I feel bad. Well, I know I should feel bad, so I screw what I figure passes for a sympathetic expression on my face.             Tears sparkle in the woman’s eyes—what was her name again? Annie? Angela?             “…it was really quite an abusive relationship,” she says, her voice prattling on in a pitch that compliments her agitation: high and tinny.             I tap my stockinged-clad foot on the carpet.             One. Two. Three.             “Of course, he’s trying to screw me over in court. And I don’t have much physical proof…”             I glance down at the papers clutched in my lap before flicking my gaze to the coocoo-clock…

The developmental pass isbehind me. Comments litter the rightside of the computer screen. Taunting me,daring me to hurry up, finish! To write faster, better. Smoother.Don’t forget plot. Would your character actuallysay that? To him?No, no. Overdone. Clunky. Uninspired. The third draft is cleaner, and by the fourthI almost believe in my characters, in their motivations.Almost.Monday is bright: self-directed smirks and giggles at my own wit and talent.Rebounding as I stitch scenes together, shift one here,eliminate another all-together.Genuis, really.I deserve a glass of wine. Maybe two. Tuesday reaffirms my earlier fears—garbage.Imposter. Fraud.Craft and elements: elusive, fickle creaturesprovoking me, teasing me. A mirage. Maybe it’s good. Great, even.Perhaps it’s destined for the wastepaper basket. Tears stain my…

The sun winked through the pale pink curtains, casting the room in a cozy, almost romantic glow.      Frowning at the thought, Beatrice considered that was probably not helping the situation. Shifting her eyes to the teenager in front of her, she stifled a sigh at the look of hopeful expectation on the round, rosy-cheeked face.      “May I ask why you want one?” Beatrice said. Leaning across the counter of her shop, the long-sleeved velvet cloak enveloping her rippled under the last rays of the falling sun. Raising winged eyebrows, she pursed her lips in what she supposed was a mythical expression.      “I’ve been in love with Bobby…

            For years, she’d wondered what it would be like. Sipping drinks with pink umbrellas in them; flouncing along in her slinky bikini as she waved her arms manically around her head, shouting hazily after newfound friends. If she’d wrinkled her nose, she could almost smell the dried salt, the syrupy scent of fabricated coconut, and the sweet tinge of mai-tais wafting amongst the pink-hued atmosphere.             Of course, that was the problem with fantasies. They had a habit of paving the way for little more than the disappointments of reality.             Scrimping and saving, dieting for months on end while she hotly denied herself a second glass of wine…