The job of the editor

Mario sends me this.

Thanks bud.

The article from the Guardian is entitled “The Lost Art of Editing”.

My response to it is multi.

1.  For different writers, different levels of editing.  For the writers I know personally, they either have an editor whom they trust at their publishing house (the best selling writer of upscale bodice rippers, who lives in Victoria), a series of friends whose OCD and general fannishness will sniff out discrepancies (a writer based in SF who writes fluid drenched contemporary fantasy)  or nothing but himself, as he has been self published since he stood at the corner of Yonge and College with signs around his neck reading, for example, “Mutant Stories for Complete Idiots”.  Yes, I speak of Jo Beverley, Seanan McGuire and Crad Kilodney (fuck me, but I’d LOVE to see a writing panel with those three on it, it would kick ass although it might make Crad look bad as he always was a very politically incorrect dude and I know from personal experience that Seanan is powerfully smart and her ripostes emerge letter perfect at lightning speed.  Jo is a Good Person (one of the Dunnettfolk) who’s invested heavily in learning about various historical periods and has made herself very approachable to her fans.)

Different writers need different levels of editing.  Good writers have been ignored, and feted, and ignored and persecuted and then feted after they are dead since always, and bad writers have been celebrated and feted and then consigned to the great ashcan in the sky, since we started pressing wooden letters into clay tablets.  “Damnit!  Is Inanna spelled with two ‘n’s or three?”  Some need editing for content, some for style, some for grammar, some for plagiarism, some for plot, some should be edited out of existence, and some SHOULDN’T BE EDITED AT ALL.  Small children shouldn’t be edited at all unless it’s for school. There are some occasions which call for no editing, like rap battles and poetry slamming and “I will now depart from my previously prepared remarks” and ‘the dozens’ because the writing is still ‘in the air’ and hasn’t been committed to paper. You can say that’s not writing and really another art form, but to me the only difference is that it hasn’t been written down; it’s still communication, still words.

Which audience are you writing for and why?  My blog posts are full of typos. When I catch them and they are funny, I let them stand.  When they are really bad, my readers force me to correct them.  I suppose I could publish everything I’ve printed on my blog so far (there are publishers that make it easy to do that and it would be fun and tragic and revealing to interpolate later interpretations of events) and make those necessary corrections.  But as I say in my ABOUT page, the blog is for me and my mother.  Other people have used it.  My father is appalled by my lack of modesty.  Nah, appalled isn’t the right word.  I think perplexed and troubled is kinder and more accurate.   My mother is entertained, when she isn’t troubled (by her graciously acknowledged inability to understand just what the hell it is I’m on about) and perplexed (by cultural references that she couldn’t catch even if she had the Urban Dictionary, TVtropes.com and Wikipedia wired into a head’s up display on her glasses).

2.  For different audiences, different purposes in editing.  You don’t over edit some kinds of writing because the immediacy and urgency of it are lost in the process.  You edit the living shit out of user guides until somebody with a grade 8 education in the language you are writing in can understand what you’re doing.  Note to editors.  Number the fucking pages of your manuals, you jackassii.  Jeff and I had an interesting conversation on that line earlier this week.

3.  For different market categories, different levels of editing.  I think it’s more useful to divide all fiction writing into four categories.  Schlock, schlock with pretensions, literature and juvenilia.  (Non fiction categories: Manuals, Advertising, Propaganda, History, Science, Science with Pretensions, Transcripts of court documents, Diaries/Op-eds/commentary/blogs/tweets/reviews, How-tos, Lists and Self-help books).  Porn falls between fiction and non fiction, in my view.  (In the words of the Immortal Gord Downey:

 "How do I explain this, how do I put it into words,
It's one thing or another but it's neither this nor that")

Nearly everything I’ve ever written has been juvenilia and schlock with pretensions – even the homilies, especially the blog.  I spare only the songs and the poetry because of their emotional concision and broad applicability.  Helluva thing to say, but that’s how I feel.  How do I know? because I READ and I CARE.  Were I to actually work on another novel… which would be schlock with pretensions, since I simply don’t have a Work of Literature in me … and my mother was up for the job, I’d let her edit it because the woman is in her own quiet way a geeeeenius.

Literature is writing that irrespective of the era, gender or class of the person writing and the person reading speaks to and clearly describes some aspect of the human condition in a recognizable, non-reproducible and human voice.

