Folly

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 176:

folly

Folly is the lack of good sense, understanding or adequate foresight; an act of foolishness, or more specifically, a costly undertaking which results in embarrassing or ludicrous ruin.  This word is Middle English, which means it was borrowed from the Old French word folie, meaning "madness." (Oxford Dictionaries.)

The Fool, as seen on a tarot card, is about to fall step off the edge of a cliff.

I actually don't believe folly is all that bad - it is the state you start out in when embarking on a journey.  I've learned that I am still the fool when it comes to this trying-to-get-an-agent business.  The important thing is to realize that blunders will be made.  I will trip and fall several times.  I will have to go back and rewrite that one chapter I thought was perfect.  I will write stupid tweets and worry about what people are thinking, if anything at all.  Folly is a learning curve; I've learned that the Fool on the tarot card is represented as a perpetual youth... and aren't we all?  I don't mean perpetually young, but constantly learning.  How else can we learn but through trying and stumbling and getting scraped up... and picking ourselves up again?  

Embrace the fool.  He's really not that bad.  Or fatal.  Or stupid.  He just has convictions about things that haven't been (but need to be) tested.  He doesn't watch where he's going, but he'll soon learn his lesson.  I'd like to see him after he picks himself from tumbling off that cliff, dusting himself off, examining his bruises and looking up to see where he came from. "Well, that was dumb," he might say, "but I don't regret a moment of it."  

So... write like a fool to write better.  Laugh at yourself.  Move on.  Harbor no regrets.  I think I can handle that.

Hegemony

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 175:

hegemony

the over-arching influence or authority over others, domination. 

Elucubrate

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 174:

elucubrate

 

by louveciennes

to express studious efforts, working (composing, studying, reading) by lamplight.  I suppose this might be where "burning the midnight oil" comes in.  Whether it's late at night or early in the morning, we all put this to practice because art is calling us.  And there is something about a single lamp (whether electric or flame-illumined) lit in the dark, quiet hours that promises peace. 

Burgeon

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 173:

burgeon

to put forth fresh growth, or to grow vigorously, flourish.  

I think we're all about ready for Spring, aren't we?  In another sense, after a week of craziness at work and strange stomach issues on top of that, I am ready to get back into my writing soil and put down roots once again.

 

I remember I saw this word on the cover description of a novel I read a lot as a kid.  I didn't know how to pronounce it, so I took it to my dad who say "maybe, bur-GOYN?" So for years, that was how I said it, perhaps incurring many a puzzled look.   I later realized that it rhymes with "surgeon," and was actually quite relieved.

Intercalate

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 172:

intercalate

to insert a day into a calendar, or to insert between or among already existing layers or elements.  Every four years we intercalate February 29, otherwise known as Leap Day.

Matt Preston

I've always had this strange fantasy of mixing up the months which contain 30 days with the those containing 31 days.  It would be an easy mistake to make, wouldn't it?  I don't know much about our calendar and why certain months were given a certain number of days to total out to 365 or 366.  I imagine that if we had to insert another day into our calendar to, say, balance out dramatic changes in time, adding days to November, February, April, June and September would be an easy change.  There's a science fiction story brewing here.  I just know it.  Dibs!

Tessera

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 171:

tessera

A tessera was a small tablet made of wood, clay or bone, which the Romans used as a ticket, tally-token, voucher or even a means of ID.  These came into play in The Hunger Games, as the number of tessera traded and bargained for by eligible candidates for the Games could mean the difference between surviving and starving under the rule of Panem.  It is just one of many Roman flavors Suzanne Collins gave her series. 

Quincunx

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 170:

quincunx

an arrangement of five things in a square in a square or rectangle, one at each corner and one in the middle.  I always think of five pillars when this word comes up: four pillars holding up a structure at each of the distinct corners, the fifth secretly holding up the middle. 

A series of quincunx from an ancient puzzle.

Univocal

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 169:

univocal

This adjective indicates "only one meaning", unambiguous, and quite clear.

Lemniscate

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 168:

lemniscate

the symbol representing infinity, or (to be more mathematical) a figure-eight shaped curve whose polar coordinates are p²=a² .  This is from the Latin word lemniscata, meaning "hanging ribbons."

Rowel

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 167:

rowel

This verb means to goad with or as if with the pointed disk at the end of a spur, or more generally to vex or trouble.  This is from the Anglo-Saxon word roele, meaning "small wheel", indicating the spurs on a knight's (or a cowboy's) boots.

Christopher Nixon

Nychthemeron

Apologies for this late posting.  I am blogging from an oblique position, as I've been enduring a mild stomach bug this afternoon and evening.  No Oscars party for me.  

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 166:

nychthemeron

a full period of night and day, from the Greek - literally, night (nykt) + day (hemera).  (Merriam Webster)

 

by sophie wilson

Confessions of an Anxious Writer: Episode II

Episode II:  Playing Chess

By Old One Eye on flickr

I've found recently that novel writing is like playing a continuous, unhurried game of chess with oneself.  When it comes to anxiety, this has been good - not as a mere distraction - but a problem-solving exercise. 

