But I won't take nearly as much on, um, faith, in trusting the first person narrative or anything else.

We so need to invent a word for this. Maybe Eliza? We can take it on Eliza?

Where I was going with that was, literally, that the writing has to take me in the first few paragraphs, be it fic or fiction. I generally know pretty early on if I'm going to want to read beyond that point; something in the voice, in the ability to back away and let the characters be, will usually declare itself early on.

Alas, the inverse of that is true, as well. If I writer I know and trust screws it up early, I throw the book across the room and say rude things and then it really takes awhile to get my trust back.

I see second person less as the author telling the reader what she herself is doing than the character internally narrating they own selves.

Like....

TWO

"And that's the other thing," Amy says. "Sunlight. Crosses, stakes, and sunlight, that's all that can hurt us. Today is really overcast but you still can't be sure, so that's why I have these blankets. They're thick, we can walk around under them and be safe. We'll look a little weird, but it's just temporary." Pauses. Makes her voice a little whiner. "Willow, please pay attention."

You don't look up. "What about holy water?" you ask. "Can we cross rivers? If your necklace breaks, will I have to count every little bead?" Now there's an idea. You stop stirring your fingers in the dirt. "Hey, can I break your necklace?"

She makes a little sound of unhappiness.

"Then can we go get new clothes now?" You pick at your sleeve. "You kind of ripped this. And... I don't know. I think I want some different colors."

You remember being pulled into the bushes, on the way to the high school, early morning. You imagine how it might have appeared to any observer: your little kittenish limbs flailing for a moment, her arms tight around your ribs, the desperate shock on your face as she pressed the fangs inexpertly into your throat. It took you a while to die.

You remember waking up. The cool weight of another body on top of yours, someone's tongue against your neck. You'd never admit it, but your first thought was a happy, drowsy *Xander?*. Your second thought was, *This is not my bed.*

Now: your skin is cold. You're sitting under the bower in a neighbor's flower garden, middle of the day, wearing the remnants of your own pink fuzzy sweater. Examining the flowers and listening to Amy talk.

Your throat's still scarred. You can feel it. Rub your fingers over the lines.

You stroke the long stalk of Mrs. Floesen's tulip, slide your fingers down next to the ground and break it off neatly, at the base. Proffer it to Amy, who scoots back imperceptibly. You know she had a crush on you, but really, she should have never chosen a girl who could make her so nervous. You think about telling her this; but you are, after all, sitting in a flower bed with a wooden frame (it's a good thing Mrs. Floesen works mornings), and you're not exactly sure how good Amy is with a makeshift stake.

You think about finding Xander, also. You wonder if Amy'll do him too. You wonder if biting his sweet, pale neck is something you could do yourself.

You maybe think so.

But Amy's looking around, looking like she has some definite ideas about what the two of you are going to do next, and so you don't bring that up. Instead, you look down at the tulip in your hands, consider its smooth green stem, its soft petals. "This is the most poisonous flower in the Western Hemisphere," you tell her. "It's so red. See? That yellow piece is a warning stripe to bees. It says, do not taste this flower or you will be killed. The nectar's so sweet you'll ache when you drink it. It says, if you touch this flower, you will die wanting for more." You show her the velvety petals, the soft red inner parts, then place the tulip's head into your mouth. Sever the stem with your neat, sharp teeth, chew once or twice, and swallow.

She forgets herself, and draws in a quick breath by nothing more than force of habit. "Willow? Is that a lie?"

Yup - and Liz, that's exactly what I mean by a ghostly separation. That piece is beautifully done, and I don' think it could have been written in any other voice to the same potency. This suited it perfectly, and for me? Burned from the first note. Loved it.

(Not, I hasten to add, that the other four things are written in second person.

Not all of the other four things.)

I see second person, really, to be the intermediary step between third and first in terms of narratory self-consciousness.

I see second person, really, to be the intermediary step between third and first in terms of narratory self-consciousness.

It's a good solid definition, I think. I do think it's by far the trickiest of the three to pull off properly on a consistent basis.

We can take it on Eliza?

I'll take on Eliza -- oh, er, whoops.

I vote for taking it on slutbomb, myself.

I vote for taking it on slutbomb, myself.

"It's a leap of slutbomb!"

I think we may have a winner here.

My (rather conservative) sister's name is Faith. It was fun enough watching the show. Now everytime my folks say, "Faith called," I'm gonna be mentally substituting "slutbomb" and giggling. Good thing they already think I'm weird.

I have seen a few second person narratives that worked for me. (RL's is good.) They're just much, much harder for me to get into, for the reasons I listed earlier.

I see second person less as the author telling the reader what she herself is doing than the character internally narrating they own selves.

Right, and it just has the effect of being more distant than 1st person. I've actually never read anything long in 2nd person that I liked. Short things, like yours, Lizard, and Holli's ficlet, are *powerful* when in 2nd person.

Deb, have you mailed the chocobombs yet? I only ask b/c I'll give you my work address if you haven't. If you already have, that's okay, too -- it's just faster to get packages at my office than at home.

Steph, send work addy; I was about to turn computer off when your post popped in. TIming is everything.