That I have an extremely vivid and sophomoric writing style is no secret – but I am very much addressing my own era, class and gender when I write and I’m not thinking that’s a problem, just how it is.

Literature’s the only class of fiction writing where editing matters.  Everything else is temporary; to hold my writing to the standard of Marcus Aurelius, or the writing of Marcus Aurelius to the standard of 50 Cent’s tweets, is a classic category concept error.  Good writers will find good editors, always.  The downfall of language and writing is grossly overrated.  Writing will get better, always, because the best will always be getting better; fewer subjects will be off limits, and science will continue to inflect and bend writing into forms more beautiful, more recondite and more authentic.  Worry not folks.

Thus endeth my comments.

quhat a day

Quhat being Scots dialect for What.

The night before I didn’t contact the volunteers.  I was SO anxious and phobic that I literally could not pick up the phone.  (Most of the time I’m not affected by anxiety to that extent but making phone calls is really hard for me, and I’m trying to work out why.)  I realized that I was a wreck and went to bed.  I got up at 4:30 am, picked out and edited the poem I read for the children’s story, printed it, edited the homily a couple of times more for clarity and accuracy and printed it, went through the undifferentiated piles of emails that are the complete mess that is cooperative ministry right now and found to my surprise that I did in fact know who all the volunteers were (amusingly, Paul was supposed to do set up this weekend but he left town… Luc covered him) and they were all sober and reliable people who of course all showed up.  So my list of cooperative ministry (the volunteers who bop about the church and make things happen on Sunday morning, from the extremely amazing Sally (aesthetics) to the extremely amazing Laura (coffee) was actually accurate!

I even put in all the announcements that Rev Katie emailed me, AND put in a different graphic for the front cover AND got the order of service printed all by about 7:30.  Then I packed everything up, had a shower, and realizing I had a WHOLE HOUR before I had to get to church, so I did the sensible thing and made Jeff waffles for brekky.

Saw Margot crawl into the garden plot and flatten herself to the ground to become ‘invisible’ waiting for the juncos to come back through the quinoa.  Sorry kiddo… you ARE NOT invisible.

Went to church under overcast skies – I was the first person there so there’s that great feeling of unlocking all the doors and turning on all the lights

It’s time to play the music

It’s time to light the lights

It’s time to meet the Muppets on the Muppet Show tonight.

That kind of feeling, and then getting out the mats for the kids to sit on and helping set up the table for the altar and hauling out the podium and consulting with various folks, and watching as Sandy hauled out the enormous cart Tom made for the sound system. (Brief aside – we have hard of hearing folks in the congregation so we have a bunch of wireless headsets for amplification and all that stuff is in the cart, along with the board and the cabling etc etc.)  Then the greeter’s table is set up, and then parents come in to set up the kids (the older kids were off at a Catholic mass).  And just greeting people…. and then Tom and Peggy and Marnie show up, and music starts happening (12 string, stand up bass and piano).  Getting asked, once again, why it is I don’t consider ministry…. what am I supposed to say?  God told me not to?  I do not have a vocation, peeps!  When you get the call it’s unmistakable.  The only time I get a call that’s unmistakable it always ends badly, with me yelling “You freaking telemarketers, how did you get this number?!”  I’ll tell you why I’m not a minister…. because I read the behavioural standards that I would be expected to adhere to, like not sleeping with parishioners and ceasing to be nude in public on occasion and being somewhat less vivid and colloquial and vehement in my speech.  And don’t get me started on the drugs and alcohol stuff, it’s just unconscionable.  I’m also, not to put too fine a point on it, making the same amount of money as our current minister, who is 13 years out of school.  Ayuh.

Then it all started and it went very well.  I made the aside about being asked about which version of the Bible I was using for the verse and answering “Sheesh, Mom, what difference does it make to an atheist?” which got a huge laugh.  I have a lot of people to email the homily to.

I remember gazing at the congregation during the meditation and seeing Erin shifting her little one around trying to get her to latch, and passing my eye over all the mothers in the congregation and they (and a few of the men, truth be told) were all grinning.  They knew the feeling… after the service I went up to Erin with a mock look of distaste on my face and said, “Baby did NOT get memo about staying quiet during meditation!!!” and all the women clustered ’round her cracked up and chided me, and that’s when I told Erin how many people were smiling with their eyes closed as they heard the baby – I think she was pleased.

