Modern Language

Researching this book has been an interesting adventure in language. Some of the most modern feeling, familiar phrases such as: "call a spade a spade", "pay through the nose", "cock and bull story", "paint the town red" and "put the cart before the horse" were in usage during Nell Gwyn's life. To "call a spade a spade" was originally from Plutarch and was mistranslated as far back as Erasmus to mean "shovel". "Paint the town red" may have been a particularly gruesome phrase from the Roman Empire. When the Romans conquered a town they would celebrate by "painting it red" with the blood of their enemies. Ick.

In the years during and after the Interregnum "plain" speaking came into vogue. Francis Bacon was praised by the Royal Society for his "mathematical plainness" and lucidity of language. It became trendy to write without the complicated floral Elizabethan epithets and overblown exaggeration that had characterized expression in previous centuries. These idiomatic phrases survived this paring down of language intact.

The result was that the language of the Restoration is not far off our own. Samuel Peyps began most of his diary entries with "Up early and off to my office to..." whatever he was going to do with his day and then ended the entry with "And so off to bed." The direct casual wording sounds modern and it is not until the references to coaches, wenches and nasty, nasty food crop up that the diary really shows its age. Well, that and Peyps' fascination with his digestive system and the commemorating the removal of his "stone" (a yearly celebration in honor of his gall stone surgery--more ick).

Pitch

The bumble bee the bumble bee

It flew away from the tulip tree

It made a mistake and flew into the lake

And never got home for early tea.

I love stories pitched high. I love writing that you have to work for. This little rhyme appears apropos of nothing part way through my favorite film (Stanley Donen's Two for the Road) and then reappears later to lightly denote the perfect mix of wry regret, nostalgia, freedom, remembered fun and loss--all without saying anything. Love that. The characters go sixty percent and we race to make up the other forty--fun. When the plot or structure or characters snap together too easily I sort of fall asleep at the wheel in my head.

On the other hand if I read something that is pitched too high I hate it. I know hate is a strong word. But I greatly, massively, disproportionately dislike it. Self conscious, deliberately out of reach linguistic acrobatics drive me bonkers.

Yesterday, standing in Kinko's Fed Ex (after having a stern discussion with my packaged up book asking it not to be the one in a million Fed Ex package to get lost, kissing it goodbye and freaking out the nice man behind the counter), I realized that I have no sense anymore of where my book is pitched. That finely tuned, ruthless speedometer that is running full tilt when I read, seems to go to lunch when I write. That is, as Tuna says, is no bueno.

I am far to close to what I have written to have any real idea what it says--worrying. I have heard that phrase before but did not really understand what it meant. As I was finishing up my edits yesterday I went around the house reading bits aloud to various animals and humans trying to get a sense of how it really sounded. (Bert seemed to like it, the Major wouldn't wake up, and the Black Cat ran off to eat soy sauce instead). The chunks of words sounded foreign, strange and unfamiliar--like when you repeat the word "fork" too many times and it no longer sounds right.

Copyediting and Christmas--found! But now Anticlimactic...

They don't go so well together. Christmas at our house means fires and chocolate and board games and books and animals and movies and family and friends and more chocolate and then dinner and it all makes one so... sleepy. But no! Must finish! And so I have been waking up after falling asleep in the living room, dining room, den or kitchen (tricky but can definitely be done), at one, two or three a.m. getting into bed with my gigantic stack of pages and editing. Not my most productive time of day to work it must be said.

But I have done it! Five hundred and ten pages later the "To Do" stack is gone and the "Done" stack is enormous. Unfortunately I do not trust myself and cannot remember half of what I did, undid or should have done and so I am going back over all five hundred and ten pages. My dog, who is under a blanket under the manuscript is very pleased as he does not want me to get out of my pajamas, get up from this chair or go out of the house. This dog inspires a terrible brand of multiple days in pajamas type laziness. That is totally appropriate for today as I was up for most of the night (my own fault as I wanted to watch All About Eve with my mom--unfortunately watching Bette Davis makes me want to write everything in a Bette Davis voice--not good for the 17th century).

But now it is done-ish. Unless I check it over one more time. To do:510 pages. Done:0 pages. Happy dog, happy dog, who's a happy dog?

Delete Buttons

Grumble. Wrote blog. Posted blog. Added photo. Deleted photo. Accidentally deleted blog and comments. Grumble. Now must go back to editing.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Momentum

So you might have noticed that I am writing here more often than just Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at the moment.  I am editing (my book), reading (still Anna Karenina), writing (this blog), plotting (my next book), planning and figuring out more in general at the moment.  I probably should not say that out loud let alone commit that thought to paper as the gods of sleepiness and inertia will come for me instantly if they sniff industry.

