Pridian (j)

111.  Eleventy, for all the hobbits out there.  The last word for 2012 is...

pridian

Pridian is an adjective meaning "of or relating to a previous day or yesterday." In this case, it will so be yesteryear.  Good-bye 2012.  May 2013 spur us on to great things! 

Hermetic (j)

Day 110 of Adventures in Logophilia.

hermetic

Hermetic means "airtight", difficult or impossible for one of ordinary knowledge to comprehend, and "resistant to outside forces."  In other words, like a hermit.  

Does this sound familiar to you, fellow writers?  When in the midst of crafting our respective universes, whether we're in a quiet space or a noisy high-traffic area, we are shutting ourselves off from the world in order to properly interact with new inner worlds.  There will be minor instances of leakage (more inwards than outwards), but for the most part, these worlds are self contained until they're ready to be released.  Like an egg hatching or a can opening.

This puts me in mind of Schrodinger's cat, a quantam mechanics gedankenexperiment (thought experiment) of the 1930s.  Put a cat in a sealed box with a radioactive atom and a poison.  Is the cat alive or dead?  The thought is that the cat is both alive and dead until the box is opened and the cat is actually observed - the mechanism being tripped and the cat dead.  This was not a serious experiment, by the way.  It was never meant to be carried out, but was rather a discussion point Dr. Schrodinger had with his intellectual contemporaries on quantam physics, Einstein being one of them.  From a creative standpoint, we as writers are a bit like Schrodinger's poor (albeit metaphorical) cat; the outside world has no idea what is going on inside our box (our hermetically-sealed creative world) until the box is forced open or... the cat itself comes out.  I'm not saying "Stay in your box!  Be a hermit!  Reject all social interacts!"  In fact, I see this as a natural state, when we're in the midst of our craft; a story or a novel will incubate as a mystery until it comes out into the world, and all bets are off.  Stephen King uses the phrase "keeping the door shut" until a story is ready for an audience.  Until then, embrace the hermitage.  And afterwards, find your friends in the world and make them wonder what you're up to the rest of the day!

Myth: Ideal Writing Conditions (j)

Cassandra Mortmain writing in the 2003 film version of I Capture the Castle.

Last week, the weekly quote was from E. B. White who wisely said, "a writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper." The bare essentials to writing are a means of conveying words (paper, pen, keyboard) and a committment to fleshing out those words.  It doesn't matter where it happens and under what conditions.  Just that it happens.  "Ideal conditions" are a myth.

Stephen King wrote his stories as a full-time high school English teacher, staying up through the odd hours of the morning.  J. K. Rowling created Harry Potter and Hogwarts in cafes, taking care of her infant daughter. Stories are written on trains, on planes, on the road; in libraries, and in the back of lecture halls.  Art springs up anywhere, and thrives on adverse situations. 

 

Anne Frank hard at work in 1941, before the Annex.

I was an avid grade-school reader when I discovered Anne Frank's diary at the local used book store and read her for the first time.  She is one of the reasons I was first motivated to put pen to paper and seeing what I could with the words in my head.  She had a strong narrative voice, a bit sassy, but vigorous in ways i myself wasn't.  I related to her because we were the same age, because she was entering into confusing teenage years, and because she was honest about what she recorded in her diary.  She was (and is) more articulate than my friends and I were at that age, which intrigued me.

Anne is the champion of writing in adverse conditions.  Not merely because she and her family were hiding from the Gestapo, but logistics as well.  She had to share a room with the cranky, middle-aged Dr. Pfeffer (called Dussel in the published version of the diary) who monopolized the writing desk and didn't take her school work, her love of languages, history and stories seriously.  He wasn't the only one, and Anne (as a cornered teenager will naturally do) referred to herself as the misunderstood "Benjamin of the Annex." This did not stop her from writing. In fact, the diary is just one product of Anne's creativity during her time in the Annex; she wrote fairy tales and novel all while being shooed from one end of the apartment to the other, hiding in the attic, fighting horrible depression and the fear of death.  It makes my excuses of not wanting to get up early and write look awfully petty.  Anne had little space to work in, cheap (black market) exercise books to use and a plethora of daily interruptions, and she continued to write using what she had, using the time that was given her.

On 13 July 1943 Anne relates an incident with Mr. Pfeffer/Mr. Dussel over a matter of "the best little table."

Yesterday afternoon Father gave me permission to ask Mr. Dussel whether he would please be so good as to allow me (see how polite I am?) to use the table in our room two afternoons a week, from four to five-thirty. I already sit there every day from two-thirty to four while Dussel takes a nap, but the rest of the time the room and the table are off-limits to me. It's impossible to study next door in the afternoon, because there's too much going on.  Besides, Father sometimes likes to sit at the desk during the afternoon.  

So it seemed like a reasonable request, and I asked Dussel very politely.  What do you think the learned gentleman's reply was? "No." Just plain "No!"

I was incensed and wasn't about to let myself be put off like that.  I asked him the reason for his "No", but this didn't get me anywhere.  The gist of his reply was: "I have to study, too, you know, and if I can't do that in the afternoons, I won't be able to fit it in at all... Mythology - what kind of work is that?  Reading and knitting don't count, either.  I use that table and I'm not going to give it up... You're not the only one who can't find a quiet place to work.  You're always looking for a fight.  If your sister Margot, who has more right to work space than you do, had to come to me with this request, I'd never even have thought of refusing..."

5 April 1944: epiphany and determination

I finally realized that I must [emphasis Jillian's] do my schoolwork to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because that's what I want!  I know I can write.  I few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of diary is vivid and alive, but... it remains to be seen whether I really have talent.

11 April 1944: A break-in

"We should hide radio!' moaned Mrs. Van D.

"Sure, in the stove," answered Mr. Van D. "If they find us, they might as well find the radio!"

"Then they'll find Anne's diary," added Father.

"So burn it," suggested the most terrified of the group.

This and the police rattling on the bookcase were the moments when I was most afraid.  Oh, not my diary; if my diary goes, I go too!



Anne Frank: knew from an early age to be serious about her craft, especially in adversity.

Another recent quote I shared was from I Capture the Castle.  Dodie Smith's novel opens with Cassandra Mortmain beginning her first notebook:

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.  That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with our dog's blanket and a tea cozy... I found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring.  I wrote my very best poem sitting on the henhouse.

Cassandra lives with her family in a dilapidated castle in humiliating and hilarious poverty in the late 30s.  She has the right idea: try new scenes, new places.  Living in the castle she writes in the attic, in the towers, on the hillsides... romantic setting, inspiring vistas, and while she is uncomfortable, hungry and never quite satisfied, she finds ways to find beauty and humor in everyday life.  And yet, she comes up with clever solutions - not necessarily to fix the problems she has with her writing environment but to use the resources that are available to her.  She knows she will be interrupted, cold or miserable but she writes anyway and doesn't complain about it.  I have learned a lot from her charisma.
 