Delivering the homily and feeling comfortable enough to wander around the stage instead of staying glued to the podium like I have always done previously, remembering to look up often enough to connect with folks. It was easily the most attentive group evar….

Having all the handouts disappear. Anne in particular liked Carl Sagan’s baloney detection kit; somebody else, can’t remember who, saying that the little List of Cognitive Biases would make for an amazing conversation starter at Thanksgiving dinner.

Bringing strawberry twizzlers for snacks, and helping myself.

Talking, talking, to lots of people afterwards. Giving Carol a lift home in that magical fall sunshine that feels like summer filtered though dreams.

Blowing through the door like a hurricane and frying up the pork and onions for the stuffing, firing up the oven, stuffing the turkey, draping it with four pieces of thick cut bacon, jamming it in the oven, and ignoring it for about four hours. Katie calling to ask me if I’d forgotten anything and then showing up with cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and whipped cream.  (She called ahead and offered!  I am not a failure as a parent! subtext).  I then hauled the bird out once and basted it and put it back in while Katie and I made veg.  Falling asleep on the upstairs sofa and awakening to see that Mike and Rozo had arrived, which triggered another round of Holy Crap, Must Feed People.

Final dinner arrangement;

Me Jeff Katie Mike Rozo:

Turkey with pork, onion, apple, brown bread, sage and garlic stuffing; hubbard squash drizzled with maple syrup, black pepper, garlic and allspice, boiled carrots, mashed potatoes, dripping gravy, green salad and dun tot (egg tarts from Anna’s Bakery OMG provided by Mike & Rozo) for dessert.

I came upstairs and both of the cats were on the dining room table.  Margot was inspecting the last of the gravy…. Eddie looked hideously guilty and was licking his chops rather inelegantly (his tongue was out an inch) but Katie couldn’t find anything missing.  Eddie’s expression made me howl with laughter.

I then bopped over to Planet Bachelor with Katie in tow (didn’t feel like going over there by myself) fed Kira who was most happy to see us, and then came back, watched some tube with the folks, and then announced around nine-thirty that I’d had a most excellent but also most lengthy day and I was going to have to say my goodnights.  Katie slept over and now I’m going to get up and make her a breakfast that will be awesome.

And that was my very long, very happy making, most excellently wonderful Turkey Day.

Today I plan to drink beer and wash clothes.  There IS nothing else on my to do list that I will do today.  Well, actually, if I want to keep things copacetic with Jeff I should clean the kitchen and run the dishwasher.  It’s pretty thick in there.

Oh, I lie.  After breakfast I have to run to the bank and get some money.  I think I may be buying a guitar today.

Heron Woman does it again. I do nothing for days and then explode into non stop action.  It is my way.

I’m on Crad Kilodney’s mailing list

And that means, every once in a while, he sends me some news.

His latest news is that he has rewritten every one of Shakespeare’s plays in easy to understand language.  It’s actually called Shakespeare for White Trash.  The one I picked to start reading is Richard III. When I got to the line, “We’re not trying to bust your balls, Brakenbury,” I just about lost it.

I got about another two paragraphs before I cracked up again.  I’m looking forward to the whole thing.

That time I reported a bus driver

Minister Katie Stein Sather had a letter published in the Sun today. My Katie disappeared with the new camera last night, prompting Paul to nearly blow a head valve, as they say, but of course she brought it home safe and sound, and loaded with pictures of her …. friends. Not much else to report.

later…..

I have come to regret ever volunteering for the youth program at church. My heart tells me I am still doing the right thing, but I look at this pile of well meaning literature (which has come to my hand like the dreck of ages as oozed by VERY Nice ‘n’ Earnest Humans) and have to suppress a shudder. I will do it their way because that’s what they’re expecting, but I think about the Correction that is coming and I have to suppress another form of nervous tremor, which is me envisioning a Unitarian Gun Club. I mean really, if you were cursed with an imagination that could think up the Unitarian Gun Club without suffering cranial herniation…….. I am a sad sad puppy, and need to think about other times, things and higher stuff.

