A Story Between Genres

The following is an excerpt from an unpublished manuscript I wrote in 2009, and whose final genre I have yet to decide. It is currently written in Close Third-Person POV, and diverges at the fork between Nonfiction Memoir and Literary Fiction. It could go either way. Whichever genre emerges, it is the authenticity of the story that is most important. The following excerpt is a passage written to add depth and context to a pivotal character. The story is a work-in-progress.    

Linda sat on the picnic table in the backyard, the collar of her denim jacket turned up around her neck, her hands shoved deep into the pockets.  Although it was a bit nippy for September, she was enjoying being outside and alone. A brisk wind whipped through the bare branches of the Sycamore and Magnolia trees, stirring the dried leaves on the ground into whirling dervishes of red, amber, and gold color. The flowers on the rose bushes may have long withered away, but the fall foliage was just as nice. This was a good time of the year. In a week's time, school would start again; and she was looking forward to being away from home for most of the day.

She tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. Burning wood. One of her neighbors was using their fireplace. She loved fireplaces. They reminded her of scenes on Christmas cards. A bright fire lit, with all the family gathered around; everyone smiling and drinking mugs of steaming hot chocolate. The Hallmark cards always evoked feelings of happiness, contentment, and a peaceful home. Mother never lit their fireplace, which  was such a waste. What was the point of having one?

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