The Sword and the Cute Little Turquoise Shirt

I was at a softball camp. It was a sea of bat-wielding, glove-bearing females. A game got started. The coaches were shouting and clapping and people were stomping and sliding. I asked my sister-in-law which one was the head coach.

She's the one with a sleeveless turquoise shirt and white shorts that go to the knees.

Oh. Turquoise. And something else. And... could you point at her?

All I know is people were wearing clothes. That's it. No colors or styles or brands. Hell, I couldn't tell you if they all had both eyes. There were people on the field playing softball and they were wearing clothes. That's all I took in.

Action, first. Details, second.



A reviewer once commented on my writing. She pointed out the difference between male and female authors.

FEMALE AUTHOR
Jake stood 6-foot. His tan scalp beaded with perspiration that tracked into his ice-blue eyes. His callused hand rested on the hilt of his weapon, the gold rings glittered with rubies and emeralds clicking on the metal handle in a rhythm not to be mistaken for nervousness. But anticipation. His fingernails were chipped, broken and soiled with blood. The same blood smeared across his blue tunic that fit snugly across his chest. The leather boots -- the heels worn through -- strapped up to but not over his knees. The nostrils of his wide nose flared. He smelled an enemy. The rings tapped the sword as he unsheathed it...

MALE AUTHOR
The sword is 4' long. Jake cut the other guy's head off with it. 



I suppose she has a point.