From a 6-year-old Boy

I was giving my three youngest siblings a bath last night, in preparation for a weekend at the Center for Courageous Kids. The oldest of them, James (who is perfectly capable of taking a shower, but prefers the bath because it means playing in water for a half an hour) kept passing gas while they were in the tub. All three of them thought that was the funniest thing on the planet. So I'm sitting there, shaking my head a little and half-laughing, thinking Oh my word, when the perceptive and randomly hilarious James says:

"You're a girl. Girls don't like farting."

Me: "Yeah, well, why do you like farting?"

James: "'Cause they're STINK BOMBS!"

A Word for Wednesday

Ablaqueation - (L. ablaqueatio, from ab and laquear, a roof or covering) a laying bare the roots of trees to expose them to the air and water - a practice among gardeners

Oh, yes, how's that for a word? ;) It was the first A word I came across that I had no familiarity with, so here we are. I had two thoughts after reading the definition. The first was, Huh, that's interesting. The second was, Why on earth would anyone do that?

So I did some quick research on it. Apparently, its a rather old, now-discontinued gardening technique. Thanks to Google, I was able to find a few passages out of some obscure books that describe the process:

"Ablaqueation, the removing of the earth, and laying bare the roots of fruit trees in winter, that they may be the more readily exposed to the influence of rains, snow, and air, &c., an operation formerly thought necessary for their future welfare; but experience has shown it to be a dangerous practice, especially where the trees are much exposed to the winds, particularly the southwest, which are generally the most violent. The practice of ablaqueation is therefore with very good reason laid aside in the present practice." The Complete Farmer: Or a General Dictionary of Husbandry, in all its Branches; Containing the Various Methods of Cultivating and Improving every Species of Land...(the title literally continues for an entire page and I wasn't about to type the whole thing out. But it is rather amusing to read this gigantic, highly-detailed title if you want to look it up), by A Society of Gentlemen, Members of the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufacturing, and Commerce, London, 1777

"Ablaqueation, a name used by the ancient writers of agriculture, for an operation in gardening, whereby earth is dug from about a vine, or other fruit-tree, and its roots laid bare, to expose them the more to the sun, rain, and air, in order to promote its fecundity." Cyclopædia, or, An universal dictionary of arts and sciences : containing the definitions of the terms, and accounts of the things signify'd thereby, in the several arts, both liberal and mechanical, and the several sciences, human and divine : the figures, kinds, properties, productions, preparations, and uses, of things natural and artificial : the rise, progress, and state of things ecclesiastical, civil, military, and commercial : with the several systems, sects, opinions, &c : among philosophers, divines, mathematicians, physicians, antiquaries, criticks, &c : the whole intended as a course of ancient and modern learning, by Ephraim Chambers, 1728

(Can you imagine submitting a manuscript to a publisher with a title that long? Or picking it up in a bookstore? My goodness. And that used to be normal!)

So if you ever see someone digging out the roots of their trees, now you'll know what they're doing. Of course, the likelihood of such an event happening is almost non-existent, but you never know. Or, you could do it yourself just because and when people stop to ask you what you're doing, you can confidently say, "I am ablaqueating!"

And now for the storyline (and as a note on this and all future storylines - I'm making them up on the fly so the accuracy of setting/time-period/etc is based on my educated or not-so-educated guesses):

"In sixteenth century England, a young boy is apprenticed to the master gardener of a country lord's estate. As he works to cultivate both the gardens and knowledge under the careful eye of his master, he grows stronger in body, mind, and character. One day, left to ablaqueate the orchard on his own, the ground gives way beneath the blows of his shovel. He tumbles down and down, finally spilling out into an enormous subterranean cavern supported by columns that seem to be made of spiraling sands that froze mid-swirl. Abandoning his duties for the moment, he dares to move further into the cavern, where he discovers that he is not alone."

The end. Or maybe the beginning ;)

What story does ablaqueation put in your mind?

Dandelion Dreams

One of my favorite things about spring are dandelions. Not when they're yellow and full of that sticky, smelly substance that oozes out of the stem if you pick them, but when they're white puff balls scattered over the lawn. My little brother kept picking them for me today and asking me to blow them (he doesn't believe that he is just as capable of doing so yet). I happily obliged him.

There's something very enchanting about watching the seeds get caught up and whisked off by the wind. I think dreams are like that. They seem so fleeting and fragile sometimes, like the smallest breeze will snatch them away.

But all those dandelion seeds land somewhere. Maybe a block down the street, maybe miles away. Who knows? Not all of them will take root and bloom. Many of them will though.

I think dreams are like that too. When we let them out, the winds of life may very well take them to some inhospitable place where they languish and die. But some dreams, some dreams, take root in our hearts. Roots 

deep enough that when the wind sweeps them up, they take us as well.

