Doing What I Can

Following on from yesterday's post, I'm still at a loss for what else to do. I'm terrible at the whole marketing thing. I'm not comfortable with screaming, 'LOOK AT MY BOOK. BUY IT. IT'S GRAND.'

Perhaps the book is spectacular.

Perhaps it's utter crap.

But that's for the reader to decide. One of my pet peeves is to always be blasted by people telling you that their product is the best thing out there.

Apparently, that's what you have to do in marketing, and I despise it. A lot.

My dream is that my writing will speak for itself, and people will willingly talk about it and recommend it to others.

And I won't have to be a pushy salesperson.

Still, no one is talking about it, or recommending it (as near as I can tell)... and they're not doing it because I cannot market effectively.

It's so annoying.

The thing is, I've researched marketing. I read, and read, and read on the subject. None of it sinks in. I remember facts about pre-history I've learned years and years ago, but nothing about the pamphlet on marketing I read yesterday.

ARGH!

I'm frustrated. Not at you, readers. You're not the problem. I am.

I'm doing what I can, and it's not enough.

Le sigh.

Right, on with writing. Have a good Tuesday everyone!

Outherod

To excel or exceed in bombast, magniloquence, or violence. From the character of Herod who, in the old miracle plays, was always represented as arrogant.

- Edward Lloyd's Encyclopaedic Dictionary, 1895

No, Thank-You... I Think

So I've been forced into a lot of thinking this weekend, largely due to a post by my friend and fellow author Gerard de Marigny. He put up a post about Mr. Konrath, the self-publishing sensation, and something he said.

We butted heads over the interpretation of Mr. Konrath's advice (I read it as being entirely more sinisterly self-serving that Mr. de Marigny, to his credit, did). It was, essentially, work your butt off and forget everything else - at all (friends, family, and if they loved you, they'd put up with your neglect.).

I most vehemently agree that any author should be working their behinds off in order to get themselves off the ground. I don't agree that one should have to sacrifice everything else all the time.

No downtime - needed to collect my thoughts, percolate ideas, eat, breathe and remind myself why I write? No time for friends or family? No, thank-you! Life was made for living and I adore writing. I don't want to turn it into something that I despise for taking my time away from all the good things I have.

But then, Mr. Konrath has sold millions of copies. I've managed to sell one paperback, and roughly 7 e-books, so what the hell would I know, right?

And that's what has me thinking. What more could I be doing right now?

On that note, I have a six book series to finish writing, and I'm not nearly as finished as I should be! On to work!

Higgler

One who sells provisions from door to door; one who buys fowls, butter, eggs, &c. in the country and brigs them to town to sell. [From] higgle, to beat down the price of a thing in a bargain; to sell provisions from door to door. Hence higgledy-piggledy, corrupted from higgle, higglers carrying a confused medley of provisions; in a disorderly manner.

- Daniel Fenning's Royal English Dictionary, 1775

Friday!

T.G.I.F! That is all that can be said for today.

I only managed 1 000 words yesterday. That's alright. Combined with Wednesday's marathon write, I still made enough to reach my end of week target. I'm starting to feel burnt out, I think.

It's a good thing, then, that I am taking today off!

With nothing more spectacular to say, I'll let you all get on with your days.

Have a great weekend!

Lime-Juicers

A nickname current among seafaring men for the sailors of the British merchant marines. [Now limey.]

- Henry Reddall's Fact, Fancy, and Fable, 1889

Accidental Research

I've just recently read an article about psychopaths. Turns out, they're everywhere, in higher concentration in the top ranks of muti-national corporations (who is surprised, really?) and they are adept at playing the game. The thing is, all the behaviours I read about in this article I have seen in co-workers in various jobs.

They are, it turns out, adept at mimicking normal emotive behaviours, but are incapable of experiencing emotions in the same way normal people are. They use what they know to manipulate the situation, and are more than willing to use one's empathy against one.

This is because they are genetically predisposed to psychopathic behaviours. Their amygdala (the place in the brain responsible for processing emotion and emotive responses) is underdeveloped - actually smaller than in a normal person - and, in extreme cases, what is there is not functioning correctly.

In short, they feel zero empathy and actually derive pleasure in seeing other people upset. These are the crazies who tear others down and pretend to be sad about it, when everyone else knows they do it for fun.

You know the advice the article gave for those facing a psychopath at work? Do not engage. They're better at the game than you. Run. Run far, far, far away.

