Word of the week: bane \ˈbān\ - noun – (hear it!) - a source of harm or ruin : curse – Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Blurbs, and a Forbidden Tryst of Fate

Hey. Psst. Hey, come here. Let me whisper one word to you . . .

Blurb.

Yummy bubbles!

Kind of a silly word, really. Blurb – monosyllabic, semi-onomatopoeic. Reminds you of fish, or bubbles, or squelching through some wet mud with pink-flowered gum boots – blurb, blurb, blurb, blurb . . . cute, cute, cute!

Yeah, right . . . you know what that word reminds me of?

Hell.

You heard me. And it reminds me of that in more ways than one.

You see, for many writers, blurbs are like piranhas dressed up in frilly tutus – interesting to look at, hard to create. Blurbs are those condensed summaries on the back covers of novels, written and designed specifically to entice reader curiosity, enough to make him drop a (sometimes hefty) chunk of change in return for a satisfying bit of forthcoming entertainment.

Blurb: a handful of sentences, and nothing more.

A piranha in a tutu.

"ARRGGHH!" says the nasty fish.

“What?!” you cry. “How in the name of spangled Gucci string purses does that even equate??”

Hey, you try condensing a one hundred thousand word (or more!), three hundred page (plus), multi-faceted plot line novel into three or four enthralling and thoroughly irresistible sentences and see how you fare! Pfft. Trust me, it’s nothing short of squishing an elephant down the brass bell of a trumpet. And it’s just as noisy, too!

See? Blurbs – hellish to write, hellish to even attempt. So why, oh why, were they ever labeled with such a cute-sounding name? Why?! Probably for the same reason nature created destructive puppies to look oh-so-adorable as they chew to pieces your two hundred dollar high heels: To ignite . . . forgiveness.

Ahh . . . yes. So I forgive the infernal “blurb” for being so damned difficult to write, forgive it for making my old brains hurt, forgive it for putting me through hell and back paring, culling, cutting, snipping, snarling, and nearly forcing me to wail in frustrated tears while creating my “piranha-in-a-tutu.” For there is no wrath mightier nor words more deadly poisonous to a writer than a poorly constructed blurb . . . as cute as its name may sound.

But! To hell with it. I’m going to try something different.

The Perfect Player cover

Come along with me on a semi-detailed journey of my blurb for The Perfect Player (henceforth marked in red), glimpsed through four excerpts over a span of four blog posts, written in four different languages whilst wearing a four-pointed hat and standing in the direct center of four octagonal circles . . .

*ahem* Yes. Well, at least that first part will be true – four excerpts, four blog posts. Why? Because I can.

So let’s begin: “A forbidden tryst exposes a threat and sets a secret plan in motion, . . .” as the first female heir to the Northland dominion slips off with her suitor and her friends to finish a furtive, intimate game of “catch me if you dare . . .” :

* * *

First of four excerpts from The Perfect Player, copyright 2013 - Kimberly Grenfell, writing as Devon Winterson. (And yes, I do mean copyrighted, not some faux label to ward off plagiarists.)  

Forbidden Tryst of Fate

Liberated from the confines of the city walls, Marisa loped and glided down the meadow slope toward the treeline and forest beyond. Outside, the lands felt more natural, the air fresher as a breeze blew in from the east. It washed her in the potent, sweet scent of wild elixir pitter-plashing in a stream at the hill’s base.

Halfway down, she halted, sense of abandon fully roused. She stretched out her arms, drew her head back, closed her eyes, and pulled in a cleansing breath. The cloak of responsibility fell away.

Ah, freedom. . . .

Rare. Fleeting. Desired as much as Tayib. Out here, books and tasks, lessons and laws dissolved in a rustle and sway of silvery-gold foliage alongside stalks of lavender grass. Oh, to be one with the world, blend into the night, be carefree, independent and utterly common.

Finally, she eased her eyes open to the sky where Maris and the moons frowned down at her reckless actions. She scowled back. She’d never asked for this lot in life, so why should she be strangled by its rules?