Cassandra writes in bed, while sister Rose talks.

Places Cassandra writes:

• kitchen sink
• kitchen table
• attic
• in bed
• tower
• father's desk in the gatehouse
• the mound

 

p. 24: writing by candlelight

I wonder if I can get a few more minutes' light by making wicks of match sticks stuck into the liquid wax.  Sometimes that will work.

It was no good - like trying to write by the light of a glow-worm.  But the moon has fought its way through the clouds at last and I can see by that.  It is rather exciting to write by moonlight.

p. 26



I don't intend to let myself become the kind of writer who can only write in seclusion - after all, Jane Austen wrote in the sitting-room and merely covered up her work when a visitor called (though I bet she thought a thing or two) - but I am not quite Jane Austen yet and there are limits to what I can stand....  it is extremely cold up here, but I am wearing my coat and my wool gloves, which have gradually become mittens all but one thumb; and Ab, our beautiful pale ginger cat is keeping my stomach warm - I am leaning over him to write on the top of the cistern.

p. 187

This is the first time I have used the beautiful manuscript book Simon gave me - and the fountain pen which came from him yesterday. A scarlet pen and a blue and gold leather-bound book - what could be more inspiring?  But I seemed to get on better with a stump of pencil and Stephen's fat, shilling exercise book.

  

Cassandra is also a queen of creative solutions and executes them determinedly.  She and younger brother Thomas attempt to break their writer father's creative block by imprisoning him in the old tower behind the castle.  The siblings know their father must write again to save his spirit.

p. 314

I felt dreadful, but Thomas seemed quite unconcerned.  He hauled up the basket father had filled, took out the plates and dishes, and put the dinner in.  I think he knew I was weakening, because he whispered: "we've got to go through with it now. You leave it to me." Then he lowered the basket and called down firmly:

"We'll let you out just as soon as you've written something - say fifty pages."

"I could never write fifty pages in less than three months even when I could write," said father, his voice cracking worse than ever.  Then he flopped into the arm-chair and gripped his head wth his hands.

"Just unpack your dinner, will you?" said Thomas. "You'd better take the coffee pot out first."



Father looked up and his whole face went suddenly scarlet.  Then he made a dive at the dinner basket, and the next second a plate flew past my head.  A fork whizzed through the door just before we got it closed.  Then we heard crockery breaking against it.

I sat down on the steps and burst into tears... "Please, please don't throw all your dinner dishes until you've eaten what's on them.  Oh, won't you just try to write, father?  Write anything - write 'The cat sat on the mat' if you like.  Anything, as long as you write!"

How does Mr. Mortmain begin his long awaited novel?  THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT. 

Lastly: Stephen King, whose memoir on writing has been a tremendous help to me, writes about his dream desk:

For years, I dreamed of having the sort of massive oak slab that would dominate a room - no more child's desk in a trailer laundry-closet, no more cramped kneehole in a rented house.  In 1981 I got the one I wanted and placed it in the middle of a spacious, skylighted study... For six years I sat behind that desk either drunk or wrecked out of my mind, like a ship's captain in charge of a voyage to nowhere... A year or two after I sobered up, I got rid of that monstrosity... I got another desk - it's handmade, beautiful and half the size of the T. rex desk.  I put it at the far west end of the office, in a corner under the eave.  That eave is very much like the one I slept under in Durham [his childhood home]...

Put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room.  Life isn't a support system for art.  It's the other way around.

 

I was a teenager in the tiniest bedroom of the house and wrote a long, long sci-fi epic (alas unpublishable), four years of high school papers and massive journals.  I didn't hate my room, but it wasn't the best environment.  Until I was presented with a large wooden writing desk at age twelve, I perched on the edge of my bed and wrote my pages, front and back, on a piece of old foam board.  I did what I could to make the room better: plastering the walls with inspirations and rearranging my furniture every few months (not an easy feat when the bed takes up roughly a third of the room).  But I was happy.  I got things done.  I forced myself out of my room and into my characters' lives, and that was gold.  These days I try to put myself in this mentality in my current situation, even if I'm not completely satisfied.  I still use my old desk and don't necessarily love it, but it has loyally traveled with me to college, to my first post-college apartment, and is under my computer as I write this post in my current home. 
 
Writers thrive under less than ideal circumstance: in the rickety chair, at the tilting kitchen table, in the barn, in a room filled with noisy people, with a cat constantly jumping up in one's lap and walking across the desk.  These conditions flavor us and build up our carapace. The world is our office. Waiting for ideal conditions is simply an excuse not to write, even though - as proved by the sheer fact of our creative drive - we have the tools to make these conditions useful.  Granted, we're a stubborn bunch, but how awesome is it to say, "Yes, I shall write today even if this coffee shop is noisy and the coffee bitter, even if the cat jumps all over me and the dog whines on the other side of my door, even if that awesome television show is calling to me like a Siren."

I've been pondering the phraseology of "full-time writer." What is a full-time writer, anyway?  Well, you say (wondering if I've asked a trick question), it's someone who is fortunate to be able to write for a living by freelancing, writing stories, publishing novels.  Yes, a typical day in the life of a full-timer looks like heaven to us office-job-or-otherwise people.  But I don't "qualify" to have the "full-time" sticker next to my name simply because it isn't how I earn my bread?  Silly.

Writing is so much more than something to fill in those hours here at work.  Writing is a lifestyle, an attitude.  Courage and grace under fire!  It gets me out of bed and enables me to interact better with the world.  Nor does a writer ever really have the day off.  We're constantly processing, moving through our stories (if you open mail like I do, this is an ideal brain-time).  "Ideal" would be a place to myself, where I'm free from interruptions (no phones or walk-ins); but do I need ideal?  And is it really a solution or a distracting dream?

If you're fortunate enough to have a job where you can write in spurts as you work, take advantage of it... albeit discreetly. Get up early in the morning because your story means something to you.  Netflix and Redbox are not adverse conditions; they're choices.  Having trouble connecting to your story?  Try writing it by hand.  Don't like your handwriting?  There are ways you can improve it.  How much are you feeding your artist-child?  Read!  Take creative outings!  Go on quiet walks!  And give yourself more credit for weathering the storm!

Someday we might have that dream office or the quiet house, but until then, embrace the place in which you're writing now.  It's helping you more than you might think.

Happy writing!

Lickspittle (j)

Day 109.

lickspittle

This is a name for a fawning subordinate, or a suck-up.  Another similar term I've had on the brain is "boot-licker." It makes one giggle, doesn't it?