I know a few people who match this description. In any case I can use this article. This article, which I can't find now, damn it, is filed in memory box 'Useful Information That Could Inform a Character One Day.'

How I love accidental research!

Dog-Latin

Barbarous Latin, such as was formerly used by lawyers in their pleadings, Now applied to 'medical Latin.'

- John Hotten's Slang Dictionary, 1887

Also kitchen-, bog-, or apothecaries'-Latin.

- John Farmer's Slang and Its Analogues, 1905

No Dreams

I had absolutely no dreams last night or early this morning. I was highly disappointed.

I think, however, that it might be because I've started writing again after a short hiatus when I just couldn't seem to write at all. I made my daily 3 000 words for the first time in three days, and I have the next scene all planned out. I should be making it again today. It takes the pressure off some to know that I have the length of a novel, albeit short, already.

Also, I'd like to declare publicly, not for the first or the last time, that I have the best flatmate in the world. Sorry I woke you up. You are awesome.

There really isn't much else to say. I'd best get on with writing then. Have a great day.

Dildrums

Childhood nonsense. "To tell Doldrums," to talk wildly.

- Walter Skeat's Specimens of English Dialects, Westmoreland, 1879

Dildrams, strange tales; especially in the phrase to tell dildrams. Lancashire.

- Joseph Wright's English Dialect Dictionary, 1898-1905

That's so weird. I always thought doldrums was to feel sad or down, as in "You have the doldrums, darling?" Is that later usage or am I completely insane? Someone? Anyone?

The Home Stretch

The last two days of NaNoWriMo are upon us, and I'm woefully behind. I should have just 1 000 words to write until I made my target today. Turns out, I have 3 000.

Sad face.

With the computer here all warmed up and working... more or less... I should be good. I should reach my target today. 'Should' being the operative word.

In other news... there really isn't any other news. Things are going much the same as ever. I'm busy, but not as busy as I used to be.

I miss training.

Right, I should get to writing. Have a great Tuesday everyone.

Callipygian

Of, pertaining to, or having well-shaped or finely developed buttocks. The name of a famous statue of Venus. From Greek kallos, beauty, and pyg, buttocks.

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1893

Reporting in With the Morning Check

Yup, you read that right.

Well, this weekend proved wonderful. After all the stress.

You see, my most amazing flatmate in the world agreed a couple of weeks ago to drive me down to Montréal to pick up my brother and bring him to Ottawa, where he'll be staying until he gets a job.

Naturally, things went bust.

We went to see The Muppets Thursday night with friends. Thanks to T.H. for organising it, by the by. It was a great movie. We laughed liked crazy. Then, as we climbed into the car to head back, Jazz noticed a flat tyre. The front driver's side tyre was shot. We crawled down Bank St. towards the mechanic's at forty, then ten, the car sounding terrible, leaning heavily to the left.

Thinking that the shop would replace the tyre relatively inexpensively, we walked home not terribly worried.

Well, didn't I arrive home Friday after work to Jazz' words of greeting, "Don't freak out."

I freaked out.

We suddenly didn't have a car. Apparently, in addition to the flat tyre (which was replaced relatively cheaply), the car was leaking power-steering fluid. Replacing the necessary part put the repairs at something like $2 000.00. Yup. That's $2 000.00 neither of us very broke people had to spare.

Jazz' explained that she had to go to Montréal tomorrow and asked them to do a quick-fix. They said they'd try. Three blocks from the apartment, not even ten minutes away from the shop, the power-steering failed.

We had no car for Saturday.

Desperate to keep our word to my brother, we texted and called as many people as we could.

To the rescue, A.G. flew in with a car we could use. That girl deserves a cape and a badge. Honestly.

We now had a car.

The rest of the weekend went fairly smoothly. We picked up my brother, went to the Ruby Rouge in Chinatown for a Yum Cha lunch (Dim Sum), then headed home again. Then off we went to the Little Lamb Mongolian Hot Pot for dinner with Dad, transferred to bags over and sent Chris off to stay with Dad for a bit.

Then we slept. Yay, sleep!

So, a massive thanks to both A.G. and J.M-B. for their efforts Saturday. You both rock the Casbah.

Sunday was, thankfully, much more quiet. I met a friend for lunch and that was the entirety of the day.

Now I'm at work, falling desperately behind in my NaNoWriMo efforts because the computer took 3 hours to load properly. Go team.

I have to go and start writing, or I'll never make my daily 3 000. Wish me luck! I'm so going to need it today.

