The X Factor

I miss doing Algebra.

No, really, I do.

I miss solving page-long quadratic equations. I miss the neat rows of equal signs running down the page until there was only an "X = " left of the equation. I miss knowing that there's only one way to correctly solve the problem and that I am capable of finding that solution.

After earning 84 credits towards my bachelor's degree in a little less than a year, I'm really starting to miss the finality of algebra. There aren't a myriad of perspectives to understand and/or decide between like there is whenever history or politics are concerned. You don't have to worry about identifying the ideologies, philosophies, or worldviews of different people, or trying to figure out how those ideas shaped their lives. All you have to do is solve for X.

Don't misunderstand me - I love history. I love studying historical figures and happenings. There's so much to learn from and discover about those who have lived before us. I've taken courses in Humanities, Western Civilization, U.S.History, The Soviet Union, Literature and all of them are fascinating. All of them are also almost never-ending subjects of study. One could literally spend a lifetime researching just one aspect or time period of any of the above topics.

That kind of in-depth, immersion research is part of why I write historical fiction (or, at least, that's what I'm starting with). I can combine my writing with further study and give my readers a time and/or place they haven't seen/been before. I can pick any culture from any time, study it, and then bring the past into the light of the present.

But knowing how much I don't know, knowing how much I could still study the things I've already covered in a general sense, is an exhausting idea. I think that's why I've had this hankering for Algebra. It's a finite subject. You learn it and then you're done. Sure, there's other math forms to go onto if you like (I'm still bummed that I graduated before I got to take Trigonometry) but Algebra is complete. You can put it on the shelf and know that you know all there is to know about Algebra.

I like that sense of finality, of completion.

I like being able to solve for X.

Badar Basim

"It's like that name...the name with two D's or two B's. When you forget a name like that you don't really forget it, because when you hear it again you know it instantly." - Shahrazad

 (as portrayed in Shadow Spinner, by Susan Fletcher)

Some stories are like that too.

The Iron Peacock, by Mary Stetson Clarke, is one of them.

I first read it years ago when I lived in this tiny little town that quite literally had more cows than people. A little town with lots of cows, friendly down-to-earth farming folks, and a quaint old library. And in this library was this book. I read it. I loved it. And then I forgot about it.

For years, I never thought of it, not even in passing when talking about favorite books. At some point, and I don't remember what prompted it, my sister and I both remembered this great book we had read when we lived in Lisbon. About a girl...and a guy...and an iron thing for a fireplace. That's all we could remember - not the title, not the author, not the characters' names. Nothing.

It was the tiniest smidgen of a memory, the kind that normally fade from mind as quickly as they arrive, but it stayed with me. It kept popping up every time I was looking at my Wish-To-Read and Wish-To-Buy list. What was that story? I don't know how but I finally recalled the title one day. I immediately typed it into Amazon, really hoping that I had remembered rightly, and there it was. There were only two left in stock. I bought both. They arrived, I ripped open the box, picked one up, and just held it thinking, Oh, no.

I didn't recognize the cover. I didn't recognize the blurb on the back. Absolutely nothing about it seemed familiar. So I start leafing through it thinking, Please, please be the right story. There was one scene I remembered vaguely - it involved dancing and a red petticoat. I couldn't find it. I started skimming over the dialogue, trying to find the main male character somewhere so I could find his name. It wasn't working. So I flipped to the last page (even though I never do that), hoping for something, anything familiar. And that's where I found these lines:

"'Tis the way I first saw ye, as pretty as a peacock in your velvet cloak, with your head held high. I thought then ye were as proud as one, but I've learned different since. 'Tis not pride, but courage ye have, lass. Ye've the strength of iron."

Oh, yes. Yes, this is it. Ross, that was his name! The moment I knew I had the right story, I flipped back to page one and started reading. And with every page turn, I remembered more and more - what happened next, the supporting characters, the way it all worked out. I was so happy. This was the story, the characters, I had loved and forgotten. 

Re-reading it, and seeing it now on my bookshelf, it's like having a childhood friend back. A friend you liked so well that you can't imagine how you ever managed to forget them. A friend who you know instantly when you see them again. 

   

Because, sometimes, it's like the name with two D's or two B's. You never really forget it. It just gets covered with the dust of days gone by.