Eighteen people ate Thanksgiving dinner at my house on Thursday. The noise in my small dining room was deafening, the dogs all got along, DP and I did not snap at each other once [first time ever during a major production like this], and most of the dishes are now done if not completely put away.
When I came home from driving Eldest Sister to the airport bus, I told DP that I was going to wander around the house naked in celebration because there were no more people in the house! [Note from management: This was an empty threat as the Indy/DP household is far too cold and has far too many windows for such a thing.]
Then I went to bed.
When I regained consciousness, I discovered that The Fucker did not make the short list of fancy schmancy contest. And I despaired. It’s not that I expected to win said contest, but rather, the book is still not done and I’m not sure how to pull it all together. DP reminded me that it took my grad school mentor 7 years to write his memoir. It took Cheryl Strayed 10 years. The more time it takes, the more time I have to think through the implications and find the story.
I suspect I have still not nailed down the story. The contest email talked about many of the common faults of the memoirs that did not make the cut. One was that the author adds every detail “of interest” rather letting the details reveal the clear narrative. Guilty as charged.
I haven’t decided whether I’m going to go back to my schlock novel and give The Fucker a rest or if I’m going to dive back in. Maybe I should continue to write or work on spin-off essays and wait for January, which is traditionally my own Nanowrimo, for thoughts on restructuring.
But right now I’m going to celebrate the fact that I have no houseguests, if not with nakedness then maybe by eating the last piece of pie.