I didn’t do a lot of editing last week.
Too many things going on. One, winter could rear her angry head at any time. It’s already nearly the middle of October and we haven’t had a first frost yet. This is unprecedented and weird. Temperatures have been in the 70s and 80s with an occasional 90 degree day, and there hasn’t been rain in over two months. (Not that it “rains” here, just ask my husband.) I’ve been picking tomatoes and the zucchini has been so prolific, I’m running out of people to pawn them off on. Luckily (maybe), the weather people (who are more wrong than right) are claiming that Thursday is the magic day for a first freeze. Maybe. They change their minds daily.
October 13, 2024 This angel thinks it’s summer.
So I really haven’t cleaned up the garden (too soon) and my houseplants are still outside soaking up the waning sunlight, although I’ve been trimming, cleaning, and debugging them. Take my word for it, you do not want dirty pots and insect infestation to follow you indoors for six months or more! I’ve been positioning them for a quick return to the warmth of the house, which entails rearranging the house. (How I wish I had a greenhouse!) Once they’re in the house, you can’t really move them around. They’re HUGE. I can only drag them around twice a year. Once to put them inside in fall, once to take them out in spring.
(Why do we do this? I don’t know. We’ve always done this. Insert *shrug* here.)
We also found out that the work on repairing our roof will begin as soon as the contractor gets our fancy-schmancy Decra tiles. FINALLY. Maybe before the snow flies? It was May 5 when that huge tree bounced off our roof (and was removed, and then the fighting with insurance began). The commencement of this work is all too close to winter for my liking, but c’est la vie.
Then I offered to beta read a manuscript. Written by someone I went to high school with, it was interesting and held my attention. It was also a memoir, and it was also very long, but I persevered. I liked it.
This was the second manuscript I offered to read this year, that was a memoir written by someone who attended my high school. I guess I’m feeling generous. Widefield High School – rah, rah, rah.
I don’t often read non-fiction, not even for fun. Maybe my past choices have something to do with it. Like all good writing, no matter what the genre, the story must be engaging, and told with skill and panache. It must make you want to turn the page. Most of the memoir I’ve attempted to read is pretty dry. I can’t think of the titles; they’re relegated to the Goodwill pile as soon as I give up.
I don’t know how I can help this up-and-coming writer. I know very little about writing non-fiction (I’ve tried it, it’s just not in my wheelhouse), and I definitely know NOTHING about memoir. I wouldn’t even attempt writing memoir, mostly because my life is just not that interesting. It’s infinitely more fun (for me) to write fiction.
However, this story was an easy read, the story grabs you. Maybe someday you’ll find this book at your local book seller.
I’ll spend the rest of the day trying to come up with a constructive critique. Which means I won’t be editing my own work until I’ve finished.
Oh, well…