I have to admit, I'm not very good at the actual game, but my own sort of chess tends to challenge me in similar feats of strategy.  Instead of trying to defeat an opponent and losing pieces, I try to execute a scene with the best combination of plot, character nuance, and word choice, as possible.  Particularly in the early drafts of a novel, when the story is just beginning to emerge and could become anything under the sun (or beyond the sun), what grabs my attention is the great puzzle of Making It Work.  

Each draft is a testing ground, with the squares clearly marked and the pieces in place - each character, each event that I have mapped out (more or less solidly), every possible "move" visible.  I learn by testing the waters.  If I put my main character in situation A, I can see how a secondary character might react or retaliate, resulting in situation B.  Instead of checks, I can move backwards, retracing my steps and write them again, taking a different path to achieve my goal and seize a particular square on the board.  Writing and rewriting (and re-rewriting) teach me particular patience, especially with myself: "Okay, that doesn't work.  What can I move around to make it work?  Ah, have A come into the room instead of C, and have B listen in from the other room..."

This is a kinder game than chess actually is, but it is no less strenuous.  In chess, the queen, knights, bishops, rooks and pawns move to protect the king.  If the king is check mated, the game is over. In writing, each piece is an element (characters and events), maintaining the forward momentum and central focus of a story.  If the king falls, I know what can be fixed, and made better.  I have an arsenal of queens at my disposal.

When it comes to my chronic anxiety, this game of chess is not an escape but a calming technique.  Everyday life is invariably out of our immediate control, and anxiety sufferers feel this deeply.  While there is no way to remedy that, the plot tangles and twists I create provide a puzzle that can almost always be solved.  Most of the time this has a particular organizing and calming affect.  Other wise, being in the midst of the story is an excellent gauge of my anxiety: if I am suddenly worried about a plot line or not being able to make something work, I know it is probably time for a rest... to put the pieces away for a day or two and come back to the scenario when the brain has cooled down.  The best way to cool down?  Using a different part of my brain.  I often resort to Latin exercises when I'm stressed, which requires more logic. 

I will always be prone to seasons of self-doubt.  That is unavoidable for us all. The bottom line is that the challenge of writing, my most natural way of interacting with the world, has not only shown me where my limits are, but where my strengths lie.  And the wonderful thing is that having the courage to complete the game will make me stronger and more patient with myself. 

How has writing helped you through your challenges?

Waif

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 165:

waif

A late Middle English term (Oxford Dictionaries) referring to a stray person or animal, especially a homeless child, found without an owner and quite by chance. Waif can also refer to an unclaimed piece of property found (as if washed up by the sea) or stolen goods abandoned by an absconding thief.  I am currently reading The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey, a beautiful novel about a such mysterious waif who enters the lives of a husband and wife on the Alaskan frontier ca. 1920.

 

Patina

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 164:

patina

A film (usually green) that forms naturally on copper and bronze due to long-term exposure (or artificial acid treatments), valued for its color.  I love this word - it is the surface mark of something that has grown beautiful with age and use.  It also describes ones appearance or aura derived from association, habit or established character.  More generally: a superficial exterior.

Melliferous

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 163:

melliferous

an adjective which means "yielding or producing honey."

Duende

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 162:

duende

Pronounced du-'en-dey, this is the power to attract through one's personal magnetism and charm.  Duede comes from the Spanish word for ghost or goblin, and is used to describe to the magnetic power or force that draws an audience to the performance of a flamenco dancer.

Germane

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 161:

germane (adj)

being immediately appropriate and relevant, fitting.

Vector

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 160:

vector

A quantity that has magnitude and direction, generally represented by a directed line segment, the length of which represents the magnitude while its orientation indicates direction.  More simply, vector is a course or compass direction.  I like to use to the word vector as an alternative to "plot", because more often than not, I find that my novels and stories tend in certain directions of their own volition, and that the only way to know where they're headed is to travel with them, using an outline as a compass only to keep my bearings.

Keyway

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 159:

keyway

Simply, a keyway is the groove or channel for a key, especially in a lock requiring a flat metal key.

Threshold

Adventures in Logophilia, Day 158:

threshold

This noun has a few interesting facets:

1.) a section of wood or stone that lies under a doorway;

2.) a means or place of entry, or a place at the beginning of something;

3.) the point or level at which a physical or mental effect begins to be produced, as in "pain threshold": at which level do you begin to feel it?

According to Oxford Dictionaries, threshold is an Old English word - thresh being related to tread in a Germanic sense, and hold (perhaps) emphasizing "place to tread." This leads me to believe that the naming of Thresh in The Hunger Games was not entirely coincidental.  In fact, it probably wasn't.