turned on yet. But - what does it mean, please?

Also, could I ask a general question, of everyone writing: what level of editing is requested? Or should we do nothing more than general reactions to the piece, for integrity with the existing canon? Or does it vary writer to writer?

(Why yes, I am going to have to spend at least three hours editing a full novel I've already edited once today, instead of playing in the beautiful sunlight.)

I'm quite happy to have as much editing as you feel you've got time and energy to give, deborah.

Speaking of which, this is the fic that's been eating my brain for the past couple of days. Uses fairly obscure MASH fandom details, but I think they're fairly obviously explained.

• **

I may not be clever the way you have to be to be a doctor, the way BJ is; I may not even be as clever as I think I am, but I’m not stupid. Ever since I first met BJ I could see that when we walked down the street together and turned our heads to look at whoever caught our eye, the way teenage friends will, BJ’s head was as likely to turn for some handsome man as for a beautiful woman. He’d never have admitted it, of course, and I wouldn’t have dared to ask.

Anyway, when he came back from the war and started talking about Hawkeye Pierce, it didn’t take a genius to see that he’d fallen in love. I couldn’t blame him, of course, and even from his letters I’d guessed. I wasn’t even angry, and I surprised myself a bit when I found I wasn’t jealous. When things are tough you need a way out, something to obsess you so that you can stop thinking for a while. Heaven knows I’ve taken the odd bit solace when it came my way—if an old friend was in town for a week, or with a man I happened to meet.

BJ talked about Hawkeye almost all the time. He didn’t mention being fired at, even when he dreamed about it; he didn’t talk about the operations he’d done out there, though he was clearly affected by them; instead, he told me—and Erin—about Hawkeye until I felt I knew the man. I’d been starting to feel that way from his letters, but in a letter it’s somehow easier to look back and make sure that what you’re saying is balanced.

At home, though, all we heard about the war focused on Hawkeye, as if he was the lens through which all BJ’s experiences out there had been filtered. We heard about Hawkeye’s wit, as dry as the Martinis he drank; we heard about his sill, in which the alcohol was lucky if it stayed around for half an hour; and I can repeat some of the stories about Hawkeye’s battles with Frank in my sleep.

The final straw was the night BJ rolled over, put an arm around me, and muttered sleepily, “Love you, Hawkeye.” When we were alone the next evening, I asked why we didn’t get to meet the guy who obviously meant so much.

“You go on and on about him, BJ. Invite him over for a few days—the guest room’s empty. You can tell each other stories about Frank Burns for a change.”

“Um… look, Peggy, it’s not that simple.”

Erin was in bed, and we were sitting on the veranda, supposedly simply enjoying each other’s company. BJ was starting to sound a little worked up, but I kept my voice low and clam. After all, I could guess what was really going on here. “What’s not simple, BJ? He’s your friend. You’d like to see him again, and I’d like to meet him.”

BJ takes a deep breath. “Aren’t you jealous?”

“Should I be?” Keep it light, teasing.

BJ looks at me in the twilight, frowning, but then quickly nods as if he’s afraid he’ll lose the courage he’s summoned if he doesn’t do it soon. So I was right. I keep the grin of triumph internal, something in me rejoicing in the power I have here. “Okay. Well, let’s just say I’m not jealous yet, then.” And I find I’m really not. I love BJ enough that I want him to be happy, even if it’s not with me.

BJ nods again, a rare smile creeping onto his face and up into that terrible moustache. “I’ll see if I can phone him, then,” he says, getting up. He must have been waiting for a chance for ages.

“You do that. I need to tidy the living room.”

• **

A few days later, Erin runs in form where she’s been playing in the garden. “Mommy, someone’s here!”

“Who is it, darling? Do you know them?”

She thinks for a minute, and then says with a smile, “I reckon it must be Hawkeye.”

I peer out the kitchen door, and see him. I’ve never seen a photograph, but from what BJ’s said, I know she must be right: a tall man, with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. There’s something about him—in his smile, perhaps—that shows his sense of humour, too.

He walks along the back of the house with long, easy strides until he’s standing in front of me. I straighten up and put on my best ‘visitor greeting’ smile. He drops his suitcase onto the dirt and asks, “Mrs Hunnicutt?”

“That’s me,” I say, and we shake hands. I can see why BJ’s attracted to him, when I look into the handsome face and shake his hands with their clever surgeon’s fingers. There’s an air of danger to him, though, as if some of the shrapnel from the war is still inside him, waiting to burst out, that makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing in welcoming him to my home.

“Hawkeye Pierce—and this must be Erin,” he says, looking down to where she was, but the girl’s been overcome by shyness suddenly and has run off, probably to watch from the next room. “BJ didn’t tell me she was invisible.”

“She’s just a little shy. Come on in. I’m afraid BJ isn’t here at the moment—something must have kept him late at the hospital.”

“I know that feeling. Where’s he working now?”

“Lady Alice Hospital—down south of here.” I wave him through to the sitting room, and offer something to drink.

He accepts, and we sit in awkward silence for some minutes. Apparently the silver-tongued Hawkeye that BJ knows so well is reduced to the same dumbness everyone else suffers in the face of meeting the wife of their lover. It’s comforting to know he is human, because if you listened to BJ you might wonder.

Erin creeps in to look at the stranger, and Hawkeye finds a smile for her. It’s warm and genuine, so she smiles back.

“Hi,” he says, nodding at her just the way I guess he would nod to an old friend. There’s a familiarity there at once.

“Hello,” she replies, and—getting bolder—goes over to stand in front of him. “You’re Daddy’s friend, aren’t you? The one who was always being funny and fighting with Major Burns?”