I have been remiss.

It occurred to me today that I haven't been blogging regularly here for one specific reason: I was waiting for ideas of deep and resonant literary merit to come along for me to write about.

I realize now that that's just silly: I hardly have time to read anymore. Where on earth would I find such ideas? So a new (old) idea: Rather than wait for ideas and content to come to me, I'll simply record what I'm up to. Because some of it's just downright weird.

For instance! I'm growing a mustache.

You heard me.

A mustache.
Like this:

November is now Movember - men all over the ... US? I think... are growing lush mustaches to support one another in their triumph against prostate and testicular cancer. (I said testicular!! OMG.) And they've allowed us women to join with them.

My husband is/was a pro cyclist and cyclocross rider. And from what I understand (I have no statistics) cyclists are cautioned to have their prostates checked earlier than usual.

Anyway, by Movember 30th, I'll be mustachioed and I hope the men in my life will be able to see past the silliness to how deeply I care for them and wish them health and longevity.

(Plug: If you want to support my mustache, go here. It only costs $10, but if I make $20, I can buy two!! The money goes to research. I get the mustache. And my husband. Win-win-win!)

In Pursuit of Eschewing Surplusage

A co-worker recently directed me to Mark Twain's criticism of James Fenimore Cooper's "Leatherstocking Tales," a series about one ridiculous Natty Bumppo and quite a few historically inaccurate American Indians. I confess, I've never read much of Twain's work in general (aside from "Pudd'nhead Wilson," which I thoroughly enjoyed), so his criticism was a delightful surprise.

Twain's essay, titled "Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses," outlines a series of guidelines or prerequisites for "literary art in domain of romantic fiction" and one by one describes how Fenimore Cooper failed to even comprehend these guidelines.

I think what I love about Twain is his flexibility:
- He can be long-winded and blustery: "when the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject at hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say" (paragraph 8)
- He can be incredibly to the point: "Eschew surplusage" (paragraph 18)
- He uses sarcasm and irony incredibly well: "I wish I may never know peace again if he doesn't strike out promptly and follow the track of that cannon-ball across the plain in the dense fog and find the fort. Isn't it a daisy?" (paragraph 25)
- He is generally in complete earnest beneath all the language and humor he employs: "I may be mistaken, but it does seem to me that "Deerslayer" is not a work of art in any sense; it does seem to me that it is destitute of every detail that goes to the making of a work of art; in truth, it seems to me that "Deerslayer" is just simply a literary delirium tremens." (paragraph 51)

The above are just samples of Twain's wit and devotion to beautiful literature. For the full piece, visit it at the University of Virginia Library: Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses.

Very well then I contradict myself...I contain multitudes.

I was re-reading a few of my last posts and noticed the theme of not being myself, not being clear or feeling unable to think clearly.

That's gone! It happened the Monday after the honeymoon: I was working remotely from a hotel room in Georgia, and I woke up that morning feeling rested, energetic, and creative. And since then, I've been clear-headed and myself again. And on the backside of everything, finally, people are coming out of the woodwork to agree with me: when you get engaged, you literally lose your mind. What I ask now, is why didn't someone warn me?!

For as much as I've been reading lately, I have little to report. I'm researching content: what is content? How do you manage it? What content is relevant to me? To my business? To my friends? How do you plan for future content? When does content expire? It's pretty fascinating stuff, to be honest. The expert people in this field are generally well-written and fun to follow on Twitter - an added bonus. I'm looking forward to finding some conferences to attend.

**Title line from "Song of Myself," by Walt Whitman

Now that you've said, "I do..."

There are so many things I like about being married. Things I'd never thought of, but have already made me laugh (and sometimes cry). For instance:

Dave was out of town for work Monday through Thursday, and I had the weirdest, inescapable back pain for most of the week. I just felt generally unwell and went to work from home Wednesday afternoon. Around 3:00, someone came in the back door. I assumed it was the landlord (we're expecting a new roof any day now), and called, "Hello?" Dave came around the corner! His bosses asked after me and sent him home when they found out I was sick! I bawled my eyes out on and off all afternoon.

