Cool nights and soft mornings mean flowering trees and bushes have a long term display before oppressive heat wilts the lovely show of color everywhere. The white dogwood shelters the ruby pink azaleas bordering my walkway. The days of rain guarantee emerald grass. Mountain pink in large clumps of lavender, white and pink mound along the neighbor’s driveway. The woodland is still dressed with soft green lace, not to burst into full-fleshed leaves for another week.
“Soft” is the operative word. We have a Cleveland sky today: flatiron gray, a bit harsh, without sun and not yet threatening rain. The breeze is soft. The light is softening, and the hummingbird is busy feeding on his fave sugar. Outside all seems right with the world.
It’s a day to continue a final stripping of extemporaneous words from the ever-present memoir. Scutwork that is tedious but makes me hold my head threatening headache. There is a fine line between tedious and terse. The endless search and seizure of the word “was” pushes me to postpone the work needed to make the correction. That word slows down the sentence, paragraph, story like being smacked with a board. It often requires reconstruction of many lines to keep the story but relieve it of that repetitive word. This is not the fun part of writing.
This part is like a puzzle, making the pieces fit. Think about it. You need not write, just talk to yourself, eliminating “was”. It belongs, but not too much. My editor watches it like a hawk. I think she sees the word as a bug, swooping down upon it like the eagle she is. So, I must think like her, a sturdy broom that sweeps clean, careful not to knock over the crystal and silver. Keep the good stuff, toss the stuff in the way. She is invaluable and way too busy. But maybe it’s keeping her young.
I slept in this morning, something I’m very ambivalent about. I love doing it but then despise what feels a waste of the best, and often the most productive hours. No breakfast yet, and if I don’t hustle, breakfast will be lunch, actually any minute now. Okay. Lunch it is. I have a fine selection, having made tarragon chicken salad yesterday. On a plain bagel with a cold iced tea and a few raspberries, I’ll be good to go.
Off to the bank to settle my affairs….sounds important, doesn’t it….I’m someone with affairs to settle…makes me laugh out loud…and then lunch while I work at the memoir. What’s left of the day will be productive as soon as I remember to call my sister to wish her happy birthday. She lives in Florida. We don’t see each other nor do we talk. We used to lament our aunts who lived within spitting distance of each other and ditto. Sigh.