Today, I finished uploading our holiday journal to the PC. While I had been doing this, it was interesting to discover just how little information I had managed to write down all those years ago. For instance, we visited Norwich, one of the largest and oldest cities in Norfolk, and all I wrote down that evening was one and a half sentences, and they were cryptically short sentences too.
Now, I do remember being far too busy enjoying ourselves to worry about the content of a journal, but a little more detail would have been nice. I shouldn’t really complain, for my writing habits haven’t changed much over the years. Because of my appalling memory, I scribble copious amounts of cursive notes on anything within reach, only to look at them a few days later and wonder what the hell I was trying to say. And that’s when I can actually read them!
Editing this WIP will be difficult, to say the least, as I am fishing through parts of my brain that haven’t seen daylight in years, so I am enlisting the help of everyone who was there with me to add their memory to mine. But after several cries of “Bloody hell, Jaye, that was 40 years ago!” it looks as though I am on my own with a memory that has always resembled Emmental cheese.
Which brings me to a question. If this book turns out to be 40% fact (remembering) and 60% fiction (imagination) which category do I put it in?
All answers seriously considered…