I committed labour unrest the other day, by reporting a bus driver for using a cell phone – while manipulating the bus MY preciousss heinie was parked on. Under normal circumstances this would generate an unproductive but bilious fury. Under these circumstances, which I am about to relate, which I witnessed with my two (still barely functioning) eyes, which really happened to me and belong to me until my neurons part with them – under these circumstances I did not transform into a dove but into a f*cking stool pigeon. Dear friends, relations, neighbours and strangers, there was a family of FIVE GERMAN TOURISTS in the front, aged 15 to 50, the boy and girls as bleached and Teutonic and GORGEOUS as it is possible to get without lurching into parody, the parents trim, big featured and intelligent looking. The looks on their faces as they watched the driver answer his phone and then PULL OUT OF THE STATION should, by rights, have knocked the phone out of his hand and onto the street. Now even then, all my relations, I might have kept my little cheese-eating paws in my pockets and swallowed the river of molten lava/bile that was mounting in me like the cork pressure behind Krakatoa’s little urk, BUT he made a mistake. He WAS TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH HE WAS GOING TO MAKE ON OVERTIME as he was on the phone. What’s a good citizen to do? Of course I ratted him out. Three f*cking strikes baby.

As the Bible says, a puppy will go back to its puke (okay, I’m paraphrasing, but not by much) I will go back into the mopes and wails of my life, telling them over like a rosary made of fossilized porcupine sh*t, ever so tactile. I guess the thing that makes me saddest (or maybe sadist, they’re pronounced the same way in my dialect) is thinking that teaching these kids peace love and understanding is not really gonna help them that much when the crap hits the fan. So I am not really inclined to teach principals that won’t keep you alive when evil men pack weapons, but I know that I must or abandon the post.

It says that a youth advisor must be drug free. I happen to really like beer, although I don’t imagine that I’ll drink that much around.

As a Canadian woman, I would be a fool, and the worst kind of feminist (in other words, impractical in my understanding of human nature) not to acknowledge the role that many thousands of Canadian men and women played in giving me the life I have today by valiantly parting with life in local and foreign wars on behalf of my ancestors, and the ancestors of the governors of my part of the world. I don’t believe for two seconds that anybody deserved to die in the conflicts of this last or any other century (okay Ceaucescu), but democracy is worth dying for (the ideal, not the nation state), if only because it seems the single chance for the improvement of self government.

Okay the boys are back from F 9/11 so I guess I’d better get away from the computer. I still think I’d like to teach UU Youth to blow things up, but I’ll have a hard time getting THAT on the curriculum.

teenangst infestation

not enough sleep
2004-08-21— Posted by: allegra

Well you can tell Katie’s back in town. At 10:30 JJ and Billy showed up with Natasha and two other boys and started verbally abusing her – Natasha not bothering to say a thing in her defence all the while – so she left for the skate park, shrugging and ignoring them. Fifteen minutes later they are still – all five of them, standing in easy earshot and yelling and carrying on so I asked them to kindly move along so I could sleep, no doubt getting sworn sotto voce at as they immediately and without demur walked away.

At 11:37 pm – Jesus – every light in the house was off do you suppose this kid could have collected a clue, some knob bangs on the door and rings the doorbell twice yelling for Katie. I didn’t even bother going down to the f*cking door, I just yelled at him from the sun room that Katie was not there and it was a little late, didn’t he think, to be disturbing people who have to be a work at 7 a f*cking m in the morning the next day? He apologized and skated off. Have no idea when Katie got home from the skate park but her shoes are here and her door is closed.

Keith appears to have had a wonderful trip and was very pleased that the Frank magazine was here when he got home.

In retrospect I look like a terrible parent

today’s mgmt tip
2004-08-19— Posted by: allegra

Suck UP. Bite DOWN.

Little furry animals
2004-08-19— Posted by: allegra

Winkie and Spud.

As you can see, the phrase ‘they get along as well as a dog and a cat’ really depends on the critters involved.

These animals own Mike, and crew-ell-eee force him to toil in the salt mines to buy them treats and keep them in luxurious (and remarkably work-free) accommodations. Winkie has very nice markings, in my opinion, a long and slender tail, and a one man cat kind of disposition. Spud is more of an obsession than a dog. Bone idle and a suck for attention, she coasts through life on her sunny personality.

nowhere close to enough sleep
2004-08-19— Posted by: allegra

In the words of the immortal Martha Ballard, my comforters are much as Job’s were.