Fleer (j)

Day 108. 

fleer

A fleer is a look or a word of derision or mockery.  This comes from a Scandinavian verb which means "to laugh or grimace derisively." I always thought fleer would be an excellent name for a villain.  Enter Mr. (or Mrs.) Fleer and his permanent scowl.

Verso (j)

Day 107.

verso

A verso is the left-hand page of an open book, or the back of a loose document. 

Silver Thaw (j)

Day 106

silver thaw

A silver thaw is a glassy coating of ice formed on the ground or an exposed surface by freezing rain or the freezing of thawed ice.

Mull (j)

Day 105.  Merry Christmas!  Today's word is...

mull

To mull is to cogitate over something deeply and at length.  To mull wine one warms it and adds 2 tablespoons mulling spices (cinnamon, cloves, allspice, etc.) and sugar.  Judging from Oxford Dictionaries, the second usage of mull seems to be a century older.  So... somehow the term for spicing Christmas wine became the term we use when deep in thought.  Mulling involves a twenty-minute simmer, letting the spices mix with the fruity elements of the wine, producing a warm, delicious aroma.  This simmer - not a hard, obvious boil - is a great metaphor for serious under-the-surface thought: it can't be (nor mustn't be) rushed; is quiet, not shouted; and the results are worth waiting for.  As writers, we're mulling over a thousand things at once, envisioning worlds at a continuous simmer.  The longer these worlds soak in the spices of inspiration, the sweeter they'll be. 

Iceblink (j)

Day 104

iceblink

Iceblink is the bright appearance of the sky caused by reflection from a distant ice sheet.  This puts me in mind of a Tori Amos phrase, snowblind, from her song of the same name, "SnowBlind":

Some get snowblind
with the daylight
but then with the night
for once see clearly...

We're experiencing a particular iceblink, snowblind day.  Despite the darkness that surrounds the solstice, and the unavoidable fact that our hemisphere is turned farther away from the sun, sun light is actually much brighter now on clear days like this when it reflects off the sun.  Winter can be brighter (though colder) than summer.  There is poetry here.

Dreams, Visions & Reality (Jillian)

Dreams and visions are part of the ineffable human experience - the voice of our subconscious working through problems, presenting us with improbable but not impossible challenges, worst-case scenarios.  They reveal our anxieties, force us to confront them in our waking lives.  A life line.  The red cord we follow through the Minotaur's labyrinth. Naturally, they find their way into our stories as that nebulous, unexplained but felt stuff.  Scientists still cannot fully explain the function of these workings of the subconscious, but deep down we already know what dreams are saying to us, how they're guiding us, and that we'll follow. 

It can be argued that dreams and visions are an overused device in writing and films - a short cut out of a plot tangle or tacked onto the end of a story as a sort of apology for the improbably of a scenario.  Dorothy wakes up in her own bed surrounded by her family, as if they'd been there the entire time, as if Oz didn't exist.

Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 2

 

Twilight Breaking Dawn: worse case scenario.

You've heard my opinion that films and stories as a general rule are different animals.  They have to show things in different ways: images versus words.  The narrative of the book is no longer first person but completely, intimately and cosmically omniscient.

The last film of the Twilight series deviated from the book one particular note. Bella is newly a vampire, and Bella and Edward's daughter has caught the attention of the malignant Volturi coven who have come to destroy their family.  In the book, the confrontation between the Cullens and their friends and the Volturi is little more than a trial and testimonials in the snow, wrought with tensions that are eased only by frank discussions, and Bella's preparedness to protect everyone she can.  The book preps us for a battle that never comes.  The film, on the other hand, shows us the battle that would have been: a battle begins with the beheading of Carlisle Cullen. 

Gasps in the theatre.  The battle sequence was intense, the body count high with Carlisle, Jasper and others among them.  Only at the end, when Edward and Bella successfully tear Volturi leader Aro's head from his shoulders do we realize that this entire battle has taken place in Alice Cullen's head and Aro has seen it all.  Of course! Perfect sense! I thought; Alice has the ability to see the future, and Aro is a mind reader.  We breathe out our relief as we realize that Carlisle and Jasper are still alive, that Edward and Bella's daughter is safe and that the Volturi have no reason to stay.  For now.

I can see why there would be skepticism about this vision.  It does seem to lean toward a cheap gag, a way to fill in the action-vacuum left by the novel, and play Gotcha! with the filmgoers.  The temptation is to say "that entire sequence was a LIE!" But... it worked for me... because this dream-battle was already a possibility, and most certainly experienced.  Sometimes you need to see the train wreck in order to prevent it from happening.  Did it happen?  No.  Does it matter?  Yes: it's all the better for having not happened.  Is it a lie?  Nope.

Doctor Who

 

Worse case scenario: the Doctor in the Master's birdcage.

Doctor Who uses this quite frequently.  Series Three saw the world taken over by the Master who opens a paradox to the end of the universe, tortures the Doctor and imprisons him in a bird cage.  Martha turns the Master's psychic network against himself and time reverses back a year - back before the world completely fell apart.  Only those standing at the "eye of the storm", on the ship where the Master launched his evil plans, remember what they'd gone through.  The world is none the wiser.  Did it happen then if time reversed itself?  Just ask the Doctor, Martha and Captain Jack. 

Life on Mars (UK)

 

Sam Tyler: Am I mad, in a coma, or have I traveled in time?

Another example - and possible SPOILER ALERT for those of you haven't seen it and want to see experience it spoiler free - involves the UK television show Life on Mars (which ended in 2005).  The question driving the series was whether Sam Tyler, a detective inspector who wakes up inexplicably in 1973 Manchester, is dead, in a coma or has actually traveled in time.  The writers do an excellent job of keeping us guessing and speculating.  Don't read the next paragraph if you're in the midst of a first-time viewing.

We come to learn that Sam's experiences in 1973 are (supposedly) the result of a brain tumor, and that his final challenges gear him toward a successful surgery and finally waking up.  When he does, he finds the "real" world colorless and lonely.  Sam, longing for the friendships and the hirsute situations of 1973, jumps off of a building, essentially committing suicide in order to return.  He does return to 1973 as if nothing had happened, to tie up loose ends, (finally) kiss the girl and drive off into the sunset.  Is the glimpse of happiness a lie?  Well... I thought of it as Sam returning to the world that was most real to him.  Crossing the threshold does signify a death, but not of Sam.  Instead, it is the death of what he has always believed is reality.  Sam's tumor-coma-dream pointed him back to the dream itself, asking us the question: what is our reality? 

The X-Files: "Dreamland"; Harry Potter

 

Mulder as Morris Fletcher.

