"I read a book once," he said after a pause. "Can't remember the name of it, but that's because I put it down after eighty pages. It was written well enough, I suppose, but the lead character was someone so unlikable that I realized that if I met him at a party, I'd make my excuses after five minutes and find another room to be in.

"So I thought, 'All my characters should be people I'd want to talk to at parties.' That's my - well, I'm just formulating it right now, but it's my Party Theory. Why would I like this person enough to spend time with them at a party I'm having a good time at? What about them would make me want to stand next to them and chat?

"If you don't know what it is, you should find it."

(Ponders those which he has broken himself ...)

You're cold, wet, and hungry ...

My entry:

It was late. Graham leaned against the rain-slicked alley. "You know, we do have these things in the city called cars."

Amorpha shook her head. "A car separates you from your surroundings. On foot is best. for night patrol, unless you can fly. Besides, being cold, wet and hungry will help make you angry against the criminals we fight."

"And being angry will help me bop their heads?"

"No, you need to overcome your anger."

"Wait ... I need to get angry ... so I can stop being angry?"

"Yes."

"That makes no sense."

"Correct. Does that make you angry, too?"

What's for breakfast? 

My entry:

INTERVIEWER: So tell us about this deal you've just signed with Kellogg.

ACCELERATOR: Well, whatever Amanda tells me to sign, I sign. (Laughter) No, it's a basic promotional package. Yours Truly will be appearing on cereal boxes, stuff like that. "Wheaties - The Breakfast of Heroes."

INTERVIEWER: Isn't Wheaties from General Mills?

ACCELERATOR: Oops! Sorry about that, guys. It was something flaky. Whatever it is, though, it's delicious, kids, and it will make your muscles grow strong so you can break the sound barrier, just like me.

INTERVIEWER: Are you really promising that to kids?

ACCELERATOR: Uh ... Amanda is making cutting-off gestures at me ...

My entry:

"How can we know?" Mrs. McNamera said. "These days, what with robots, clones --"

"Don't forget mind control," Mr. Jackson added.

"-- mind control, and, like, that guy who can make people see stuff that isn't there -- how can we convict? How can we be sure he did it?" The others nodded.

"The standard is a reasonable doubt," Duncan said. "How reasonable is it a mind-controlling super-villain compelled the guy to shoplift a six-pack? Or it was really a clone, an android, a doppelganger from an evil dimension, or aliens? It's a simple shoplifting."

Mrs. McNamera considered. "It could have been aliens."

Can't fight the current.

My entry:

"I'm disappointed, Tony."

"It wasn't my fault."

"You absorbed about six square blocks of electrical grid, frying pretty much all the equipment in the process. PECO's not sure when things will be back working for the area. Which area includes St. Joseph's Hospital."

"I didn't --"

"It wasn't just a power loss; the surge as you sucked it up knocked out backup generators, too. Twenty-seven people died, Tony. People on life support. People being operated on. Another 376 suffered major injuries. All because you wanted a cheap high."

"It's not that -- I need it. It's like food, Mr. Thorne."

"And --?"

Tony's eyes welled up. "And it tastes so good --"

Men

Not based on percentage
MILLARD GILDEN

Based on percentage
DOUGLASS GORMAN

Women

Not based on percentage
ROBYN FREEMAN

Based on percentage
LISA HILL

The links then do Google searches so you can see if anyone has the name (that you should worry about).

You've just been bitten.

My entry:

"Okay, I've cleaned it, slathered it with antiseptic, and confirmed your shots for rabies and conventional mouth-borne pathogens."

"But I'll be okay?"

"How the hell should I know in this city? Was the cat girl who bit you a mutant? If so, human or feline stock? Was she a were-cat?  A felinoid alien?  A cat girl-shaped robot? Do you even know?"

"She -- got away."

"So we have no real idea whether you're likely to suffer from a disease, curse, chest-burster, poison, fleas or what. Next time, bring in the perp."

"Um ... maybe you should look at these scratches, too."

