Fascinating watching the process of wrestling with something like this. Though you might not believe it from my verbose tendencies I was trained to be over-concise - the fewest words were best. Watching you polish by adding words to make it clearer, and improving the emotional tone as a result. So contrary to the "always cut, never add" that was pounded into my head. And a living demonstration of how wrong it was, at least the extreme version I was taught.

Brevity is my strongest and weakest aspect in writing. I also prefer less words to more, but now it's a chore to add any words at all. My initial stories are two sentences. Then I have to add from there.

So contrary to the "always cut, never add" that was pounded into my head.

To me, that's very much a journalistic dictum-- or one for people who write within genres that are very closely constrained by word count.

Which is why I know I'll never be a good journalist or short story writer; my strengths are definitely more geared towards the long form.

you painted a picture in my head, Barb. A delicious one.

To me, that's very much a journalistic dictum-- or one for people who write within genres that are very closely constrained by word count.

It does not even work well in extended non-fiction, or in a lot of magazine journalism. One of the things I have had to get over.

The buzz challenge is now closed.

The new challenge is hats.

As the short fella stood watching, the tall guy stood behind the table, one arm held dramatically out before him, the other hand gripping the brim of a shiny top hat. He wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand as the drum rolled.

The little guy in the helmet and goggles squinched his eyes shut as the tall fellow’s hand descended into the hat. His head tipped slightly, his rack of antlers magnifying the tilt. Suddenly his hand emerged, fingers clutched in the poll of a giant bear, which let out an unhappy roar.

“I gotta get a new hat.”

Awww, Bev. You make me miss Saturday morning cartoons.

Hee! 100 woids, on the nosey.

Yuk, yuk, yuk, Bev.

Hat

Robert chose a rather jaunty beret for the excursion. Anna said, "Lunch at my club will be easy." She was a member by virtue of being old Atlanta, not because she'd paid the current five-figure membership fee. The dining room was a sea of blue hair punctuated by the occasional table of dark-suited businessmen. The tuxedoed maitre d' who had served her Shirley Temples 30 years before hurried over and whispered, "Miss Anna, your guest needs to remove his hat." She replied loudly, "He can't. He has cancer." As they sat down, their helpless tears of laughter dropped into their melting frozen fruit salads.