Bedfellow

The simplicity of ancient manners made it common for men, even of the highest rank, to sleep together; and the term bedfellow implied great intimacy. Lord Scroop is said to have been bedfellow to Henry V [as found in Shakespear's Henry V]:

Nay, but the man was his bedfellow,

Whom he hath cloy'd and grac'd with kingly favours.

After the battle of Dreux, in 1562, the prince of Condé slept in the same bed with the duke of Guise, an anecdote frequently cited to show the magnanimity of the latter, who slept soundly, though so near his greatest enemy, then his prisoner. Letters from noblemen to each other often began with the appellation bedfellow.

- Robert Nares' Glossary [of] the Works of English Authors, 1859

This unseemly custom continued common till the middle of the last century.

- Rev. T.F. Thiselton-Dyer's Folk-Lore of Shakespeare, 1884

Surely this isn't forgotten? Am I the only one who uses 'They make strange bedfellows.'?

Getting Back In

So, I'm headed back to training tonight. Before all of you freak out and decide to lecture me about resting my back etc., do note that I'm only going for Tai Chi. One hour only, twice a week. If it goes well, I'll increase the time. For now, however, it'll just be two hours a week.

I have permission from my physiotherapist.

And that constitutes the entirety of my exciting news.

I'm editing for a doctoral candidate. Which is a laugh, since I've gotten no further than a Bachelor of Arts. The topic is fascinating, actually, so I'm really enjoying it. I'm still on target for NaNoWriMo. Actually, I managed 4 000 words yesterday. Go me! I have to get writing on that, actually. If the computer would just start working properly, I might actually reach my target today.

Until tomorrow, then!

Wive

To marry. This word is not quite obsolete. Wive and thrive is a common solloquialism. "Her, whom the first man did wive."

- Charles Mackay's Lost Beauties of the English Language, 1874

Two Steps

Good morning!

This post will be necessarily brief (and sorry it's late. Computer is being a dink again). You see, I had planned to take the day off from writing, but I was listening to epic music on my way into work today, specifically Two Steps From Hell, specifically this song:

And images and ideas exploded in my head, and I have to get them down before I forget them. Bye then!

Isabelline

A pale brownish-yellow colour; from Isabelle, a princess of this name.

- Charles Annandale's Dictionary of the English Language, 1897

The archduke Albertus, who had married the infanta Isabella, daughter Philip II, King of Spain, . . . determined to lay siege to Ostend [Belgium], then in the possession of the heretics. His pious princess, who attended him in that expedition, made a vow that till it was taken she would never change her clothes.

- Joseph Taylor's Antiquitates Curiosae, 1819

Contrary to expectation, it was three years before the place was reduced, in which time the linen of her highness had acquired a hue which . . . was much admired and adopted by the court fashionables under the name of "Isabella color." It is a whitish yellow, or soiled buff - better imagined than described.

- Frank Stauffer's THe Queer, the Quaint, the Quizzical, 1882.

Not in the Mood

I had a really, really, really shitty day yesterday. I don't want to be here right now. I want to be home, in bed, buried beneath my blankets and enjoying cuddles from a very affectionate kitten.

I want my back to be fixed so I can go to training and work out my frustrations.

What I don't want to be doing is sitting in the office, facing an entire day of working with the people who made me so miserable yesterday.

And I really, really, really want to go to training and just punch and kick stuff for three hours.

But I can't.

Ugh!

There is some good news. At least I made my NaNoWriMo target for the day. Thank the gods for writing! It has saved my sanity more times than I can count!

Speaking of, I should get going on today's target. Have a good Thursday everyone!

Tears of the Tankard

The drippings of liquor on a man's waistcoat.

- Francis Grose's Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1796

And So it Continues

And on and on and on it goes making life, and blogging, rather tedious.

I'm talking about writing of course. There isn't much else going on in my life at the moment. Just writing.

I made my daily target yesterday, late in the afternoon. Not nearly as late as Monday, but still, late enough.

And, of course, I'll be writing again today.

And that is the entirety of my news. Exciting, no?

Right, I should hop to. Have a good Wednesday all.

Whiffler

An officer who heads a procession and clears the way for it. The whifflers in the civic processions at Norwich carry swords, which they wave to and fro before them.

- Hensleigh Wedgwood's Dictionary of English Etymology, 1878

An officer who preceded a procession, clearing the way and playing a flute.