I think it has something to do with momentum.  I usually try not to let myself get propelled by momentum when I am writing.  I have very clear rules about writing momentum in fact:

1. Wake up early and turn on the computer before I really know what is going on in order to avoid "deciding" to work.  "Deciding" to work almost always leads to "deciding" not to work and so I avoid that.

2. Stop before I am done and leave something in the bag for tomorrow.  Returning to something I am excited about is easier than writing something out and then having to start over the next day with fresh enthusiasm.  This, by the way, sucks when I am writing a scene I like and have to forcibly put it down in order to keep it interesting for tomorrow.

3. Write the same amount every day.  No momentum driven writing binges as they end in sleeplessness, loss of focus and bumping into stuff the next day.

4. When I am going to take a day off it must be a planned day off with no plan to make up for it later.  I just have to resume the day after without indulging in guilt propelled overdrive.

5. Trust that it will be there.  Do not chase down a half baked scene because I am afraid the momentum will disappear.  But do stop whatever I am doing at any time to scribble story/plot/character/color/name/place/pet/smell stuff on whatever piece of paper I have handy--usually my book.  

That is it really.  I have other writing rules for myself which I will write about another day but that is it for momentum.  It is funny that I am breaking these rules with this blog.  I think it is all the lovely support I have had from wonderful friends and family.  My friend Jainee posted this blog on her Facebook page and I was so touched.  It makes me want to abandon my rules and write for the fun of it--which is... fun.

Pages edited: 239!

  

Encouragement

Ariel is one of my dearest friends from college. We spoke last night after far, far too long. I sometimes get into ruts where I think constantly of the people I love but that affection in no way translates to picking up the phone. Not sure what I am doing with my time that makes it so impossible to call but suddenly it becomes almost insurmountable. Ridiculous isn't it? Then I sound utterly absurd protesting later "But I have been thinking about you so much!" when there is absolutely no proof of that whatsoever.

Anyway we spoke yesterday and it was heaven. She said exactly the right thing at the right time. Isn't it lovely when people do that? Conversely it profoundly unlovely when people say the exact wrong thing at the wrong time. Random lady in line at the bookstore on Christmas Eve: "Oh thirty-five? Mmm so you do not want kids?" No bueno.

People who have known you for ages and are familiar with the many different you-s that you have been along the way have a unique perspective. Someone who can remember when you wore Doc Martens and wanted to be an archaeologist--that person really understands how funny and twisty the road has been.

There is a wonderful simplicity and lack of having to explain why something is important when you speak to those people. And there is a tremendous sense that whatever you are going to do in your life--you will do it together. Last year when I told my friend Amber that I was about to start querying agents, she asked me "When do we start?" The "we" is the greatest gift a friend can give you.

Pages edited:175!

Home Home

So I am home on the East Coast at the moment. Other months of the year I am "home" in Kauai but this is home home. Don't you love the repeated word, this time I mean it, emphasis of phrases like "home home," "like like," "really really" and "now now"? I do. I love how we understand what they mean even when they technically mean absolutely nothing.

For Christmas (the only five days of the year when the five of us will all definitely be in the same place)----my family believes in elasticized waistbands, three lunches a day, Backgammon, Scrabble, afternoon naps and going out in whatever one happens to be wearing. Going out is a tremendous inconvenience and we punish it by not brushing our hair and leaving the house in semi pajamas. Somehow it doesn't matter. As I grew up here the damage is done. Braces, purple corduroy, yellow velour short shorts, green roller skates worn with woolly red knee socks, grey and pink leg warmers, matching pink Adidas shirt, shorts, shoes and socks, penny loafers with the penny inside, an unfortunate 'prairie' skirt phase, tutus in winter, quarter inch bangs I cut myself--this city has seen it all.

We have snow on the ground--well snow, slush, and unidentified grey funk (part melted newspaper and part slushy mud). For Christmas my brother gave my sister and I fantastic bright yellow knee-high wellies. Identical fantastic bright yellow knee-high wellies. Yesterday, without fear or apprehension, my sister and I ventured out in our matching Donald Duck-esque booties into the fancy new Sephora, Neiman Marcus, Saks and Barney's Coop that have opened near our house. People looked, people giggled and my brother took photos.