My initial hunch that I would be better off not calling any of my friends about what’s going on right now was borne out; fortunately my family is being a lot more sensible about it. Nobody else believes – or appears to believe – that Katie will smarten up while she’s living with me; my loosey-goosey style of parenting would likely prevent this from happening. I go through phases when I want to kick her out, but they don’t last. I should steel my spine and just say, you don’t respect me, out you go. “She needs to go to someplace with a LOT of rules.” “You’ve done your best, it’s time to get out of the situation.” It’s like I’m the only person who believes she’ll smarten up, and I’m being gently rebuked for thinking so. The alternative, according to my friends, is that she’s going to end up dead, hard drug addicted or on the street selling herself or some dreadful combo thereof. Katie, if you’re reading this can you email (names deleted but available on request) and let them know that these – while interesting and dramatic life experiences – aren’t in your immediate plans? You might want to add something about how you have two parents, as well…. I mean, if you want to.

Interesting dreams. In one, Peter and Cheryl announced that they were going back to South Africa (and a very DIFFERENT lunch bunch all screamed about it, going on at length at what a bad idea it was (there were a bunch of people there, but it wasn’t my usual lunch bunch from work)). But they were adamant. That’s bloody weird, cause I can’t imagine them doing that except to visit.

Next, I was molested by forest trolls (picture the Egyptian god Bes except green and furry and two feet tall) and gotten beaten until I couldn’t see when I was spirited enough to bite one.

Then I was watching a giant picking up two little people, howling at them, “I’ll grind your bones to make my bread” at which point one said, “How unsavory!” and the other said, “How un …. sanitary!” Where’d that come from? Paul thinks he knows, see below. Also in other news from dreamland, Glen and I worked at the same place and seven people were laid off and we were both on notice that we were next and Glen said, “You’d better get your resume up to date!”

Then I had to fill out customs papers on a Hungarian typewriter. From the script of Starman “Weird you want, weird you get.” But I swear, officer, I did NOT melt that man’s lugwrench.

Snap back to reality, drum roll please. Paul was dreading going into work this morning, and rightly so. Air Canada skated out of bankruptcy by renegotiating all the union deals, all the deals with suppliers and creditors (same thing) and of course it made a deal with Cara. People on the bottom of the Cara Foods organization do NOT make what I consider a living wage (specially in THIS burg). Air Canada wrung concessions from Cara and then Cara blithely asked some very poorly paid, mostly immigrant, sandwich cutters and food preparers, if they could offer up some bone mass for the next Air Canada passengers’ meal in the form of wage concessions. I know that conservatives will argue that there is no moral difference between getting a 5% concession out of a regional pilot who makes 70K a year and getting a 5% concession out of a sandwich cutter who makes 20K a year, (and the market will reward sandwich cutters who improve their educations, etc.) but conservatism aside, there’s a practical difference. Full marks if you spot it. Anyway, Paul, who has already had his pay packet lightened by some hundreds of dollars a month (and is content to keep still for it if he keeps his job, true so far, and the management quits p*ssing away money on paint jobs and VPs of French Communication, which so far is not true – 27 VP’s for a company in bankruptcy protection???? I prob’ly don’t have the number right but Paul hauled out the org chart a while ago and we reviewed it with bile, liberally mixed with disbelieving fury), is furious on behalf of the Cara employees. He is so upset that I can’t repeat what he said because it’s the kind of things that makes lawyers turn green, then slowly flush. Anyway, Cara is on strike effective today, so I’m sure the food purveyors in the airports will be smart enough to make bag lunches for the masses – or will they? Capitalism is not as quick off the mark as everybody says it is. Sorry I’m writing so parenthetically, I’ve got a mind like a trash compactor.

I went over to Hank and Margaret’s last night. Terence was utterly charming – he kept running up to me and patting my leg and then running away. I collected ‘the story so far’ of the youth curriculum and at least we got that out of their basement – and into our front room. Paul grumbling throughout.

I have to confirm if it’s circle tonight and then we pick up the kids tomorrow. Another grisly day awaits. Okay, it isn’t grisly, I’m just spoiled. And seeing as how I’ve gone off, maybe it’s time for a shower.

marmots via Jerome

marmot sighted
2004-08-18— Posted by: allegra

Head for the hills! Provided by Brother Jerome, taken at Garibaldi. PLEASE SEND FURRY ANIMAL PICTURES, especially if they are digital, reasonably detailed or have a good story connected with them. This means you, Glen and LJ!.

