No problem, take your time. Also, the clothing is definitely not crucial to the plot. It's just that my imagination decided to supply her a hospital dressing gown to wake up in and a normal outfit to walk out the door in, then balked at the never changing clothes. Maybe, instead of having her walk out the door at the end of chapter 2 i can just have her look up the address and then say "now she knew where to go." End chapter. Giving her time to put on those pesky shoes, at least, before walking out.

ETA: I edited the end of chapter 2 to follow my own advice. It involved the removal of one fairly pointless descriptive sentence to make the story flow more logically. I love it when that happens.

Also, I posted chapter 3. It's short. My chapters are very short, I'll probably flesh most of them out eventually (or at least combine some of them). I'm just trying to set up the most crucial plot points (while remaining as true as possible to the characters, of course) before I try that.

Basically, right now I'm setting up chapter breaks as places where a commercial break COULD occur, if this were a television show. Because that's how my mind works with Buffy/Angel.

Now I should abed.

It's just that my imagination decided to supply her a hospital dressing gown to wake up in and a normal outfit to walk out the door in, then balked at the never changing clothes.

If you have it pictured in your head, you should write it. The stuff that's non-essential is the sort of Barbie doll writing some ficcers do -- "Buffy ran a brush through her long blonde hair and then stod before her closet, selecting black fishnet tights, a red plaid mini-kilt, a gray tank top and a black belted sweater with 3/4 sleeves. On her feet she wore knee-high boots." Saying she's wearing the hospital gown and pulls on a sweater and jeans would flow with the plot, and add a detail you feel is important.

And Deena, you have mail :-).

Nova, yep, Lyra's quite right. If the picture's in your head, write it; you can always edit if you feel it's too much or too little.

And that whole "Buffy ran a brush..." example? Perfect example of "I am moving my left foot" hyper-detailing.

Okay, thanks for the advice. I don't think I'm going to actually write it in this case, as I think my other method of resolving the logical issue is good, but I'll remember for future bits.

ION, I added a lot to Chapter 3. Now it's actually of reasonable length, and feels more like a chapter. Comments are welcome, especially on characterization - do Wesley and Cordelia feel like Wesley and Cordelia to you? And is Tara still working, now that she's talking?

Not that you can't suggest other things, but that's what I'm most curious about. Also, is the plot interesting you? Do you want to read more?

(surfacing from editing - see Great Write)

Nova, I got copy edits by Fed Ex today on second book in series and am nosedown. Deadline for return is the 14th (bastards). I definitely want to read more and will have more comments when the check of the copy edits to FFoSM are done.

Okay, thanks deb. You are amazing at this, so I'll wait as long as necessary for your advice. I'll keep writing, of course.

Good luck!

Nova, just caught up. The first two sections seem noticeably tighter, which is always good. And I found myself wanting more, when I finished the third.

You're getting a really nice balance between dialogue, thought and action. It's very readable stuff.

Nova, I promise I'll read you, I've just been catching up this week... For right now, more from my girl Kay in the Angelverse:

Why can’t these guys ever get new material? Katrina earns every dime, just from boredom. Christ.

But then I’m thinking “Hello? Earth to Kay? Sounds like Prince Charming there is offering to make a confession.” But this one *wants* to sweat it out.

”When I’m ready, slave,” I say, finally acting out the boredom I’m not feeling anymore, and wishing I still smoked. The five slowest minutes I’ve ever spent not on an apartment hallway floor go by.

I don’t have a notebook or anything, but there’s a huge pile of neon sticky notes on that plantation he calls a desk. The cells at Jessup aren’t that big, I’m pretty sure, not to mention my desk at the squad, which I was able to move myself, heart patient and all. And I work for God.
Who does Manners work for? The Devil? Jesus, I’m really letting all this woo-woo creepy stuff start to infect me. I need to get in and get out.

“Tell you what,” I say, pacing and fondling Katrina’s crop, which I am beginning to think of as mine, which scares me more than anything since Munch’s yellow eyes. “You lawyers like to talk about win-win situations, huh?” I’m acting like Pembleton with a sex-change and PMS. It’s a trip.

