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freshstartwrite tonight

One of the newer members of the writing group is a woman who's trying to regain her artistic and communications skills in recovery after a spectacularly bad car crash with head injury, and gain some writing skills.

We've been trying to figure out how to help her for a while. She's really talented, I can just taste it. She's a very nice person, and very bright. She just doesn't know a thing about the writing process. She did formerly keep a journal, but that stopped after the accident.

Her artistic talents are more centered on the visual arts side of things, and we were thinking about seeing if she couldn't sketch those elusive thoughts to write about later, or use an image to inspire work. (I mentioned Google Image Search [link is not work-safe, text-only, all clean language] again.) Those sounded like good ideas, and she wrote them down. V and the straight-haired chick (and probably the curly-haired chick as well) and I all had that same idea, use an image/sketch it out.

We mentioned how writers just write, even if it has no structure. I shared a list of things that I'd written, some fandom_wank captions for the McTabby's Fandom Hand Signals icons. Sometimes something comes out of it, sometimes something not. It's just important to keep writing.

Then she mentioned that she should probably put something or other in a list. We lit up. Her writing style, her natural writing style, is lists. Of course. We pointed this out to her. She lit up.

V shared poetry. I shared the next installment of my time-traveler bit. The straight-haired chick shared her take on car dealerships, finance, and sexism. The curly-haired chick shared some Mommy Moments.

We all had fun.

We wound up going out for dinner as per the usual, though minus P the Professora and the Pirate Queen (and of course easalle, who is the other Out On A Really Different Planet one). The car accident lady didn't wind up with us, which is a pity, though she may or may not have dug our wacky off-hours humor.

I wound up reading a piece I'd written a few days ago while there, a love letter written with a scratchy pen, on the theme "I know you mean you love me when you hit me." It was meant as a martial-arts friendship description, rather than an abusive relationship, but it was evidently powerful.

We had delightful fun. The straight haired chick (I have got to find better handles for them) had given me a lift to Coco's, and gave me a lift to the bus stop. Yay, the bus stop.

The bus was interesting at this hour of the night. There were loud people in the back, some of them obviously drunk, others, somewhat belligerent. I was asked what I was reading. I tilted the cover the right way. I was asked what it was about. "Fantasy." I stuck my nose back in and didn't come out.

I could read through the proverbial bank robbery. I stayed in Valdemar all the way home.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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