Those kind of dreams are the kind that take us places we never thought we'd end up - places full of hope and beauty and joy and wonder. Those dreams never die. They may change form, like a dandelion that changes from seedling to flower, but the dream itself remains the same.

There's something very enchanting about dreams, about discovering them, pursuing them, and watching them bear fruit. There's a certain wonder that goes with them. Like wondering where a dandelion seed will land, we wonder at where our own dreams might take us, even as we watch and wonder at the dreams of others. The question is always the same: will they come true? Will they bear fruit and what kind of fruit will it be?

That's the part of dreams that really get to us, I think - the possibility. Maybe they won't happen. Maybe they will. Either way, though, it's possible. And, somehow, that's enough.

At least, it is for me.

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.

Five Things on a Friday

I found these guys from Christine (I guess that's why they call all this blogging and twittering and anything-elsering social networking, with the key word being "network") and thought I'd join the fun, especially since they captured a writer's life quite well. Check it out.

And now for the actual content of this post...

1: That there is far more to being a writer than writing. Yes, the actual writing is the primary and most important part of being a writer. You can't be a writer without, well, writing. But, after you've written your manuscript, there's so much to do that has nothing to do with characters or plot line or setting or prose but has everything to do with becoming a writer (in the published-author sense of the word). There's market research and query letters and platform building and networking; there's submissions and rejections and more submissions and more rejections. And then, after all of that, guess what? You get to wait ;) And wait, and wait, and wait, and really start to loathe the phrase "Patience is a virtue."

2: That writing a synopsis would become the bane of my writerly existence. No, really. I can write a three hundred word pitch just fine. I can handle a brief summary for query letters. I can even manage a single-sentence description. But a two to five page synopsis? That is beyond me for some reason. Oh, I can plunk out two to five pages of something that looks like a summary of my novel, but it is absolutely not pleasant to read.

3: That my fondness of sticky notes would grow exponentially. I buy them in bulk. And for birthday gifts? I ask for the fancy designer kind (I don't use those, except for very special occasions. I still have a pad of a purple paisley design from two years ago in my drawer). During the multiple revisions of my novel, the stack of paper that was my manuscript turned into a sticky-note hedgehog. My idea-file? Full of sticky notes covered in tiny, cramped writing. To-do lists? On sticky notes - because when I'm finished with a task, I can crumple up the cheerfully colored square of paper and throw it out (which is much more satisfying than simply crossing something off a list).

4: That sometimes it's best to just walk away. This is especially true during the revision phase of writing. You get too close, too tied into your story and characters that the problems are either invisible or seemingly insurmountable. Put it away and don't look at it for a few weeks (maybe even a few months). When you come back, things are so much better. So much better.

5: That revising takes up a lot of floor space. Well, it did for me. Between my second and third drafts, I did a major overhaul of most of the storyline. This meant that something needed to be changed in every single chapter. I prefer to do my revising by hand as opposed to on my computer, so I printed the whole thing off, clipped the chapters together, and made a circle of them. I sat in the middle with my scissors and tape and went to work. No one was allowed to walk through my room for days.


So there it is. The five things I wish I had known beforehand :)

Because Deadlines and Challenges are Good Things

(mostly)

I've decided to embark upon a personal blogging challenge for the rest of the year: A Word for Wednesday. I wanted to start today (I even found a word I'd never heard of) but "A Word for Thursday" doesn't sound nearly as good. And it would just be wrong to start a Wednesday series on a Thursday. Anyway...

Every week on Wednesday I will post about a particular word. Each word will (a) start with the letter of the month and (b) be somewhat if not entirely obscure. There are so many great words out there that we are either completely ignorant of or simply choose not to use in normal conversation. So, this is my effort to discover new words - because words are a writer's primary instrument and, well, the more instruments you access to the more beautiful and effective you can make your work.

That will be the easy part. The challenge is this: in addition to writing about the definition/history/interesting-things-regarding the word, create a storyline involving the word. It can be anywhere from a single sentence to a paragraph in length.

If I am successful in this endeavor then, by the end of the year, I should know 37 stupendous new words and have at least a kernel of 37 new stories.

I like the sound of that :)

A Classic Boy v. Girl Moment

I was running errands yesterday with my youngest brother (Rilian) and sister (Coral). The library was our last stop. After reading a stack of books aloud to Rilian while Coral played with puzzles and a stuffed green frog, it was time to go. I don't know when it had started but, by the time we reached the door, it was pouring rain out. So I opened the door, we grabbed hands, and ran out on the count of three.

There were enormous puddles scattered all over the parking lot.

I was just trying to get to the car as quickly as possible because it was cold and wet and dark and there was a tornado warning out.

Rilian was jumping and splashing through every single puddle he could reach, giggling his adorable little head off.

Coral goes, "Ahhh!! It's getting in my shoes!"