I’ve got him trained already. He just stares at me looking like a middle-aged carp. “Answer me when I talk to you, scumbag.” I say, smacking his face.
Which I really do feel kind of guilty about...it’s against the law for cops to commit crimes in the course of undercover investigations, and I just assaulted him. The fact that he thinks this is a hot date wouldn’t change anything legally.
Mentally, I paste Tom Moran’s head on Manners’ body. He looked good for the Erica Chilton murder, but Detective Howard had to follow the rules, and her temporary souse of a bunky. Maybe Moran would chat with Mistress Katrina. That smirking, sleazebag asshole, alibi or no.

“Yes, ideally,” Manners says. “That is the goal. But the fundamental nature of any courtroom proceeding is adversarial...”

I’m not listening to that again. “Yes or no, asshole. My time is valuable. I have to be in Redmond tomorrow. And you know what that means. One smirk from me, and Wolfram and Hart is busted from a T-1 line to paper cups and string, huh? Mr. G. and I have an...understanding."
I slam the whip down on the desk so hard even Timmy would find it over the top. Papers skitter around and some fall on the floor...I try to insinuate them in my demon wonderbra.

He just stares at me looking like a middle-aged carp.

suhNERK.

Which I really do feel kind of guilty about...it’s against the law for cops to commit crimes in the course of undercover investigations, and I just assaulted him. The fact that he thinks this is a hot date wouldn’t change anything legally.

suNERK!

I try to insinuate them in my demon wonderbra.

suhNERK!

Oh, man. Kay's in form, yo.

BTW, speaking of la fic, I'm about a quarter of the way through my "Faith on the road, post-Chosen, AU" piece, The Long Road. feedback's a good thing, and I want to get back to it this weekend, now that the book edits are taken care of.

The Long Road

Highway, a deep river of darkness punctuated and limned by pale yellow dots. There were stars overhead, uncluttered by city light. In this moonless night, they seemed close enough to pick up and scatter as confetti.

It had been a long time since she'd come this way.

• * *

Faith drove well. It was a skill she'd picked up early, knowing how to handle any vehicle anyone could produce. The acceleration of awareness, a gift of the Slayer birthright, helped too.

She'd picked this truck up somewhere just outside Tulsa. It was pushing thirty years old, but something about it just spoke to her: a big heavy long-frame Toyota Land Cruiser, the kind where dropping it into low-four meant getting out and doing it by hand. The paint, an ironic British racing green, was faded to nearly pastel. It weighed three tons and ate gas at a horrific rate. She didn't give a damn; the Council had given her plenty of money for this trip. And it was tacitly understood that what she chose to spend it on was entirely up to her.

Faith drove south, casually, not so casually. Her nervous system was talking to her, a soft insidious background whisper that was threatening to become a fullblown chatter. It had been awhile since she'd been out alone like this, alone and not running from anyone. Two years ago, she couldn't have gone near California, but times had changed; Willow had hacked the records, made a few big changes to the fingerprint file, and Faith was unidentifiable as a wanted felon. She was free.

She was also edgy. The highways had grown progressively thinner of passenger cars since they'd whupped the First Evil. But this was spooky - here on Interstate Five, the main artery into Los Angeles, she hadn't seen a single vehicle that wasn't a semi or an eighteen-wheeler. Nothing left out here but commercial vehicles. Where the fuck was everybody, anyway?

The night was silent, nothing but the steady turnover of the Cruiser's big engine. It was getting on her nerves, that silence. She turned the radio on, twisting through stations on the dial, getting random bits of noise and speech: come back to Jesus Ooooh baby I love your way Texaco on I5 just north of the first Bakersfield exit full service come back to Jesus somebody bring me some water ooooh baby baby....

She finally settled on a station out of some small town in the Valley. The dj had put on Warren Zevon, an album side; probably gone to take a leak and smoke a joint, Faith thought, but she listened to "Werewolves of London" and grinned to herself, sparing a passing thought for Oz, wherever he was now...

Singing along in a jangly offkey contralto to "Excitable Boy", she almost missed the hitcher on the side of the highway. About a hundred yards beyond him, she looked in the rear view mirror and saw him staring after her.

"Huh." There was something compelling about his stance, the way he watched her tailights trying to disappear. She stopped the cruiser, backing it up to where he waited.

• * *