We've only been married three weeks, and there are a lot of "single person" habits we're having to break. My favorite one of Dave's is turning the bathroom light off on me as we get ready for bed. Cracks me up every time!

Last night, around 2 a.m., I woke up in an instant and sneezed violently. I felt Dave jerk next to me, and heard a very bleary "bless you." I can't put into words how grateful I am for this wonderful man.

So have a little grace for me if the next couple of WriteMe posts have more to do with marriage anecdotes than actual writing. I'm hoping to strike a balance soon.

Intermission

I'm getting married!! So as you can imagine, my brain is fried. This morning, Dave watched me stand on the sidewalk next to his car, looking for him and talking to myself. I hope he's ok with batshit crazy. Conversely, I hope I get my brain back. I'm scared it's lost to me forever.

All that to say, I'll be back, but pardon the interruption. We've got things to do!

Lies "breathed through silver"?

A tribute to Myth, as eternal, as archetype, as reminder of what was and what we hope for:

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind...

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith....

Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

From JRR Tolkien's "Mythopoeia"

Remember that picture adage?

Our writing exorcisms at work this morning turned up a particularly interesting result. My mind is squirrely and probably works too hard on all the wrong things, but my bent is clearly fiction. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to have worlds inside your head, I suppose.

Prompt: Write 145 words using the picture below as inspiration.

The neighborhood was old – older than my Pappaw’s Pappaw. Buildings had cracked and broken, been repaired; and the repairs had broken. The people who lived there had grown to be like their houses, their cars, the neighborhood itself: they were grained and lined and worn around the edges, but sturdy, lasting. Spider-webbed window panes were washed weekly, no paper bits lined the gutters, no leaves rotted on the sidewalks. The old neighbors lived on the blurred verge of the past, when things were slower, quieter. TV’s shone dimly through hand-tatted lace curtains, flowered aprons polished old speckly silver spoons. They stood in the gentle golden sunshine and stirred the dust on their stoops, calling to each other in voices that creaked with use. Their ancestors carved out this close, concrete haven two lifetimes before and now it was theirs – to maintain, with tender, curatorial pride.

Zorro has no power over the weather.

I recently started reading Isabel Allende's Zorro and was surprised at how easily I fell into it. It's a delightful book, the characters are endearing, and the plot moves along at a good clip with pleasant surprises in store. My only complaint was that the 3rd person omniscient narrator suddenly interrupts on page 89 with his own voice and alludes to his role in the story. It's terribly abrupt, and (I looked) the only other place he speaks is literally the very first sentence. Jarring.

But my complaint against the narrator is beside the point. The book had been recommended to me over and over, and I finally read it, loved it, and couldn't wait to see what happened next.

That's when we had a week or so of violent thunderstorms. And this little guy

got frightened while the fiance and I were at the gym. And he took it out on Zorro:

Of course, I immediately tried to find which page I'd been on and see if I'd lost any valuable story information. The two main characters have a pivotal experience in the ten pages between where I stopped reading and where Puck deemed I should pick back up. I'm off to Grumpy's this week to find another copy and finish that story. And the house has been puppy-proofed - mostly.

Words: A History Lesson

Today could not be any wetter if we dunked it in the ocean. Fortunately, I have a new and lovely pair of rainboots! They are navy and hot pink plaid on a cream background and solidly waterproof. They even have a cozy, hot pink fleece lining. I amused myself on the way to work thinking of other words for rainboots. Shall we?

Wellies: British, from Wellingtons or Wellington boots. Named after Arthur, First Duke of Wellington (1769-1852). He apparently was a dashing, well-dressed fellow who set many fashion trends, and thus had boots, trousers, coats, hats, and even a few trees named after him.

Rubbers: also British; relatively modern slang for rubber boots or rubber waders.

Mukluk: also "muckluck." Eskimo word for sealskin, describing the material of their traditional footwear: waterproof and often lined with fur.

Galoshes: Latin for "Gallic shoe." A wooden sole strapped to the foot with leather. However, there's an alternate (and more interesting) etymology: Greek from the word for "shoemaker's last;" the shoemaker had run out of expensive leather and resorted to the cheaper, last-resort wood.