There's another example - neither vision nor dream, but reality gone completely upside down.  In Season 6 of The X-Files, Mulder switches bodies with the despicable lie-mongerer Morris Fletcher due to a time-displacement accident at Area 51.  Mulder, looking like Fletcher, has to convince Scully of his true identity, while Fletcher, looking like Mulder, takes over Mulder's life, desperate to escape his own.  In other words, the worst has happened (not so bad as the Master controlling the universe, but...).  Mulder is without Scully and the X-Files, and no matter what he does, he cannot set it right.  Fletcher, content in Mulder's shoes, ensures it stays that way. The situation - hilarious as it at times - is completely unsolvable until the time displacement errors (long story) reverse on their own.  Life resumes and no one remembers, but there are hints that things did change: a penny and dime stuck together and the new furniture in Mulder's apartment.  Did it happen?  Yes.  Do the characters need to know?  No, but we need to know. 

A function of dreams - particularly nightmares - is theorized to be how the brain works out worst-case scenarios, trains us and prepares us to face the anxieties that taunt and haunt us in our waking lives.  Sometimes it's hammy and glitchy. Other times it is profound... while being forever baffling.  Is it real?  Is it not?  Is it The Matrix or a different level of consciousness?  If you've seen Christopher Nolan's Inception, you know how entire films can make us think about this long after our minds have been blown away in the theatre.  We will never stop asking those questions.  And that's a good thing!

In Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows, you may remember that Harry, after facing Voldemort for the last time, finds himself in an empty train station with Dumbledore.  Dumbledore is dead but conveying his wisdom to Harry from beyond the grave, answering what until now has been an uncertain question: will Harry live or die?  Is this heaven or some sort of waiting room?  Harry asks Dumbledore if seeing him in this empty place is a dream or if it is real.  Dumbledore says that it is both.  This has become one of my greatest fantasy-writing mantras.

Dumbledore: of course it's real.

The magic of story telling is not to ask whether or not something TRULY happened, but what said event says about the characters, their possible limits, and how they fulfill and surpass our expectations.  Dreams are real, a crucial element of the human psyche.  A dream sequence will fall flat if it fails to speak beyond "what if" and make us ask that question of our ourselves.  Did it happen?  What is reality, anyway?  What does this say about that particular character, what he's capable of, where he's going, what he could never do?  Those questions continue on, and make me want to write until my hands fall off.

Camber (j)

Day 103

camber

A camber is the curve of a road's surface that allows water to drain off to the sides. 

True story: I once used camber as a name - a sort of modification of the name Amber with Cameron.  I had no idea Camber was an actual term until I happened across it in my lexicographical searches.  Has this ever happened to you?

Auteur (j)

Day 102

Auteur

An auteur is the term for a film director who practice accords with the auteur theory, influencing a film so much to count as its (sole) author.  More broadly, this refers to an artist (especially a musician or a writer) whose style and practice make his/her work distinctive.

Mirth (jillian)

I've been elbow-deep in Christmas puddings this month, hence the quiet at Daedalus.  2013 is on the horizon.  I plan to begin the year by writing the blog by hand through January.  Wish me luck!  I have longer pieces in the works, as well, including a post on visions and dreams.  Thanks for reading and writing along with me!

Adventure 101 in Logophilia is...

mirth

A Christmasy word, but perhaps one we don't hear very often outside of Dickensian stories.  Mirth (n) is, simply, gladness or gaeity accompanied with laughter; its near synonyms being glee, jollity, hilarity and merriment. 

My ideal Christmas is just that: gladness and laughter.  In 2009, I was snowbound with my family over the 25th and 26th.  The roads were a mess.  We couldn't leave the house.  But we were warm.  We spent the day reading and cooking the Christmas feast.  My parents, who received Nerf guns that year from my sister, would occasionally shoot foam missiles at each other like two little kids.  I read Wives and Daughters in the window, watching the birds.  That was the year a Cooper's hawk came and gobbled up a little unsuspecting junco in the snow.  Not exactly mirth for the junco, but for us it was a testament to being safe indoors, able to watch the goings-on in the wintry world and knowing we were together and well-fed (overfed) and laughing.  It doesn't get much better than this!

AIL Day 100: beatific

Day 100!  Today's word is

beatific

To be beatific is to have a blissful appearance; appearing to be saintly ("beatified") or angelic. This is not an approximate synonym for beautiful, although I have seen it used as if it was. 

AIL Day 99: jabberwocky

Today's adventure in logophilia is

jabberwocky

This excellent word was invented by Lewis Carroll, author of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass.  Outside of Alice's adventures jabberwocky refers to meaningless speech or writing, jibberish.  I rather think of jabberwocky as one's secret creative language and individual word-choice habits.  We speak in this language when we have a brilliant epiphany about something, try to explain it to the first person who will listen and realize that said thought hasn't translated properly into English. It comes out garbled and giddy, and our listener is confused, and looks about ready to say "Are you speaking in tongues?"  Such is the essence of art: ineffable.

AIL Day 98: retrousse

Today's adventure in logophilia is...

retrousse'

A retrousse' is the term for the way a person's nose is turned up at the tip, particularly in an attractive way. 

AIL Day 97: undertow

Today's adventure in logophilia is

undertow

Undertow is another term for a rip current, which is used in the incorrect belief that rip currents drag swimmers below the surface of the water.  This is also used abstractly to mean an implicit quality, emotions or influence lying underneath the surface aspects of something (i.e. a person's character) and leaving a certain impression.

AIL Day 95 & 96: Yule and Noel

The words I chose for this weekend are part of the rich vocabulary of the Advent season.  They've been with us for so long I know I haven't much concept of their meanings.  So I took this opportunity to do a little digging via Oxford Dictionaries (old habits die hard, I suppose).

Yule

Yule is the (archaic) Old English/Old Norse term for Christmas.  More specifically, it refers to a pagan festival that took place around the Winter Solstice and lasted twelve days after what is now Christmas.  When Christianity spread into Europe and the solstice celebrations became celebrations of the birth of Christ, the old name lingered.  So when you hear the phrase "yuletide treasure" in the old song "Deck the Halls", it isn't necessarily a pagan or a secular reference, but a general reference to Christmastime.

Noel

A noel is a Christmas carol, particularly the refrain.  So "gloria in excelsis deo" and "come let us adore him" might count as noels.   This is a French version of the Latin word natalis, meaning birth - a birth song.  This makes sense when you think about one of the lesser known Christmas songs "Noel, A New Noel."  I always thought "You mean there were noels before Christ was born?"  Apparently so!

Why Joan Didion Writes

Here's a link for you.  Joan Didion on brainpickings.org about why she writes, on the power of grammar and visceral detail. 

Coventry Carol, a mystery play (jillian)

We've entered into the time of carols.  I'm the sort of person who most definitely gravitates towards "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" and cringes from the likes of "Silver Bells."  (Although my aversion to the song might have more to do with an awful, cloying 1960s rendition of the tune of which I grew up hearing.)  I love Christmas carols for their beauty and their rich history, and in some cases their bizarreness.  Which brings me to "Coventry Carol."

