Word Friction

I spend much of my day mulling over words. For the most part I adore words, but a few bother me to the point of distraction. The reason: the sound of the word negates its meaning.

Two key culprits - bucolic and sanguine.

Bucolic. This word purports to evoke benign, pastoral, even soothing settings. For me it's much too close to bubonic. When I picture a bucolic meadow, an image of undulating grasses kissed by a summer wind manifests...but the field is littered with bodies in various states of decay. Like this:













Sanguine. The problem with this word is its relation to sanguinary - one of my FAVORITE words. For any of you who don't know sanguine = enthusiastic, cheerful, optimistic, whereas a sanguinary event involves lots and lots of blood. Or better yet, if you've been exsanguinated you had a date with a vampire that went badly for you, but had a happily-sated nosferatu at evening's end.

Though sanguine has come to dominate the lexicon, sanguinary is the older word, from which sanguine derived. In the past the two words had a more direct affiliation, sanguine also meant a ruddy, flushed complexion (get it? from blood rushing to one's face....aha!) but as language is always evolving and words grow distant from their own origins, at some point the relation of these two drifted apart and now the two meanings have become oppositional.

I stand firmly in sanguinary's camp.

So for me a sanguine pastime equates to turning lazing laps in the pool at your Beverly Hills Estate...but the pool is filled with AB negative instead of water.

(Hmmm, I'm really not sure what to make of the fact that I actually had a successful hit upon Googling "pool filled with blood"...I guess their "Don't be evil" motto went out the window (or was defenestrated for any fellow word freaks out there).





If anyone else has a word they can't stomach, let me know. I'd love to hear your own word sound/meaning divergence quirks.

Not Enough Tears

Sorry for the lack of posts this past week. My aforementioned eye issue came on with a vengeance and sent me running to the doctor's office.

When I sat with blurred vision from my oh-so-dilated eyes, I bit the insides of my cheeks so I wouldn't laugh at the doctor. He'd affixed a contraption to his head that looked like something Christopher Lloyd would have worn in Back to the Future.

The tools of an optometrist hearken back to the 19th century and this office visit convinced me that should I ever write steampunk (which I hope to at some point) I will have a character whose home features mad inventions like those I saw the eye doctor wearing yesterday.

To the diagnosis:

My tears are evaporating too quickly. In less than three seconds. According to the doctor, anything less than ten seconds is a problem.

Apparently the world is so tragic that my tears are madly fleeing into the atmosphere in an ongoing hydrologic/emotive cycle; thus leaving my eyeballs dry and ravaged.

I was sent home with industrial-strength prescription eye drops and a new prescription for my glasses that is supposed to protect my poor eyes from computer glare.

Speaking of sad things, David Arneson one of the co-creators of Dungeons and Dragons passed away this week.

There is a lovely remembrance of him here.

What's All This Writing About?

I'm getting a lot of questions about the book, so here's a basic overview.

Title: A Fine, Feathered Fate

Genre: Teen Fantasy

Synopsis: Eliza can't face another day working on her family's farm. She's tired of smelling like manure and pulling straw from her tangled hair when she goes to bed at night. Even as she plots her escape whilst gathering eggs in the hen hutch, Eliza reaches under a clucking chicken and pulls out an egg that is...hollow.

Not only does this egg lack a scrumptious yolk, but its tiny golden latch springs open to reveal a tightly curled note that reads: Wait.

Day by day Eliza returns to the hen hutch to find more and more notes tucked within hollow eggs. She can't bear to leave the farm without unraveling the mystery of each message. Where are the hollow eggs coming from? Who is writing the notes?

The chickens seem pretty normal (and illiterate) except for the rooster, who has taken to following Eliza everywhere she goes on the farm. He's always crowed by Eliza's window at dawn, and his eyes sparkle with intelligence uncharacteristic of vapid chickendom. What could the rooster's strange behavior mean? Is he really a rooster at all? A villain? Prince charming trapped in a feathered, beaked body? Can Eliza save them both from a life of monotonous plowing, planting, and commercial farm production?