- William Toone's Etymological Dictionary of Obsolete Words, 1832

The old term for fifers preceeding the body of archers who clears the way, but more recently applied to very trifling fellows. [From] whiff . . . a slight fitful breeze or transcient puff of wind.

- Admiral William Smyth's Sailor's Word Book, 1867

Please don't yell at me. I promise that the above misspelling of 'preceding' was precisely how it is written before me. I swear it.

A Number of Firsts

Today, at the risk of stating the bleeding obvious, is the first of November. It marks a number of firsts, really.

The main first is that I will, for the first time ever, be participating in NaNoWriMo. I've decided to make the final book in The Great Man series (inventively titled The Great Man) the project for this month's writing challenge.

50 000 words is the goal. That will be the halfway mark for the story.

I've figured out the word count that I need to do in order to get the minimum 50 000 words required. 3 000 words a day. No Fridays off. I should be able to do it, assuming I can get into the writing mode. I've been away from it for so long, it might take me a while to get back into the groove.

I hope not! I don't have the time to spare!

Right, I should get on with it, I suppose. Wish me luck!

Rack Rides

A phrased used when the clouds are driven rapidly by the wind.

- F.T. Dinsdale's Provincial Words Used in Teasdale, Durham, 1849.

Doubts

They're there. They're terrible. They hold you back, hold you down, knock you out.

Doubts.

I have them all the time. I might seem confident, and I am, but doubts still plague me. They break me down. Sometimes, something happens that's so severe, I have a mini-meltdown. I cry, I scream into my pillow, I cry more.

I'll never make it.

I'm not good enough.

No one will ever read it.

It's crap.

I'm crap.

Sound familiar? Yeah.

Regular readers of this blog will know the emotional roller-coaster that is trying to get published (never mind the frustrating work we do before we even consider submitting for publication). At least for me.

One moment I'm bubbling over with delighted anticipation. The next, I'm buried in my blankets, weeping pitifully.

I've plenty of reasons to doubt.

Compared to some bloggers, I have a teeny tiny number of readers (and who knows how many of those are regular readers). Not that it's a bad thing, necessarily. After over two years, I'm still trying to find my feet with this. Inflicting my uncertainty on fewer people has its benefits.

I've self-published but one book, and it isn't selling.

For the one series I care most about; for Julian's story, The Great Man, I've received nothing but rejections.

If ever there's a reason to doubt, the number of rejections I get would be one of them. I'm seriously thinking of self-publishing this one. It seems that it's the only way this story will see the light of day.

In fact, other than words of encouragement from friends and family (LOVE you guys), there is absolutely no reason in the world for me to believe that I'll get anywhere with this.

Except that I do.

I believe.

Without reason.

What the hell?

I don't know why I believe.

I just do.

Deep down somewhere, despite all the reasons to doubt, I believe I'll be a successful author. Somewhere inside of me speaks a voice. It speaks in gentle tones, quietly but assuredly. It is the kind of voice that can and does cut through the clamour of a thousand other voices screaming doubts. It tells me to keep going. That what happens now won't matter later. That I'll be alright. That I'll make it.

This voice, this quiet, soulful voice, has pulled me back from the brink of despair more times than I can count. It simply says this:

I will make it.

I will make it.

I will make it.

And so will you.

Villakin

A little villa; a little village.

- Edward Lloyd's Encyclopaedic Dictionary, 1895

No Regrets

You know, there's a fair amount of stuff I've given up to do this writing gig.

I could've opted to be a government employee, with high pay and benefits and job security. It's what most people living in Ottawa do. My job, from anyone else's perspective (as my father tells me. Often.) is pretty crap. It's dull. It's not in my field. The pay is pretty low. There are no benefits.

From a writer's perspective, it's heaven! It covers the bills. I'm healthy and pretty much all my health care needs are met by O.H.I.P. (Ontario Health Insurance). The best part, it lets me write for almost eight hours a day.

Do I regret sacrificing a high paying job, sacrificing benefits, sacrificing employment stability just so I can write? Not a bit.

Writing is my passion. I hope to one day make it my profession. No, scratch that. I will one day make it my profession. Until then, I intend to work at it as often as I can.

Luckily, I have that opportunity.

Thank-you, Universe!

Right, chapter 4 needs printing and editing. I must get on with it. Have a good day!

Denranthopology

Study based on the theory that man had sprung from trees.

- T. Lewis Davier' Supplementary English Glossary, 1881

On Being Nothing

So... how's life?