Lully, lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.
Lully, lullay, Thou little tiny Child,
By, by, lully, lullay.

O sisters too, how may we do
For to preserve this day,
This poor youngling for whom we sing
By, by, lully, lullay.

Herod, the king, in his raging,
Charged he hath this day
His men of might, in his own sight,
All children young to slay.

That woe is me, poor Child for Thee!
And ever mourn and sigh,
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
By, by, lully, lullay.

I first sang an arrangement of this carol with my high school women's choir ten years ago.  I'm sure I'm not the only one who first heard this beautiful, haunting song and wondered what on Earth it had to do with Christmas.  This is, of course, about the massacre of the innocents, which took place after Jesus' birth; King Herod, learning that a king was born to the Jews (a king that would challenge his own kingship), ordered all the male babies in Bethlehem destroyed.  Mary and Joseph fled with Jesus into the wilderness.

The song itself is the last surviving remnant of a 16th century mystery play from Coventry, England called The Pageant of the Shearmen and Tailors.  (Ye Olde Wiky-paedia.) Mystery plays were a staple of the Middle Ages, tableau performances and songs depicting Bible stories or scenes from the lives of saints.  The shearman and the tailors were probably members of that particular trade guild, not monks or nuns... although there were such performances within monasteries.  "Mystery" in this context actually means "miracle." 

What intrigues me about this song is that it alone survived the test of time.  "Coventry Carol" is a mystery of a mystery.  What did the happier songs of the shearmen and tailors' pageant sound like?  Why did this song endure the test of time?  Was it simply the prettiest?  Or has it a mind of its own, haunting down through the ages to testify about the brutality of the age into which Christ was born?  And who had the powerful idea of making it a lullaby?  Did they have any idea, when they sat down by candlelight to plan out their guild's Christmas pageant in, say, 1530 that people would be singing it and wondering about it well into 2012 and beyond?  That my friends, is special!  Merry Christmas!

AIL Day 94: ephemera

Today's adventure in logophilia is

ephemera

Ephemera is a plural noun for things that exist or are used or enjoyed for only a short, fleeting time.  To which she says, philosophically, are not all things ephemeral or fleeting?  Does that not make life all the more beautiful?

AIL Day 93: congeries

Today's adventure in logophilia is

congeries

Congeries is a collective noun meaning "a disorderly collection or jumble."  This is taken from the Latin verb congerere "to heap up." 

This word best describes Christmas preparations - the intentions, the results, the mess in my room.  I cheer myself up by imagining that Santa's workshop is a terrible disaster (the mess!) and Christmas' best keep secret.  There's a reality television show for you: overworked elves who complain of constant foot pain due to long hours and the shoes they have to wear; piles of discarded toy parts; the floor a definite hazard with tinsel and glitter and glue everywhere; not to mention the reindeer leavings; interviews with the elves who maintain Santa's sleigh: "you wouldn't believe the mileage on this thing..."

AIL Day 92: gedankenexperiment

Today's strange, strange adventure in logophilia is

gedankexperiment.

That's a thing?  Yes, indeed it is!  A gedankexperiment (literally "thought experiment") is an experiment only able to carried out in thought.  This was a term invented by Albert Einstein as he conceptualized the theory of relativity... which is only a theory and essentially can't be proven or disproven.  

This has shown me another sciencey metaphor for writing.  Here goes.  Stop me if you've heard this one before.  Ahem.  When I'm beginning the first draft of a new project - no matter what it is - I tend to create the story in my head.  Because I am a visual person, I like seeing my characters in situations, solving new problems, jumping over hurdles, battling demons, falling in love, etc.  This is particularly true when I am at the YMCA on the elliptical or walking around downtown on my breaks from work.  The images flood me, and I'm swept away. 

But as a writer, the images are really only experiments, ideas thrown together in a sort of tantalizing display.  Each possible story thread follows me, tugging me and trying to convince me that it is the thread I should choose.  It is like the quote I posted recently from Umberto Eco: "All the stories I would like to write persecute me... it seems as if they are around me, like little devils, and while one tugs at my ear, another tweaks my nose, and each says to me 'Sir, write me, I am beautiful.'" Because I can't make up my mind, I'll choose several different ideas and fly with them... wondering which idea is THE idea that will grow into the novel.  Meanwhile, as the "book" becomes the winter's next great blockbuster-in-my-head, the novel itself is nothing but a blank sheet.  Or an unsaved MS Word document.

In other words, a novel or story isn't exactly the unprovable theory, only truly tangible in the mind, but it is tempting, for me at least, to let it remain unprovable by continuing these pre-writing experiments.  The only way I will truly know where the novel is going, what is happening the characters, what they want out of life, etc is to write the story, and pull them out of the clouds and onto the paper and form them in words.  Trial and error.  Letting the images achieve tangibility on the page. 

So, note to self: your story is not the theory of relativity, but the only way to prove it to yourself is to remove it from your head and put it on the page.  Remember that gedankexperiments do not need very much work at all, but they're hard to explain and read aloud to people.  Yes, it's scary to write that naked, awful draft of that tentative story, but it will be worth it! 

AIL Day 91: orrery

Today's adventure in logophilia is

orrery

An orrery is a mechanical model of the solar system, or of the sun, earth and moon, used to represent their relative positions and motions.  Sort of a solar-system mobile.

AIL Day 90: funambulism

On this here 90th day of logophiliac adventures we come to...

funambulism

 

Though it sounds like a serious medical condition (rhyming a bit with "embollism," which would make for some very strange lines of lines of verse...), funambulism is a fancy term for tightrope walking, or a show of special mental agility.  Do you feel like this at times, fellow writers?  Well, don't look down in the midst of your crafting - a bit of advice I need to take myself.  Keep looking forward, and go slowly, one step at a time. 

AIL Day 89: amaranth

Today's adventure in logophilia is

amaranth

An amaranth is a flower that never fades, used as a dye that produces a color similar to magenta but redder.  Something that is amaranthine is undying, particularly in color.  This is an amaranthine season, methinks.

AIL Day 88: zeitgeist

Our fine and fabulous word for day 88 is...

zeitgeist

Together the German terms "zeit" (time) and "geist" (spirit) mean the taste, outlook, cultural climate and/or spirit characteristic of a period or generation.  Twitter, Facebook, smartphones.

AIL Day 87: mettlesome

Day 87?  Really?  Today's adventure in logophilia is

mettlesome

Mettlesome is an adjective that means "full of vigor and stamina, spirited," and obviously "to have mettle".  I remember stumbling across this word and thinking of it's homonym "meddlesome", which implies mischief or sabotage.  Mettle on the other hand means courageousness, endurance, vigor of strength and temperament.  Imagine how glad I was to discover this was a virtue! 

