The rest of this chapter? Jesus, man. The idea that you were going to sell/publish this as a memoir is batshit insane.

In a memoir the writer finds meaning in the meaningless, purpose within the inexplicable unpredictable machinations of the universe. In addition, within the course of the memoir bad things happen without warning, without provocation, without conforming to narrative structure or arc. To wit, I enjoyed the bit with your parents and the French play is funny and clever, and was very memoiry. But, duuuuude, suspension of disbelief as it pertains to the supernatural isn’t something a memoir is built for, you know?

As a novel, this book can work. Maybe. But fiction isn’t real life and generally must in some way fulfill expectations of rising action and arc and cause and effect and reason and blah, blah, blah. Fiction can’t be too real either, can’t mirror reality’s cruel capriciousness too closely, otherwise most readers won’t buy in.

So right now, you’re stuck with one foot in each form, there, Arty. You should pick and stick with the novel. I will say this is surprisingly well written for someone who didn’t study writing formally. I don’t mean that as a shot, I just didn’t know you had this in you. Whatever this ends up being, at least it won’t have had the life sucked out of it—see what I did there?—by workshops and writing teachers.

A few more observations/questions for you before I take another long walk. And yeah, a smoke, okay?

What is my character’s motivation for shooting the Polaroid photos? It’s there in the text, but I think it’s somewhat hidden, so you likely haven’t spelled it out enough for some readers, especially the I-just-want-to-know-what-happens reader. I’m not judging. Much. Anyway, let’s talk this out. So, I tell you on the day we met I was looking for proof, which sort of maybe played out in the most recent chapter, though the readers don’t know if that woman with the blue blob photo was some kind of supernatural entity that, for the sake of clarity, fine, we’ll call a vampire. Ergo, my motivation for taking all the photos, particularly if I’m the 1890s Mercy Brown—though that doesn’t yet make sense, as Mercy’s heart was removed and burnt, and hence, cured, yeah? Maybe I’m a different person, one to be revealed later in the NOVEL?—was that I was hunting to find someone else who was a vampire like me. Right? It fits the loneliness/loner/didn’t-fit-in theme of the book. You didn’t fit in, and neither did I, and we both desperately wanted to. Readers are suckers for that kind of story because deep down inside none of us believe we belong. We fear we are imposters doomed to a life of imposting. Sorry, I couldn’t resist aping your writing style.