Ignoring the sky’s silent rebuke, Marisa hastened to join her friends.

Along a twisting trail of stones, she crossed the stream, headed toward the mouth of two pathways that branched in opposite directions, winding into the hills. A hearty laugh came from the nearby thickets. She rounded them to crouch with the shadowy figures already there. Tayib, having raced ahead of her, gathered her close. As she slid into his arms, a cool confidence enveloped her. Marisa lifted her brow curiously. How quickly he’d shed his worry now that they were hidden by darkness!

“Right. Now, we’re all here,” said Kahlil, “so let’s start. Marisa, Ariana” — he nodded — “Tayib and I have agreed to give you a running lead — ”

“What!”

“ — because women are so awkward in the woods.” Kahlil shrugged at Ariana’s glower. “Especially at night.”

“And in skirts,” Tayib added.

Ariana’s glower deepened, and Marisa chuckled at her friend’s pique. The twins had a point, though. Regiment garb was sleeker, quieter, far easier to maneuver in.

“Of all the cheek!” Ariana slapped Kahlil, and the two brothers laughed. “No, you won’t be giving us a running lead because we don’t need your pity favors. Marisa and I won last time, as fair and honest as your Soldier’s Oath.”

“Yes, yes, of course you did. If that’s what you want to believe, my dearest one.” Kahlil smirked, elbowing Tayib. Ariana huffed, crossing her arms. Marisa hid her grin.

“You’re just too stubborn to admit we beat you,” Ariana said, “so we’ll just have to prove you wrong. Again.” With that, she plunged into the brush toward the forest, branches quivering in her wake. Kahlil snorted.

Tayib leaned into Marisa. “You’d best run too,” he said, “lest I capture you before the game’s even begun.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “Catch me if you dare, soldier.” She dashed off.

Up through the ever-thickening forest, Marisa trailed the crackling sound of Ariana’s retreat as her friend buried herself farther into the wilds. She fought to keep pace, to distance herself from the brothers, who would soon be in pursuit. Hand over hand, foothold by foothold, she pushed and pulled against branches, trunks, and rocks, climbing higher and higher. But as the forest grew denser, vines and underbrush began to tangle her feet, hindering her efforts to escape. She playfully cursed the warmer months. The upper canopy had once again fully bloomed, obscuring much-needed moonlight. The woods seemed nearly as dark and shadowy as the belly of an underground cavern. Marisa halted with a grunt and searched her mind. What had the commander taught them for efficient nighttime navigation? Weave the thickets, leave the boles . . . or was it the other way around?

“I see you.”

She pivoted.

Behind, two flaxen-haired shadow-figures approached, steps muffled against the mossy forest floor. They angled far around dark clumps of brush with nary a sound. Ah. She grinned. That’s right. Leave the thickets.

“That wasn’t much of a lead,” she called, and the shadow-figures halted. One straightened and gave a gallant wave.

“Oh, but my love, nothing outdoes the tracking skills of the Agis!”

The other slapped his hand down. “You’re just slow. Besides, Ariana said you didn’t need a lead, so . . .”

Marisa smirked. Cheaters. A giggle rose up somewhere to her left, and she shuffled backwards, glancing around for an escape route. “This isn’t going to make up for last time,” she said. “Tracking skills, indeed. You’ll need more than that, you know.”

“We’ll see,” came the reply.

The brothers advanced. Ariana shrieked. The brush snapped once more.

Kahlil sprinted left, toward the noise, while Tayib charged full on. Marisa spun around, heart thudding and skirt hitched. She began to clamber up the wooded hill, insides atingle with a renewed thrill.

Crunching, crackling, dodging, and weaving, Marisa scrambled through the forest — under branches, over logs, around the deepest of thickets — unable to shake Tayib’s nimble pursuit borne through years of strict regiment training. Yet he deliberately lagged. His grunting breaths and rustling trailed, near enough to stoke excitement, far enough to allow her unhindered ascent toward the hill’s crest where the thickets thinned and the number of trees diminished.

