Real Life is trickling through the cracks in the plaster, dripping from the rafters. Real Life is oozing from the gutters and leaving a mildew-slick film over everything.

I have not returned home in less than 14 hours any day this week. I am utterly whooped.

My envelopes lie, stamped and stacked, next to the computer.

Today, I finally had 15 minutes at the same time that I had a computer and some wit, and I found two places I may send manuscripts. I’ve printed them out, and will highlight the salient points and select one by this evening, having taken the brain-need from the process. This has been the longest walk to the mailbox, ever.

In other, brighter news, Ed is coming for the weekend, and he is generally good for removing Real Life from most things.

In a fortune cookie, last week:

“You will soon be called upon to stretch and take risks.”

Then I wrote, revised, polished. I just now purchased envelopes suitable for mailing small manuscripts, flat, with a SASE included. I had them weighed and stamped. Tonight, I shall mail off to a magazine (more, if I find some that accept simultaneous submissions). Then I shall begin another short story, just so this isn’t the only one I’m obsessing over.

Egad. I apparently mean it. Frightening.

Please post a random picture that struck you as, well, striking, as a comment to this journal entry.

Gleaned from . The rules state:

The rules are, once you’ve been tagged, you have to write a blog with “6 weird things/habits about yourself”. In the end you need to choose the 6 people to be tagged and list their names.

I am changing the rules. All must be done in less than six minutes, and I will tag no one, but let them tag themselves. As it were.

1. I love to sing “Born To Be Wild” in an Elvis voice while breathing helium.

2. I complained for years that male voluntary-plumage is not as interesting as female voluntary-plumage.

3. I can enter a light trance more-or-less at will.

4. I have a wonderful memory that I, largely, refuse to use, as it is too much trouble. To avoid actually having to remember things, I set myself habits, then just assume that I always follow them; ergo, no lost car keys, I know where to look for socks, I can expect certain things in the cupboards….

5. I once lived with Lord Shiva, the Destroyer.

6. I groom well, eat well, and work out partially because I want to live forever, and largely because I am enormously vain.

There. Done. Now, go tag yourselves and let me get back to work.

I have been asked, essentially, “Why do you want to write?” My answer was moderately vague. Here’s a better one.

Last week, on a whim, I followed a picture I saw into a character description, followed that into a setting, followed the setting into a situation and wrote a short story. Liking what I’d done, I rewrote it, asked for critique, received some, applied what I liked, and rewrote again. Today or tomorrow I will send it off to an editor for professional consideration.

I wrote less than an hour last week, unless I count rewriting. I’m inclined to count the rewriting, because it’s part of the work — and I enjoyed it, so it’s all good.

None of that is what I wanted, though.

All through this last week, I’ve had a story in my head, peopled and placed, and it has lived with me, going where I went and taking me where it goes. I lived with it, played with it, cussed at it, and loved it — not “I love this story”, but “I am giving this story the love it needs.”

And I got that back.

That’s what I wanted.

Title: Sight Unseen
Length: 1,100 words

romance with psychological horror elements

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