This trying-to-find-an-agent-and-build-an-online-voice thing is quite the test of my mettle - or, more metaphorically speaking, testing the mettle and metal (iron?) that is in my personality and reinforces me when life seems to take me nowhere or backwards fast.  I spent the last two weeks combing through and revising my novel once again - not because I'm a masochist but to make sure this novel is the absolute best work I can offer.  I will be sending out another query (via snail-mail... or "hard mail" as they call it in my novel) next week, hoping of course, but also looking ahead to the next agent, the next set of materials I must prepare.  I'm learning to bounce back, to continue work on the sequel of this newly finished brain-child, to challenge myself in the physical art of making envelopes and other paper-goods for Christmas presents, to steam puddings and bake cookies, to build up that mettle and metal for the next day, the next week, the next month.  This winter won't be a dormant period, but it will be a waiting period, a testing period, and I must remind myself that there will be a Spring, even if the Winter is long and hard.  Thanks all of you for coming with me!

Neil Gaiman on Art

This is the reason I love Twitter.  How else would I find out about little jewels like this one? Neil Gaiman answers questions as part of a panel discussion on 1 December at the CT Youth Forum's Student-Roundtable Discussion.  A student asks how she should take the comment "there are enough artists in the world," and Mr. Gaiman gives the best advice for an artist to hear.  These words of encouragement made my day.

AIL Day 86: quaint

Today's adventure in logophilia is

quaint

Quaint is another Britishism (I do love those) meaning "attractively unusual or old-fashioned." 

Though I like to think of this as a compliment, it can also be used as an insult.  I remember venturing to the east coast to visit Michelle and observing that all the tall multistory houses were rather quaint.  Michelle turned to me and said, "You meant that in a nice way, didn't you?" If you're a fan of Sherlock, I know I've heard it in there as an insult insinuating: "Oh, isn't that quaint? Aren't you silly and simple-minded?  What a tiny brain you have."  Funny how the same word can have two faces.

AIL Day 85: tetralogy

Today's adventure in logophilia is

tetralogy

A tetralogy is a series of four connected literary, artistic or musical works.  The Twilight series is a tetralogy.  I've also been tempted to make my current science fiction endeavors into a tetralogy (instead of a trilogy) just so that I can use this word in conversation.  Bad reason to write a novel or to drag out a series?  I don't know.  We'll see what the novels want to do.

AIL Day 84: ken

The adventure in logophilia for 4 December is/was

ken

Ken is a noun meaning the range of vision, perception, understanding or knowledge; sight or view.  According to Oxford Dictionaries, this word is often seen in Northern English and Scottish dialects, meaning "know" or "identify." 

AIL Day 83: gainsay

Today's adventure in logophilia is

gainsay

Gainsay is a verb meaning to deny or dispute, to speak against, to contradict or contravene, impugn or negate.  This is a skill of which I am lacking, at least aloud.  Strange how my characters can debate and quarrel on paper, however.  They're stronger than I am.  Why is that?

AIL Day 82: advent

Today is the first day of

Advent.  

Advent is simply the arrival or coming of a notable person, thing or event - from the Latin adventus (arrival) and advenire (to come).  This season of Advent specifically is preparing for the coming of Christ.  Each year, I can hardly my excitement to be able to listen to Christmas music again and think of new creations to give as gifts to my loved ones.  Provided this excitement does not give way to overwhelmed despair, this looks to be a good year. 

***

I have to vent, as a writer just beginning to dip her toe into the waters of social media, that Twitter has been frustrating me.  I know there must be an ebb and flow to how many followers one must have, but the last few days I've seen mine dwindle.  1.) I know building a platform takes time.  I've been at it two months, so I'm imploring myself to chill out.  2.) The ebb and flow and dwindle of followers must happen to everyone.  So... is it just more noticeable because I have so few followers to begin with?  3.)  Am I saying stupid things?  I thought not tweeting if I had nothing to say was the better option.  Perhaps I'm wrong.  4.) I still have followers, and this by no means precludes gaining others.  5.) There must be a way I can use it creatively.  Shall I tell a story?  Shall I do hiakus?  I am studying my options.

What it boils down to is this: putting oneself out there is hard.  Hard for a shy introvert.  Hard for everyone.  I still feel like I'm talking in a room full of people having many brilliant conversations, unheard and hiding in a corner, but I have to tell myself it will change.  As much as I hate advertizing myself and my writing, that's how the game is played these days... but it is by no means something that is "won" or "mastered" in one go, in one tweet, in one word.  It takes practice. 

If the numbers really bother me, I'll keep away for a day or two and then get right back in.

AIL Day 81: wellspring

Sorry for the delay, my friends.  Christmas has begun, which means I've begun to while away my hours in the kitchen with steamed puddings and cookies... among other sundry projects.

Our adventure in logophilia for 1 December is/was...

wellspring

A wellspring is a source of continual supply.  It's another of those awesome image-words immediately pointing us towards a spring of fresh water and well that taps into that water.  It lasts virtually forever (or at least a long time) and provides a means of quenching our thirst.  This is a good feeling.

AIL Day 80: jiggery-pokery

Today's adventure in logophilia is

jiggery-pokery

This is British term for dishonest or suspicious activity; or your basic nonsense, hocus-pocus, higgeldy-piggeldy.  It's puckish sound gives away its meaning... Puck sitting in a tree throwing something at you.

AIL Day 79: incunabulum

The adventure in logophilia for today, this penultimate day of November, is...

incunabulum

Try saying that three times fast.  This special word is a noun referring to 1.) a book printed before 1501, which was at the very dawn of the printing press, and 2.) a work of art or of industry of an early period.  This gem is from the Latin incunabula, meaning "swaddling clothes."

AIL Day 78: dither

Today's adventure in logophilia is

dither

A dither is a highly nervous, excited or agitated state.

AIL Day 77: verglas

Today's adventure in logophilia is

verglas

Verglas is a thin coating of ice or frozen rain on an exposed surface, from the French verre (glass) and glas/glace (ice).  Did you find any of this mysterious stuff on your car this frigid morning?  I know I did! 

Wending to Winter

We had flurries for the first time this season!  Granted, the snow managed to stick to only a few surfaces before melting away, but winter definitely gave us a taste of its power today.  I enjoyed the blustery winds (even though my ears were seriously too cold) and the crisp smell in the air.  I don't enjoy it because of the inevitable Christmas tones that are blaring from every radio in every store right now - Advent does not begin until Sunday, after all.  In fact, I find myself looking forward to winter with a wild enthusiasm: the mercy of a warm, cozy place to return to after a walk in the cold; projects to keep me busy; queries to send.  For some reason, I'm finding creative energy in the cold and musing on unexpected things.  And that, my friends, is a good sign.  I'm not saying that winter will be perfect this year (when is it ever?) but it is more than bearable.  Here are just a few reasons:

Snowflakes on autumn-purple leaves.

