Raise the walls to find these flaws
Posted on August 27th, 2014
So, life and how to live it.
It seems school has started everywhere but here, where it starts the day after Labor Day. I tried to find a children’s book about Labor Day at the library the last time we went and found none. I sense another smart-ass reading comprehension worksheet coming on.
For us, school never really stopped. I eased up. pH went to camps, we did fun things, I kept my sanity somehow. Really–these are good things. Now we’re back to school. I have pH signed up for lessons and activities through the local parks and rec in addition to the usual piano. She finished the library’s reading challenge and has the shirt to prove it, and considering it was last fall her teacher told us she wasn’t able to read and wasn’t ready to learn–that was a great moment. I managed not to cry, which for me is fairly impressive. (I probably have already written that her contract wasn’t renewed and let me just say: justice.)
kH is better. It’s not “Yay, kH is cured!” because as I told a friend, it’s like we went from D- to D+/C-. I can’t think about that very long without feeling fluttery and scared so that’s it for now. He’s working. I am standing by my promise to move to Guam if he gets a job there.
PT still sucks. My ankle is weak and kH keeps reminding me that he told me it could take 6 months. (I sprained a 20-year-old sprain.) PT works, but it hurts. And I have discovered there is a tiny muscle near my ear that apparently is always “on” which might explain a lot of headaches. I was delightfully surprised to find out my insurance covers 75 PT visits in a year, though, I have a $20 co-pay. Yay?
I read a bunch of novels, mostly because I was falling behind on my Goodreads reading challenge. The nice thing about most literary fiction is that it’s short. I love a book I can knock out in a couple of hours, discuss over supper, and then forget. This is probably not what Man Booker Prize people consider the purpose of literary fiction, but whatever. Also, I tried to read the whatever-the-JK Rowling-pseudonym mystery was but gave up after 20 pages. I was intrigued, but there were so. many. adverbs. I can’t deal with that; I want to pull out a pen. Obviously she’s doing it correctly and I’m not–since she’s at a point in her career where editors won’t edit her harshly and I am homeschooling my daughter and rewriting the same book over and over again.
Speaking of editing (other people) I was obliquely mentioned twice in quick succession in a popular writers’ forum recently. Now, bear in mind the last book I edited was two years ago-ish. The first author mentioned I couldn’t handle the subject and asked to be taken off the project. True. It gave me flashbacks to my first pregnancy and I politely asked to be given something else. I had polite correspondence with the author afterwards, so while she wasn’t rude, I was slightly put out. Another author put me in a list of all her editors who’d left the company, saying I’d told her I stayed just long enough to finish her book. Also true, but then I was begged to do just one more and I did (not for the company’s benefit but for the author’s).
I don’t miss editing other people. I know there are some people who really love it, and that makes me happy. They exist! Editing my work? I love it. My millionth rewrite of my novel is almost done and I am pleased. I have never understood complaining about editing one’s own work. It’s fun. It’s matching game fun. It’s playing Tetris fun. It’s looking at this picture and thinking “Why, for the love of the FSM, did someone not put a semicolon here?” fun.
So…maybe sometimes I want to edit other people’s work. But rarely. Someone hand me a Sharpie.*
*Caveat: if this is ever defaced with a Sharpie, it wasn’t my doing.