The last few weeks, I've been busy with holiday gatherings. And next week, I’ll be busy planning my spring courses, getting ready for the start of the semester. But this week, I’m working on my book.
What's wonderful is that my daughter is still home for another week. And she just happens to be a terrific editor.
This morning while my husband was at work, With-a-Why was at school, and the boys were still sleeping, I built a fire. My daughter and I settled down on the couch, with my laptop computer and a printed out copy of the manuscript, each chapter in its own manila folder. We’ve got a method: she reads each chapter, then we talk about it, and then I begin re-organizing that chapter, cutting out parts and adding new bits, while she starts reading the next. In between chapters, we drink cups of hot tea and devour squares of organic dark chocolate.
When we were both working, the house was so quiet that I could hear the fire crackling and the winter wind blowing through the chimes outside the window. We were sitting with our feet up on the couch, facing each other, sharing a red blanket that covered our legs. When I got up to put another log on the fire, my daughter said, “Hey, so long as you’re up, can you get me another cup of tea?”
“Sure,” I walked into the kitchen area to turn the burner on under the kettle.
“And can you get me a pen?” she asked. “There’s something wrong with this one.”
“Anything else you need?” I asked teasingly. “Am I your secretary now?”
“No, I’m your editor,” she said without hesitation. “Editors have bitches. Writers don’t.”