My Christmas crazy sister insisted we walk across the street to the Starbucks--she loves the Christmas cups at Starbucks (as well as the seasonal Santas on the Christmas Coke cans). As we walked in yellow bootie unison, I remembered what it was like to be ten years old and go out wearing a giant tutu over your jeans on a Wednesday. No justification or explanation ever offered to spectators. parents or other kids.  Just because.  "Just because" was all the justification I ever needed as a kid--there is something to that.  Tutus are brilliant. I should wear them more often.

Pages edited: 103.  Slowly getting there!  

Paper

So it has been mayhem around here: snow on the ground, cats in the wrapping paper, family playing Scrabble (I lost twice) dogs in the ribbons, papers everywhere, family playing the piano, fire in the fireplace, family drinking tea, phones beeping, family eating chocolate, doorbell ringing--chaos, but fun. Fun but not a great atmosphere to get through five hundred and something pages of a copy edited manuscript. It is day three and I am on page 42--not good.

The problem is that I have become terrified of paper. The book is at the stage (and I have only recently learned that there is such a stage) where I am working on paper. Well actually we are working on paper. The package arrived at our house 12 hours after I did. The package--542 pages of a copy edited manuscript and a green pencil. This was it. This was the manuscript. Not a copy of something that exists on the computer. This is now the manuscript--the only manuscript.

Pressure. Things had to change. No more losing pages, spilling coffee at will, letting cats wander over the prologue and dogs sleep on chapter four--that all had to end immediately.

The lovely publishers sent the edited manuscript (edited in red and blue pencil--much friendlier than red and blue ink) and I am to edit in a green pencil (that they enclosed in the package) and then send it back. I have been instructed to hold onto the green pencil as I will need it to edit proof pages later--I have become slightly obsessive about the green pencil and have forbidden anyone to touch it.

I am basically terrified and keep pulling out the pages only to put them away. Animals, liquid, fire, snow, food or excessive numbers of people send me into paroxysms of fear over the pages and the pencil. Three cats and a fire--put away the pages. Two dogs and my brother drinking tea--put away the pages. Tuna eating toast--put away the pages. Wet snow boots in the next room--put away the pages. I was getting ridiculous. And so after only progressing four pages today I have made an executive decision. The pages will get wrinkled, fuzzy, furry and probably wet. That is the collateral damage of living with family, animals, food and snow.

Snow Day

So, I did not write on Friday. I actually did not do much of anything of Friday except wait on hold to speak to Virgin America. Two feet of snow fell on my parent's house in Washington DC. It fell all over the East Cast but it also fell on my parent's house in DC. I was grumpy. I obviously had less cause to be grumpy than my family who were under the snow with two dogs who needed to go outside. The dachshund flatly refused and Gordie bounced around like a gazelle. But I was thinking more about the fact that I was not going to be able to fly out the next day. I pictured long lines, sleeping in airports, sponge baths in airport bathrooms, and the funny smelling carpet particular to departure lounges. I fidgeted. I packed. I unpacked. I planned to buy Pond's Clean Sweeps Facial Towelettes and travel sized tooth paste. "Your wait time is approximately... 223 minutes," the over chirpy, Virgin America computer voice said. Not good.

So we went out. Phone still stuck to my ear we walked the two blocks to the Grove where we found: an enormous Christmas tree (real, beautiful and smelling lovely even though I technically do not believe in cutting down gigantic trees), fairy lights, Santa's frosted, candy house, complete with faux fur- trimmed North Pole elves (all very Will Farrell/Christmassy Dr. Seuss), lollipops on the walls, a gingerbread door and a sugar icing roof, Christmas carollers, small dogs in Santa coats (four stubby french bulldogs), a puffy Pomeranian in green wellies and a Christmas bow, holly, mistletoe, strung up, lit up snowflakes, garlands, wreaths, bells, and snow falling from giant, aerial snow blowers at ten to the hour, every hour.

It was over done, over blown, over the top Christmas heaven. It made me want to drink peppermint chocolate and eat toffee brittle. "Your wait time is 185 minutes." Suddenly it felt like a snow day. I did not really understand the fun of a snow day until college (at Mount Holyoke in Massachusetts we were frequently blanketed in four or five feet of snow). My high school, well the lovably autocratic principal of my high school, did not believe in snow days. He famously refused to grant them--ever. And then one year he went to rehab and the vice principal took over for the semester. On the last day of the vice principal's short reign he granted a snow day--in May.

Snow days feel like a step out of time, out of routine, out of responsibility. You are suddenly light and silly and supposed to be... nowhere. That is what happened with one hundred and eighty-five minutes to go. I hung up the phone, left the ranks of grumpy inconvenienced people and went in search of peppermint cocoa.