June 15th is Sunday. So I would keep up my hopes through at lest Saturday, June 14th.

[Update} And as sail says perhaps a few days past that as well.

Susan, I think statements like those are rough guidelines. Much the way I used to say I would try to respond to submissions within eight weeks. (It was more like six months, if they were lucky or had an agent who would call and yell at me.)

It's weird how low-information this is compared to RWA contests, where I'd almost always seen the scoresheet before entering, knew what pool they were drawing their first-round judges from, knew exactly who would be judging the finalists, etc. And since RWA is a close-knit organization, if you're on the right email loops you know exactly when finalist calls/emails start going out on a particular category.

This one? I know my entry got there and passed muster WRT formatting etc. because A) they cashed my check and B) they didn't contact me to say I'd used the wrong font or had too many lines per page or anything, and the rules said they would. I know every entrant is supposed to get two critiques, and that I gave them the proper size of SASE w/ Forever stamp to get mine. Other than that? I'm just watching my mail like a hawk. A jumpy, twitchy, anxious sort of hawk.

Susan, I wouldn't give up hope until the names are listed with a vague statement such as early June.

Huh. I think that's the association my brother in law's parents used to be active with before his dad retired from writing.

(I think both of them were on the board.) Small world!

I haven't been to any of their meetings yet, but they have a big multi-genre writers conference here every summer. That's part of the reason I want to know if I'm not a finalist. I can't afford two summer conferences, and I really want to do the Willamette one down in Portland, since it has more fantasy editors and a better slate of workshops, but if I'm a finalist in PNWA, it might make sense to go there instead.

I should probably just go ahead and register for Willamette. I mean, good workshops and the chance to meet Tor editors matter more than going to an award ceremony, especially given that only the actual WINNERS get a private reception with the editors and agents in attendance--most of whom wouldn't be right for my project anyway. And since Willamette is after PNWA, if I were to win, place, or show, that would be something I could talk about if I met anyone important. (At this point I'm not planning to pitch, since I don't think the WIP will be polished enough to submit till Oct or Nov at the earliest. I'm planning to go the Surrey conference in October, so I'll pitch then.)

This is why I can't write at home.

I'm working on a story for Drollerie, set in World War II, in England as a hospital where there are American wounded. I'm staring at the screen, trying to think of a name for a building, but whenever I Google it, it comes up as already in use.

"Why can't you use it?" Hubby asks. "Because it's already applied to something else." "So why can't you use it?" "Because I don't want to use the name of something else." "But why?" "Because I don't." "So what year is this?" "It doesn't matter." "You can't have it too early or too late, the Americans wouldn't have been in England." "Yes, I know. I'm not using a specific year." "What time of year is it?" "It doesn't matter." "Why doesn't it matter?" "Because it doesn't." "How do you know it doesn't?" "Sweetheart, I love you, please don't help."

Cue the sulk of the husband who wants to share everything I do and understand everything in my head. When I show him. finished, published stories, he tells me everything I should have done differently, because he knows I want to be the best I can be and he's more than happy to show me where I didn't quite make it.

In under the wire ...

Photo Seven (Bernard)

She remembers the day the photo was taken. Hugh had been so proud of his new camera, as eager to show off his new toy as he was to show off his son. He was appalled at Bernard’s heartsick expression, but she didn’t blame the child. She was an interloper. A pathetic substitute.

He’s never called her anything but Ruth. She doesn’t mind. She wishes him well, makes his meals, irons his clothes, but it’s his father she loves.

His father, who has, unthinkably, died and left them both. She thinks she understands now what the words “alone together” mean.

Oh, Amy, that's just heartbreaking. Poor little Bernard, poor Ruth.

It sounds like we share a husband, connie. Only mine also comes at me from the other direction on occasion.

"Why are you snarling at the internets?" he asks. "Because I can't find a full floor plan of the house I'm using as a regimental headquarters, only the section that's open to the public now--it's one of those British things where the family still lives in part of the house." "So?" "So! I need to know where the servants' quarters was!" "Why?" "Because that's where they're keeping my protagonist prisoner. I need to know if he's in a garret or a basement." "Just pick one." "Pick one!? What if I get it wrong and someone who knows better reads the book?"

And then he comes up with helpful plans for all my story problems and all the subplots he thinks I need to include.