Mine's great. Can't complain. Not really. I've been exhausted and fairly short tempered for the better part of three days now, and I couldn't understand why until last night - I haven't taken my holidays this year yet.

Oops. Should get on that.

The work for today is much the same as it always is. Edit. I might write some too, as I had a dream last night that related to The Great Man. I did want to save the start of writing for NaNoWriMo, but it looks like I'll have to miss out on that again this year because the book won't wait.

Oh well.

Right, I owe you a fair amount of Forgotten English and so, here it is:

Propheciographer

One who writes down or records prophecies.

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1909

Flexanimous

Having the power to change the disposition of the mind.

- Samuel Johnson's Dictionary of the English Language, 1755

If a minde easily bent or turned.

- Thomas Blount's Glossographia, 1656

Flexanimousness, flexibleness of mind or disposition.

- Nathaniel Bailey's Etymological English Dictionary, 1749

Yankeese

American English; [1800s].

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1918

(Ah hah hah hah hah! Oh, I like that one!)#

Offscouring

Rejected matter; that which is vile or despised.

- Noah Webster's American Dictionary of the English Language, 1828

And now I'm off to edit. Wish me luck!

Oh, and I should also note that the title of today's post has nothing to do with today's post. Sorry about that (not really - I'm enjoying the weirdness of it).

Also, I'm currently addicted to the T.V. show Castle. It's the perfect blend of quirky, funny and serious.

And now I'm done procrastinating and will get back to editing. Goodbye!

Catching Up & Getting On

Despite this computer being slower than a walrus without flippers.... I'm slowly catching up on all the stuff I didn't do this long weekend. Speaking of, fellow Canadians, how was your thanksgiving?

Mine was quiet and intimate with my Papa and his friend. It was quite lovely, actually. But I've made a decision:

I can't keep not writing.

Worst. Sentence. Ever.

In any case, I'm starting to crawl out of my own skin. This is a weird feeling - I'm scared of starting, and itching to get started. I'm a little terrified of facing the final book in The Great Man series for several reasons.

The last book gave me nightmares. Seriously. Like wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat-heart-pounding nightmares.

I also, counter intuitively, don't really want to finish this story. It's been a part of me for so long (Julian has been hovering at my shoulder since I was 14), I'm terrified of letting it go. Of course I must eventually, but I just don't wanna!

Also, lots of really good people die in this last book. I will be an emotional wreck by the time the book ends, guaranteed.

So, instead, I'm going to go through Ethan Cadfael: The Battle Prince again before I start on The Great Man. The goal is to have a draft ready for my first Beta Reader by the end of the month. I'm still not releasing it until Hallowe'en of next year, but it would be nice to get all the really difficult stuff out of the way before I begin the final chapter in a really difficult series.

At least I'm working with words again. It'll be nice to start on that once more.

The Great Man will be started in November. I'll be trying to make the first 50 000 words of the book part of the NaNoWriMo challenge, seeing as I've never participated before. I'll kill two birds with one book that way.

I'm terribly behind today, but I should get started. I hope your Tuesday is wonderful. Mine will be painful! Back to training tonight...

Snool

To dispirit by constant chiding; or to depress the energies of life by excess of bodily toil ... a poor pitiful fellow.

- Charles Mackay's Lost Beauties of the English Language, 1874

Correctness vs. Impact

I've been thinking about this one for a while now, and it has me pondering.

There's a lot of stuff (technical word) flying around about writing being absolutely correct in the strictest grammatical sense. While I'm not opposed to the use of proper grammar (far from it - I've become a little bit of a grammar Nazi, but there's a limit to that), I greatly wonder if in the pursuit of grammatical perfection we lose a little something of emotional impact.

As an intuitive writer, I'm very much a feeler as well. I tend not to notice the errors if I'm totally engrossed in the emotion of the moment I'm reading... provided that the errors are not so many and are not so egregious that they impact meaning, of course.

Academic writing is not meant to be emotive. It's meant to be objective, scientific, to the point while creative writing is, well, whatever the creator wants it to be.

For me, I get a slightly sadistic kick out of seeing other people tear up when they read something I've written. It means I've reached them; gotten to their centre. That's the objective of my writing.

Now here's the thing - it's not like my grammar is terrible. Alright, I confess that sometimes I leave a lot to be desired when it comes to sentence structure and grammar. Sometimes, however, I feel that writing it the way someone else has suggested will lessen the emotional quality of the passage in question. Is that just me being... well... overprotective of my prose?