Snowflakes on autumn-crimson leaves.

Berries and limestone.

Cherries in macro.

Another snow-kissed plant.

AIL Day 76: boffin

Today's adventure in logophilia is

boffin

Boffin (noun) is a British term for a scientific expert, especially one involved in (but not limited to) technological research.  In other words, an enthusiastic nerd.  We're all boffins about something, believe me. Life is better that way.

AIL Day 75: factotum

Today's adventure in logophilia

factotum

A factotum (noun) is a person employed to do all kinds of work or business - a jack of all trades in an office setting.

AIL Day 74: surfeit

Saturday's adventure in logophilia is

surfeit

A surfeit (noun) is an excessive amount, a glut, more than enough.  This term definitely applies to the 22 pound turkey my mother cooked for Thanksgiving... for five people.  Of course, when your goal is not simply Thanksgiving dinner but leftovers turned into casseroles and soups, the surfeit doesn't go to waste, does it?  I have enough for a third meal tomorrow.

AIL Day 73: lashings

Today's adventure in logophilia is

lashings

Lashings (n) are copious amounts of something, especially food and drink.  No doubt it will take us days to eat through through our lashings of Thanksgiving leftovers. 

AIL Day 72: nubbin

The 72nd adventure in logophilia is

nubbin

Nubbin is a noun: a small lump or residual part of something.

AIL Day 71: echolalia

My apologies to those of you who read Daedalus on Google Reader.  The font sizes don't always cooperate with me.

Today's adventure in logophilia is

echolalia

That's a thing?  Yes, indeed!  Echolalia is the repetition (often pathological) of what is said by other people.  Twitter is a form of societal echolalia, methinks, especially when it comes to the practice of "re-tweeting."  For some reason I have a mental picture of Alpine yodelers when I hear this word.

AIL Day 70: carapace

Today's adventure in logophilia is...

carapace

A carapace is a protective case or shell on the back of some animals (as turtles or crabs.) 

I've entered the stage where I realize the trial of trying to get one's novel published - making that transition from it being a private story to a public read - is a matter of building up one's carapace, putting on a suit of armor, becoming more pachyderm (choose whichever metaphors best suits you) in how we present ourselves to the world.  And I don't use carapace or pachyderm to mean "calloused" or "insensitive" as definitions of the latter would put it... I mean it in the "thick skin" sense.  We'll always be sensitive to criticism and rejection, especially when it comes to our brain-children, but we learn  how to withstand it, use it and move on from it. 

The rejections have begun for me.  Granted we're only on the second agency on my list, and there is a long winter ahead of me.  I was sad about it last night, and then came to the multi-faceted realization that 1.) I have a greater respect for the literary agents who sift through piles upon piles of query letters every week - how is it their fault if my novel doesn't stand out to them in the brief flash of a query?  And how is it mine?  It is a simple matter of the interests of two human beings not aligning exactly, not matching.  It's a very human, subjective business.  Of course, it is going to take a while to find a person (because agencies are organization made of people who are called agents) who wants to run with it.  One rejection isn't the End of All Things, just the beginning of the road. 

2.) All this worrying about whether or not my novel needs another rewrite is a bit silly.  Suppose I do need to put it through another wash?  Will it take so very long?  Is it beyond my power?  No.  In fact, it is quite doable.  It's just another step.  The state of my novel can't be the reason for a rejection if an agent hasn't read beyond the query. 

3.) A professor-friend of mine shared her mantra with me, "Living well is the best revenge."  I've heard this everywhere this week: "make the agent that rejected you regret having turned you down."  I wouldn't personally go so far, but the point is there: don't let this stop you; let this fuel your creative fire; take criticism, listen to it, apply it where it makes sense, ignore it where it does not.  There.  If this novel doesn't make it to publication, something will eventually.  In the meantime, my job is to write.

4.) This feels so much better than applying to an MFA program.  I feel sad for a while, but then I can move onto the next agent.  I don't have to stare ahead at a wasted year.  I don't have to regret the months I wasted on useless essays and personal statements, trying to sell myself to a university.  I can continue on as I've been doing: endeavoring to write well, and see where it takes me.  There is no greater relief.

AIL Day 69: puckish

Today's adventure in logophilia is

puckish

Puckish (adjective) means impish or whimsical; playful - especially in a mischevious way.  Taken, of course, from the mythological fairy Robin Goodfellow, an Old English/Celtic "puca."  You may remember him from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.  Depictions of him have him resembling a faun (Mr. Tumnus) or a satyr with a goat's hooves and long, pointed ears (eyebrows to match).  I love this word, because I envision puck sitting in a tree with a wink and a grin to rival Peter Pan's.

AIL Day 68: sundry

Today's adventure in logophilia is

sundry

Yes, sundry on Sunday.  We must take as many opportunities to pun as humanly possible!  Anyway, sundry is an attributive adjective meaning, simply: of various kinds or several.  Sundries are items not important enough to be listed out separately; Oxford Dictionaries uses the example of things to be found in the check out line at the drug store.  This is both archaic and trendy, methinks, but will never quite die out.  I hope it doesn't; it's rather cool... in a nerdy sort of way. 

AIL Day 67: tantamount

Today's adventure in logophilia is...

tantamount

Tantamount (an adjective) means "equivalent in value, significance or effect." In other words, "equal to."

AIL Day 66: renascent

Today's adventure in logophilia is...

renascent

Renascent is an adjective that means reborn, or coming into being again.

The Writer's Black Hole

This has been an odd couple of weeks on the writing-sphere of my life.  I wonder sometimes if I have multiple personalities, a short attention span, or just a cranky "artist-child", as Julia Cameron would say.  The fact is, despite my daily visits to the blog and to Twitter, I have been in a dry spell since I finished my novel in September.

I remember looking forward to this period, journalling about the "free-time" I'd have to work on the blog, to pursue smaller projects, to experiment with other crafty things.  This was supposed to be a break, a wonderful time to regroup and recover and rebuild my creative energy.  And yet... having been deep inside this novel, in the minds and hearts of my characters, for the last year and a half, I found the post-novel experience to be frighteningly empty.  Perhaps, even lonely.  It's that moment when you realize, suddenly whilst swimming in the ocean, that you can no longer touch the bottom, and you begin to panic and sink. 



Abandoned Psychiatric Hospital.

