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I rode the lift with my kid on Saturday for the first time. He's doing sooo well at boarding, it's amazing. He wants to be a pro. (grin) There really is nothing like seeing your kid succeed at something they love.

I wrote a short story last week that I gave to the crit group and I've forgotten what it's about. Isn't that odd? Hope it makes a better impression on an editor! It's funny though, I've fallen into my old art days where it was all in the doing and then once it was sold, I moved on. My stories are no longer my babies. From my previous career in art, I can only think that's a step in the right direction.

Barth is doing a fun little excerpt exercise:
Turn to page 123 in your work-in-progress. (If you haven’t gotten to page 123 yet, then turn to page 23. If you haven’t gotten there yet, then get busy and write page 23.) Count down four sentences and then instead of just the fifth sentence, give us the whole paragraph.

Of course, I have two books going at once. Oddly enough, I'm right at page 123 in Exiled. Weird. Barth and I must be like soul-mates from another life or something:

The aged warrior blinked. At another time, he might have laughed, but now his lined face frowned deeply. “That’s rubbish, priests’ tricks--”

“Anything odd ever happen ‘round him?” Ashetan insisted. He didn’t have time to mince words or accommodate superstition. “Broken pots, fires flaring, other's emotions run high?”

Rom just stared at him.


“He’s...accident prone,” Rom said at last. “His men make a joke of it--not being disrespectful, mind. He’s untouchable with a sword, damned fine with a bow. But they do argue around him--over him is more like. They fight to defend him first. They do love him, but not like any love I’ve ever seen.”

Ashetan nodded. Now, if he could just figure out how to tap the magic inside Ereq, they might have a prayer at freeing him.

And Sentinel (a couple of graphs cuz the required one was so short):

His gaze fell on the tangle of black lines on his arm and he knew it all began and ended with that. He cringed inwardly but could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t implicate Kaelin. He didn’t know how to protect his brother except with silence. He wasn’t sure if that was even enough. He swung his head from side to side, closing his eyes, preparing himself. The silence expanded and the time crawled. After waiting the two minutes, timing it on his watch, the man reached for the dial again.

Aidan couldn’t lift his head when it was over. He crumpled forward, leaning heavily against the straps that bound him to the chair. His entire arm was numb from the assault, and he couldn’t escape the smell of his own scorched flesh. But he opened his mouth to speak and the man put his ear close to Aidan’s face to listen.

Aidan’s voice was soft and clear, with the barest slur from his swollen lip, “Fuck you. Do whatever you want to me. I’m not saying another word.”

Let's see what you're working on! And go read Barth's; he's a writer who can make dumpster-diving interesting.

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