I think that might have something to do with it, if I'm being honest with myself.

Yet still, I have read grammatically perfect sentences and felt nothing. Moreover, it's often my less perfect sentences that get my readers (and myself) to shed a tear or two. Perhaps absolute, immutably proper grammar is a little sterile, a little too academic to reach people in the same way?

Of course, I'm not giving myself (or you, for that matter) an excuse to write poorly. I mean, I still have to be understood and that means good writing. I'm just musing aloud about whether grammatical perfection dampens emotional impact.

I'm not an editor, and I haven't taken a course on professional editing (though, you know, I probably should), so some input from those who have would be wonderful. Do you find that absolute correctness dulls the impact? Do you consider emotionality when you edit, or is it all purely about sentence structure? Is there a difference in your approach when you edit for academic/business articles and when you edit fiction and creative non-fiction?

I'd also love to hear thoughts from any readers following this blog.

Right, that's enough musing for the moment. I forgot to include the Forgotten English after yesterday's book review, so you get a two-for-one special today.

Loitersacke

A lazy, loitering fellow.

- James Halliwell's Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words, 1855

A lazy, lumpish fellow; [from] John Lyly's Mother Bombie (1594).

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1909

Loiter Pegs, an idler; East Yorkshire.

- Joseph Wright's English Dialect Dictionary, 1898-1905

Fash

Care, trouble, anxiety.

- Robert Willan's Glossary of the West Riding of Yorkshire, 1811

To take the fash, to take the trouble, to be at the pains.

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1901

In Australia we say flack. To cop the flack is to bear the brunt of the trouble (usually punishment or a berating). I wonder if they are related somehow.

This Computer...

There are very few things in this world that I actually hate. This computer is one of them. Piece of crap contraption!

I pressed the power button at 9am. It is now 11am and I'm only getting to writing this post now. That's how long this monster took to load.

ARGH!

I was seriously debating on beginning The Great Man, the sixth and final instalment of The Great Man series today. But thanks to this stupid beast of a machine, that's gone out the window. So I'll just listen to my music and daydream in preparation for writing tomorrow.

The story is literally starting to claw its way out of my head, so I guess I'd better put it on paper/digital paper.

If this computer will work.

Stupid machine.

This weekend was, thankfully, much better than this morning. Saturday saw the resumption of Lion Dance, which was nice. It's always fun with that group. In the evening, I met my Dad for a movie and a meal. We saw Killer Elite, which was fun. And we ate spicy Chinese, because I was craving spicy food. Mm-mm, yummy!

Sunday I went once more with K.R. for the final hike of the season. We did the 'Wolf' loop in the Gatineaus. It was incredible fun, and combined the best of the previous two hikes - waterfalls and brooks and spectacular views of Gatineau Park, wearing her autumnal vestments. So beautiful.

It was wonderful, and I'm very please to have hiked that trail. It's definitely my new favourite.

Right, well, there's stuff to do this morning, and I'm running late thanks to this stupid, stupid, stupid computer.

Hope you all have a wonderful Monday.

Thruffing

The whole matter.

- Jabez Good's Glossary of East Lincolnshire, 1900

In the phrase, "to know the whole thruffing of anything," to know all about it. Thruffish, thoroughly well. "Thruffish, thank you." Lincolnshire, Thruffable, open throughout; figuratively, transparently honest and sincere; a person capable of being "seen through." North Yorkshire.

- Joseph Wright's English Dialect Dictionary, 1898-1905

Looking Forward

Soooo.... how are you?

I'm good.

Slowly mastering potion-making. I think I ought to have my head read. On the bright side, September officially ends today, and that means I should be getting back to work (on something, I suppose) on Monday. Should be.

It's probably going to be The Great Man. Events in the book keep popping into my head. That means three months of hell. No seriously.

Here's the thing. I don't drive the stories. They drive me. The best recent example of that was the terrible daydream that had me sobbing hysterically moments before Jazz returned from Boston.

It was a daydream. I was lucid. I should have been able to control it. But no. I wasn't. The result was excruciating heartbreak.

Writing The Great Man series has proven to be much the same sort of experience. All the angst and grief and anger are things I tend to feel myself - even though I'm just describing a character's experience. It's a bit like when someone upsets your friend, and you feel upset on their behalf. Only, imagine feeling like that for three months.

And the nightmares!