 I didn't understand why I felt so bereft, empty, melancholic, etc, etc.  I came up with a variety of self-diagnoses (like a psychological version of House): I need a big project to fill the void; I need to work on something new: those stories that have been sitting in limbo forever; I need to stop whining, stop beating myself up and read, read, read.  These diagnoses were met with many a vacillation and excuse from my unappeased and unsatisfied "artist-child."

1.) The next "big" project would be the sequel to the novel I'd just finished - the novel which is in back in limbo, waiting for an agent.  At first, I thought - of course!  The characters are still fresh in my mind.  I want to return to them so badly... And then I keep worrying about the state of the first novel - whether anyone would really want to represent it, or if it needs another wash-through altogether.  Conclusion was that working on novel #2 would only make me worry about novel #1. 

2.) Working on the limbo stories is absolutely fine.  I have two of them: a scene where a historical character jumps from the tower in which was being held captive, and a sort-of fantastical bent on Melville's "Bartleby the Scrivener."  Awesome ideas.  Really!  But I couldn't (and still can't) figure out why my attention span and enthusiasm about these projects wavered from day to day.  Fear?  Yes, maybe, but isn't that obvious?  But fear doesn't always keep me running in the opposite direction.  It was torture to sit and stare at the partial drafts, having ideas in my head but being unable to bring them any further.  Finish them, finish them, part of me said.  But I was/is too tense to do so... as if suddenly an enormous amount of pressure was on my shoulders, trying to convince me that the only way I'd be taken seriously as a writer would be to fill up my portfolio with a variety of things... and didn't these make the most sense? 

3.) Not writing on any story was the other option, a complete surrender.  It's comparable to the glee of a child let loose at the end of the school year.  Yayyy!  I wanted to give myself a break!  Here's a break!  I'm going to watch as many episodes of The X-Files, Farscape and Star Trek: The Next Generation (yes, I'm a nerd, but you knew that) as I possibly can while I wait for Downton Abbey and Sherlock to air!  I'm going to devour more books!  I'm going to make all of my Christmas gifts by hand this year!  I'm going to become proficient in Latin!

And then the euphoria faded once again.  I was still empty.  Still hungry, perhaps that's the better term.  The story that was still vivid in my mind was... the sequel to the in-agent-limbo novel, even though I'd authoritative told my "artist-child" no.  "No.  It will only make you nitpick and stress out about what you have to fix for novel #1.  You're too anxious as it is, trying to come up with the plotline for novel #2.  Go play with Fantastical Bartleby.  Or, do your Latin.  You like Latin, remember?"  And my artist-child instead took none of those options and chose to sit in the corner, pouting.

As much as I like Julia Cameron and the "artist's way", I don't want to attribute this to being "blocked" and try in vain to "unblock" myself.  Blocked feels like such a negative, unproductive term.  I don't respond well to diagnoses like that - as I do struggle with anxiety on a daily basis.  Blaming myself for not writing isn't a cure.  And making myself write what I don't want to write is hardly a solution, either.  And... journalling and blogging have been a part of my daily routine since before the novel was finished.  Is that blocked?  No. 

So... I've come to several conclusions from this massive wallow in the writing black hole. 

1.) Anxiety about my first novel and whether or not it's "good enough" for an agent to want to represent will always be there.  I'm not the only writer to struggle with this, I know.  And how could we not be anxious?  This is our brain-child!  We want the best for him/her! 

2.) I am not blocked.  Period.  I'm between projects and enjoying a rest.  I am blogging and tweeting and using my brain.  That's good, right?

3.) I don't have to work on Fantastical Bartleby if I don't want to.  He can wait until a better time.  There will be a better time for him.  It's just not now.

4.) Work on novel #2 if I want to.  The characters are still vivid and beautiful in my head.  They're close to my heart.  I love them.  The most foolish thing would be to push them away.  And even if novel #1 needs another wash-through, that doesn't necessarily nullify my work on #2.  (If anything such revisions would be on language, not on plot or story.) 

5.) After so long without the "need" for watching tons of television, I am gorging myself.  I need to go on a Netflix diet but not completely deprive myself.

Already my unruly "artist-child" is feeling better.  I might still vacillate a bit about what to do next, but I'm not going to flagellate myself whatever I decide.  At this point "artist-child" wants novel #2, and we'll see where it takes us... but anything is good if it gets me out of the black hole and back into a better mind set, to fill the void left by that novel. 

***

On another note, I'm glad I decided not to participate in NaNoWriMo this year.  It would have had me stressed out on day one!

AIL Day 65: dreamwork (j)

Today's word is

dreamwork

Yes, it is a word, not merely the name of a successful studio of animated films.  Dreamwork is the process by which the unconscious mind alters the manifest content of dreams in order to conceal their real meaning from the dreamer.  Ah, yes.  I do this all the time, and not just in my sleep.  This might be why I space out and forget where I am in the universe half the time.  Art and writing are partially written by the unconscious mind.  Fact.  In fact, the unconscious is in charge... I'm going to stop myself before this metaphor completely takes me hostage. 

AIL Day 64: apogee (j)

Today's word is

apogee

Apogee (noun) is the point of the moon's orbit which is farthest from the earth, or (a rarer occurrence) the point of the Earth's orbit that is farthest from the sun.  This is the direct opposite of perigee, which is the orbital point nearest to the Earth or the sun. 

Telegraph on Handwriting (j)

On my daily perusal of the Telegraph, I discovered a little gem on the returning art of letter writing and improving your penmanship.  Jake Wallis Simons conveys a few tips to those of us who'd like our letters to look better and be more legible.  Below, I've paraphrased them:

* Obtain a comfortable pen.  (You'd think this is a no-brainer, but I had an epiphany reading this article. This is why my fingers hurt whenever I try to write stories by hand!)

* Sit up straight and pinch the pen between your first finger and thumb.  (Er... I've always utilized the side of my middle finger.  Is that to blame as well?)

* Try books on improving your handwriting.

* Write larger than normal at first. 

* Doodle letters to practice.

Oxford Dictionary's Word of the Year (j)

According to the Huffington Post, the word omnishambles is Oxford Dictionary's word of the year.

AIL Day 63: milquetoast (j)

Today's word is...

milquetoast

A milquetoast is one who has a meek, timid nature.  Yes, it is pronounced "milk-toast." Oxford Dictionaries indicates that it is the name of a 1930s cartoon character.  Online Etymology indicates that it might be a form of milksop, a 14th century term for "an effeminite spiritless man," and also used as a reference to the infant Christ... literally a piece of bread soaking in milk, mild baby food. 

This was not as nice as I would have thought.  I'm pretty sure I saw this in either Wolf Hall or Bring Up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel's historical fiction novels about Thomas Cromwell... which means it is slightly anachronistic (unless Ms. Mantel used the word "milksop" instead).  Nonetheless the term was used by Anne Boleyn's ladies in waiting to describe/deride the quiet Jane Seymour.