I will have to make a second post for the second picture as you can’t post more than one picture at a time in a single post with this software.

marmot sighted
2004-08-18— Posted by: allegra

Head for the hills! Provided by Brother Jerome, taken at Garibaldi. PLEASE SEND FURRY ANIMAL PICTURES, especially if they are digital, reasonably detailed or have a good story connected with them. This means you, Glen and LJ!.

I will have to make a second post for the second picture as you can’t post more than one picture at a time in a single post with this software.

not enough sleep
2004-08-18— Posted by: allegra

Have confirmed that both of the kids are coming home on Friday night. I am just dazzled at the email I got from Keith. Apart from the one typo (and hell, I’ve made some dandies) it was a masterpiece; entertaining, informative, well constructed and droll as all get out. He really didn’t sound like an 18 year old man except in his enthusiasms. (Boys and toys). Anyway, he actually did get to shoot at things and is claiming good accuracy. (I’m a pretty boy! I’m a bright boy! – which is actually a quote from Frank Magazine which Keith and I use all the time – the follow up is a dour “Please! Silent affirmations!!)).

Glen is trying to get me to use wordpress which will make this site a lot more interactive, but I am being somewhat Luddite and having problems with the back end. I mean I log on and look at things but I don’t really know how to do stuff, so I think I’m going to have to admit my ignorance and get some coaching. I did download it and the documentation looks really good.

Various people I’ve lit virtual candles for are doing better, so that’s a bonus. Anyway, if I’m going to make the bus I’d better assemble my feces and fly. Completely inadequate in the sleep department. My eyes are squeaking again and I’m yawning convulsively and repeatedly.

Was very pleased to hear that Meg the Temp is going to be with us until September. The department she’s going into is short staffed. I would run out of adjectives to describe how badly.

Raillery
2004-08-18— Posted by: allegra

Pictured is the newest bird, the Calayan Rail. Locals call it a piding. I have to ask, how the hell did the wildlife biologists miss a bird that’s wearing conspicuity garments? Native to the Philippines but not for long, apparently. They found it while it was on the verge of extinction.

John Kerry dream

Last night I dreamed that John Kerry, with a straight face, offered to be p*ss tested, and asked that his worthy opponent do the same. I woke up chuckling. I’m sure the Repulsigans would just love that. “I’m sorry, John, but the President’s urine is none of your concern.” “How dare he make the president’s urine an election issue?” While all the Dem pundits go, “Of course he’s refusing, let’s speculate on what he has to hide!!!”

Watched the Michael Moschen tape again last night. It’s on its last legs. Ma, if you’re reading this can you ask pOp if he would be so kind as to rip me one (if you folks still have the original)? The only way we could watch it was if Keith rested his heel on top of the VCR to keep the tape stuffed a little further down into the track. Otherwise I’m going to have to go on ebay and see if somebody can’t sell me a copy. I’m also looking for a copy of Blown Sideways through Life; if anybody has one I’ll gladly pay for one.

I just made peach duff and I’m going to leave you soon to go consume it. Then shower, off to the down town church to return the labyrinth, then off to Stef’s bar b q and then we’ll figure out what else to do depending on the weather. Dave D (2019 edit not my poetical friend, a coworker) is getting married today. I really hope the weather cooperates a bit more.

Dropped 417 dollars at the vet’s yesterday. Another 800 waiting in the wings – as suspected Zeek!’s teeth are bothering him. Kira apparently has asthma, which I don’t believe for a minute. I figure as soon as she has some of her other health problems cleared up (and the vet said she was an amazingly fit cat all things considered) she’ll quite horking every evening. Considering we’ve never spent a nickel on them except for shots and food, and we’ve had them six years, we can’t complain…. we just have to amortize the cost….. Kira was an angel at the vet… Zeek! does NOT do pills. He bites and wiggles like a snake.

Visit with Lynn

Nice long visit with Lynn J. over at her sister’s place in Coquitlam last night. Her children, 6 and 4 apiece, Tegan and Connor, are very smart and very cute – the usual scary modern combination. She’s visiting from Barrie and is headed back tomorrow.

 

There was a pair of shoes I didn’t recognize in the back hallway this morning. I have no idea who slept over last night. I assume it was a girl from the size of the feet. Warned Keith not to wander around naked.

It continues to rain, and as far as we can tell no water is coming into the basement.

Paul borrowed a pressure washer from Tom L. last night.

RIVERBEND POSTED AGAIN – I am so happy. She hadn’t posted since the 18th of June and I was praying nothing had happened to her.

More later.