Graham considered his visitor a moment before speaking. "Mr. Edwards, I accepted this interview because you said you wanted to learn something about my organization, about our goals and mission. I've since learned you instead intend an 'expose' of a possible 'metahuman conspiracy.' Something far from 'fair' and 'balanced,' as your organization puts it."

He paused, slowly sipping his coffee. "Mr. Edwards, I am a projective empath. I can be your best friend. Alternately, I can throw you into such depths of despair that you dive through the window behind me to your death." Graham smiled. "Do you really want to make me your enemy?"

"Earth? Never heard of it."

My entry:

"Earth? Never heard of it."

"Queer little world in Sector 47. Dihydrox-carbon biology, main tool users have recently discovered atomic theory and how to send out crude robot probes, though they're socio-politically a mess."

"No wonder I've never heard of it."

"Your race is lucky. They've been polluting certain wave-bands something awful the last twelve rotations, and it's your job to do something about it."

"Any suggestions?"

"Well, either give them a tech boost so that they use the sub-bands, or telepathy, or advance beyond mass broadcast culture. Either that, or extinct them."

"Swell. Anything else?"

"Don't drink the water. You'll explode."

"I wrote you a love song ..."

My entry:

"I wrote you a love song."

She glanced up from her book in surprise. "You did?"

"Yeah, it's not very good." He stood up, cleared his throat, and croaked out a few lines. His voice wasn't strong, his pitch wavered, his sense of rhythm was occasional, and the lyrics were -- well, there weren't any poets laureate out there worrying.

He trailed off, looking at her, watching her face. "It, um, it's not very good, I guess. Maybe if I could play guitar or something --"

She smiled at him, got up, and took his hands. "Enough with the love singing. Let's start with the love dancing."

There's an elf at your front door.

My entry:

I opened the front door to the polite knock.  The creature there was fair of visage, softly glowing in the afternoon light, luminescent of skin and shimmering of hair. Also, frowning of face.

"Yes?" I asked of the elf.

He nodded. "I am Elenthel, son of Almithrien of Gildarion. My comrades and I --"

I looked past him. Along the sidewalk was a small party on foot and ahorse, similarly with the glowy and shimmer. I waved. They looked gravely back.

"-- well, we were wondering. We've been walking, sailing, processing into the West, for ages untold."

"Yes?"

"Well -- are we there yet?"

My entry:

"My 'husband.'  Rutting about all day and night. Just simply disgustiing," Hera muttered, shaking her head.

The other goddesses gathered about nodded, making little agreement noises.

"Rolling around with mortals -- as a swan, a bull, a shower of gold, other more outlandish garbs."

Tongues clucked disapproval and disdain.

"While I remain, an emblem of the home and heart, thus forced to be chaste."

Murmurs of sympathy, support, and

"Why, I hear he even lies with some of you, my sister gods, to boost the pantheon's numbers. Can you believe it?"

Silence, punctuated only by a few nervous titters. A cough. A sigh.

So today I opened a door in my mind, got belted in the face iwth a very heavy purse, and awoke to find myself being prodded unmercifully by the Muse with a pitchfork, as she shouted ideas left and right faster than I could write them down, all of them around an idea for a novel I've had for about a year, percolating away in the back of my brain.

So I've started writing down those notes, and will start diagramming out some characters for the cast, and try to figure out what exactly the story is between the beginning and end I have in mind and what else will be going on in the meantime.

If nothing else, I think I have something to occupy me on my long plane ride to Europe and back.

Run for cover!

100 Words:

Roger saw the windshield shatter before the sound of the gunshot reached them. He highly respected his wife's speed, but his reflexes were honed in the war, his reaction was nearly without thought. "Cover!" he shouted, tackling Chrys down to the gravelly dirt of the road, behind the car.

"Ow," glared Chrys. 

"Blame them for getting your dress dirty, not me," Roger said. Another window shattered, followed by another crack. "Sniper rifle, big caliber," he commented, head cocked. "Not US Army. Not Krauts, either." 

"Why," asked Chrys, "would ghosts use guns?"

"Better yet, how are we going avoid becoming ghosts ourselves?"