The world may never know.

Happy April Fools.

Seriously now, since my novel is with an agent and about to be submitted I can't post about it. When I'm able I will and hope to share lots of good news with all of you.

It's snowing in Minneapolis today - an April Fool's joke from Mother Nature that seems to be repeated in Minnesota every year.

March Goes Out Like a Disgruntled Carnie

This morning my car looked like it had been attacked by someone wielding an ash-flavored slushee. All day the sky has spit chunks of icy rain, littering the ground with treacherous, near-invisible slick spots.

I know this is all part of the winter to spring transition, but I much prefer robin spotting and tree buds.

When it Rains...

Within 24 hours of the call I had another agent interested in the novel, when I told her I'd accepted representation from another agency she said she was sorry she hadn't read my submission earlier because I was a "damn fine writer."

Wow. I'm all glitter and bells right now.

I subjected my husband, Will, to the Twilight DVD, which he found mildly amusing. He had a great take on the Bella discovers Edward's true identity dialogue:

Bella: Your skin is pale white and ice cold...sometimes you talk like you're from another time...I know what you are...

Edward: Say it. Out loud. Say it.

Will: You're a grad student

Touche.

Speaking of movie anticipation - I'm loving the trailer for Spike Jonze's _Where the Wild Things Are_.

A number of folks have said they're worried it won't be like the book. It's clear to me that the film will NOT be like the book, but that's why I think it has so much promise. The narrative is about joy, loss of innocence, and the wildness of children's imaginations. I think it will be a wonderful interpretation of the spirit of Maurice Sendak's classic children's book.

The Call

Phone rang at 6:22 a.m. Seattle time. When the phone rings that early in the morning, several thoughts flash through my mind: Who is calling? Wrong number? Emergency? Errant fax machine (this happens too often)?

This morning's call was one of the best I've ever received, which is a strong statement in my case. I don't usually become coherent before 9 a.m. But in this scenario I was wide awake instantly: the phone call was from an agent who wants to represent my novel.

HOORAY is too flat a word to describe how thrilled I am. Said agent will remain anonymous since we're at the very beginning of this process, but I will say I couldn't be happier about this agent's enthusiasm for my project and the reputation of the agency. Now I'll ask for all your crossed-fingers that we find an editor who shares the excitement about the series.

In venerable Underpants Gnomes' tradition I'm handing off my work to this equation:
Phase 1: Write novel
Phase 2: ? (mysterious agent work)
Phase 3: Published!

Of course this is an exaggeration; I understand an agent's role in this process and I'm ecstatic to have an industry pro invested in my work. I was too excited to return to sleep, so I got up and wandered around Seattle enjoying the soft gray morning light and the thrill of being a step closer to my dream of a writing career. Near Pike Place Market I came across this quote, stamped in bronze on the sidewalk:

"I always knew that at last I would take this road,
but yesterday I did not know it would be today."

There are moments when everything in the world falls in place, and I'm dancing with the earth itself.

Seattle, Sci Fi, and Tiger Dreams

Lots of plane time lately; am now in the hotel lobby of the Sheraton, 6th and Pike, downtown Seattle.

Good weather for March. No rain, overcast and mild. Perfect for wandering the streets and gazing at Puget Sound.

Spent the afternoon at the Museum of Science Fiction; loved seeing the first editions and handwritten notes of so many of my favorite books. It was also gratifying to be reminded that writers of science fictions have always pushed the margins on cutting edge social issues. (Also got to see R2-D2, woot!)

Last night the BBC featured a story about tigers in Indonesia. The tigers have become a menace to the local population, it was a tale surreal enough that I almost thought I was dreaming it: apparently the tigers are only hunting people who've been engaged in illegal tree cutting, which destroys the tigers' habitat. The story unfolded to present a battle between man-eating tigers who manifested a vengeful spirit acting against deforestation. Terrified villagers were interviewed recounting the way the lock their doors at night (tigers can open doors, but not locked doors?) and huddle in bed listening for the approach of the tigers.

Shiver.