Whoo! That was fun. And I've branded myself a perma-nerd.
[Thanks to the Online Etymology Dictionary for my info.]

A Conversation, Expanded

I just want to get back to that place where I was happy again, she says. But what is happiness?

I’ve begun to think happiness isn’t a place we get back to.

I think it is a cloud.

We encounter clouds throughout our lives, but they are always in a different form when we see them.

Sometimes, we don’t recognize them until they are gone.

Other times we’re literally engulfed in clouds.

And often, we only just glimpse them or touch them and they are on their way.

But clouds are constant. They return, over and over.

And I think happiness has more to do with what we are looking for and where we are looking for it, like clouds.

Clouds are up in the sky, outside of our selves, our normal beaten path.

Nature is cyclical.

Our lives are cyclical.

Water collects in a large body, evaporates into the air, condenses into clouds, falls as rain, collects again.

We walk through phases of happiness, contentment; phases of staleness, discontent; phases of struggle, confusion. And we return again and again to happiness.

There are no shortcuts.

We cannot force happiness.

But we humans, we are backwards-gifted with hindsight.

We remember.

All the pain, fear, anger, hurt. But also the happiness, smiles and laughter, peace, joy.

We learn. The imprint of those phases settles like dust into the corners of our memories.

And as we cycle forward into a new phase, the dust is stirred up.

Our inner voice – the hushed voice we often choose to not hear – says, “I have felt this place before.”

I think happiness is a cloud.

It never wears the same shape twice.

It arrives when we are not looking for it, and cannot be found on the days that we search.

But clouds are constant.

I think it is the person whose heart-voice guides them

who sees clouds -

happiness -

truly.

A little follow-up.

The last post, about Huck Finn, was rather passionate. And while I still support my opinion (of course I do!), I've been thinking it over and researching. So here's a bit of balance: A discussion between New York Times contributors (Ivy League English and law professors, language and literature experts, and recognized authors) about the edits made to Huck Finn.

Do Word Changes Alter 'Huckleberry Finn'?

Assassination is the extreme form of censorship.

NewSouth Books and Professor Alan Gribben are editing Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.  They are replacing the n-word with "slave" to protect the sensitivities of young readers. [For the record, they're also replacing "Injun" - because little boys from the deep South should never speak in dialect.]

I don't even know where to start with this ridiculous decision. My first inclination is, "Did anyone ask Mark?" Well, ok, he's dead, but he's already said how he feels:
The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and lightning bug. (Mark Twain)

Is "slave" even an accurate replacement of the n-word? Off the top of my head, I can think of three, four, even five connotations the n-word bears that have nothing to do with slavery.

Is changing literature like this a good idea? What kind of precedent does it set for those after us? It tells them that we can just over-write the bits of history we find distasteful: apply a little white-out, pick a different word, and ta-da! Same, but different. No one's found offense with the slavery and abuse in ancient Greek plays (not to mention the incest, murder, mutilation, and rape). But Twain hits closer to home because he's more recently dead? I don't see how that's relevant. He wrote about his time period as he saw it in the language that was common then. It's not our place to edit the past!

In a Publisher's Weekly article announcing the new version, Gribben says he heard teachers across America complaining that they couldn't teach Huck Finn anymore because of the "hurtful" language. I ask: What good is a teacher who can't adequately set up the context for a historical piece of literature? who can't encourage and then manage a healthy discussion of the changes in language between an insensitive little white boy 150 years ago and (overly?) PC little children in America today?

As a writer, a scholar, a reader, and an English degree-holder, this debate gets under my skin. The fact that Gribben is a Twain scholar and an English professor is even more frustrating. Thomas Wortham, a UCLA Twain scholar, told Publisher's Weekly that "a book like Professor Gribben has imagined doesn't challenge children [and their teachers] to ask, 'Why would a child like Huck use such reprehensible language?'" Thanks, Gribben - as if we didn't have enough empty, cracker-like classes as it is.

It's lunch time. I can't stomach any more idiocy right now.