Oivey! This series takes a lot out of me.

And yet, there isn't any other story I care as much about. There is no other story I've written that drives me to write the way this one does.

It's a little frightening, possibly psychotic, and I'll be very glad when it's over. For now, though, I'll suffer my way through it because, and you can quote me on this, the ending is just beautiful. Like a sunrise.

O.K. Last day of freedom coming up. I'd best make the most of it. Have a great weekend everyone. See you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Monday morning!

One-Wheeled Coach

The young men of a place, when they know that a young man is paying attention to a girl, seize hold of him and place him in a wheelbarrow in which they wheel him up and down until they are tired, when they upset on the nearest pile or in a pond. To say that a man has "ridden in the one-wheeled coach" is tantamount to the expression that he has gone a-courting.

- Rev. S. Rundle's Transactions of the Penzance Natural History Society, 1886

A-courting. Really?

A Wedding, an Anniversary and a ... Funeral?

This weekend was jam-packed.

On the 24th, my beautiful eldest sister had her birthday. Without a computer at home, I wasn't able to wish her a happy birthday until today...

It also happened to be my dear friend, D.P.'s wedding. It was a beautiful wedding, simple and elegant, with a reverend who had a phenomenal sense of humour and often broke into song, and a intimate reception full of laughter and dancing. It really was a fabulous time. I met some lovely people that weekend, and I do hope that we stay in touch.

I am so glad that D.P. has found someone with as much wit and warmth as S.S. and I truly hope that they live long, fulfilling lives together.

And that's as sentimental as you're likely to find me.

Sunday the 25th saw an anniversary of the Hung Men Association here in Ottawa. Yes, I'm aware what that name implies. Yes, I've laughed hysterically at it already. But that doesn't mean you get to. Bear in mind, it's a Chinese association. There was a delicious Chinese lunch to attend... which I did, and gladly.

So you know, the Hung Men (or Heng Mun?) Association has very kindly allowed Wutan Canada the use of their facilities and equipment for our Lion Dance troupe.

Sunday afternoon, I returned home to have a nice long nap. Then I woke to clean house in anticipation of J.M-B.'s return. She's been in Boston for the better part of a week and a half. Before I swept, I decided to take another little break, and ended up snoozing on the couch in the living room.

Where I had the most horrifying day-dream (alright, it was night, but I was still conscious - and, one would have thought, therefore able to better control what happened in said dream). Two of my Kung Fu brothers (one my good friend, K.C.) were involved in this dream. Poor K.C. got the worst of it, and was killed. In front of me. After I had saved him from another life-threatening danger.

The dream had me in such a state, I was sobbing when the door opened and J.M-B. walked in. I had sobbed so hard, in fact, that the pillow on which my head rested was very, very wet with tears. When I tried to relate the dream to J.M-B., I started crying again.

I might need therapy.

Needless to say, I'll be writing that day-dream down. It is going to make the most depressing short story I've ever written... and that's saying something!

Speaking of writing, I didn't do any of it last week... and I didn't enjoy it at all. Taking time off is overrated. I say this every time, I realise.

I'm still not ready to face The Great Man yet. There's a whole lot of grief and angst and pain that I don't think I can deal with just yet in that book. Though, to be honest, I'll be glad when the series is finally written and I can leave it well behind me. Still, I should get back to writing again, so today I think I'll write that horrifically depressing short story, though not before I judge these other short stories I ought to be judging.

I also realise, that when I stop writing, my brain goes to the dogs. I realise that, for the second week in a row, I've forgotten the weekend Forgotten English. So, again, today you all get a two-for-one special.

Backend

They sometimes say the backend of the week, but latter end is more common.

- Rev. Alfred Easther's Glossary of the Dialect of Almondbury and Huddersfield, 1883

Late autumn; Cumbria.

- Alexander Gibson's Folk-Speech of Cumberland, 1880

The later part of a season.

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1888

Backendish, rough and wintry, generally applied to the weather.

- Rev. M.C.F. Morris' Yorkshire Folk-Talk, 1892

Ronyon

From the French rogne, the scab or scurf. A term of contempt, applied to a female, as "scurvy fellow" was similarly applied to a male, and both derived from the same French origin, and neither having particular reference to size. "Aroint thee, witch! the rump-fed ronyon cries." Macbeth.

- William Toone's Etymological Dictionary of Obsolete Words, 1831

The male [sex] organ.

- Sir James Murray's New English Dictionary, 1914.