The canopy broke at last to flood moonlight over a stone-strewn slope, where Marisa slid, scrabbled, and struggled to stay ahead. Tayib’s hand swiped across her back, fingers catching through her hair. She laughed, surging out of his reach.

She flew over the summit, sped down the other side toward the sparsely wooded descent of the eastern border and the edge of the pillarstone-marked Unclaimed Lands, racing toward the trail that hugged the stream and the slab of rock hidden by underbrush that marked the place of their prior forbidden intimacies: the tunnel egress. She puffed and blew, legs pumping, feet pounding. Warm wind dampened her face, and she lengthened her stride. With capture and reward at stake, she refused to be easy prey. For now.

Within moments she was upon the level pathway and, laughing, twisted round to jeer at Tayib . . . then promptly pitched backwards with a startled cry and a rough thud. Bewildered and sprawled, she wheezed and blinked. The Cerulean and stars wobbled, refocused, and wobbled again before a silhouette rose up against the night sky.

“Maker’s bane!” Tayib cried, offering his hand. “You’re terribly clumsy for someone who’s had regiment training. Are you all right?”

Marisa grasped his wrist, hissing out strangled words. She sat and slowly regained her breath.

“I’m not clumsy. Something snagged my foot.” She shifted. Pain pinched her knee, and she gritted her teeth. Tayib’s grip tensed. “Oh, stop. I’m all right,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. Brow furrowed, she felt along the nearby ground. “Somewhere here . . .”

Tayib chuckled. He pulled her close, kissed her nape, her shoulder, her ear. “It’s likely nothing, you know. A root, a rock — nothing to bother with.”

Yet Marisa continued to grabble. “No, these trails are regularly timberworker cleared.”

“And long,” he said. “People are prone to mistakes.” His hands wandered while Marisa’s own patted the soil. Tayib gave a frisky growl. “I do believe I’ve caught you, my love. And now for my reward. . . .”

But upon his words, Marisa’s fingers hooked over, then traced, the edge of a distinct hole near her feet. Quietly, she surveyed: a hand’s breadth deep, two wide, oblong and notched.

She scuttled sideways from Tayib’s grip with a gasp.

“What? What is it?” he said.

“Look.”

Tayib leaned forward to inspect, then stiffened. “By the Maker!” He twisted to her. “Are those . . . ?”

A line of cloven prints wove toward the border of the Unclaimed Lands to a swath of trampled thickets that lay beyond like a dark, gaping maw. Marisa stumbled to her feet, heart pounding. Dear Maker! Stories of old described them perfectly. Seeing them stabbed her with fear.

“Demon tracks,” she whispered.

“But . . . but, Marisa.” Tayib drew her close. “You don’t think — I mean, they can’t be here, in the Northlands. . . . Could they?”

She bit her lip, afraid to answer.

If evil stalked Mynae, what had happened to their protection?

* * *

. . . and so alas, “. . . twenty-year-old Marisa of Mynae discovers her life is all a lie.” . . .

(Stay tuned . . . more “piranha-in-a-tutu” coming on Thursday, September 26th with Strange Discoveries and Mystic Revelations.)

Author Shout Out: The very talented Miss Holly Current has had her short story, The Poe Toaster, published online in Lost City Review. Come, read . . . you know you want to, and you certainly will not be disappointed, I assure you! You can also follow Holly’s blog, “A Little Literary, a Lotta Coffee.” Again, you won’t be disappointed. Honest!

Word of the week: amenable \ə-ˈmē-nə-bəl\ adj. - 1: liable to be brought to account; 2 a : capable of submission (as to judgment or test), b : readily brought to yield, submit, or cooperate, c : willing

Liebster Blog Award

Holy smokes, and other random exclamations!

I tell you, the number 11 in duplicate has followed me around like a lost little puppy for nearly a year now. Um . . . well, no . . . more the like the itty-bitty leggies of a lost little (invisible) stick-figure puppy. Or maybe like two sets of dancing chopsticks . . . or two yummy double popcicles . . . or one half of a tarantula . . .

Anyway, now the number 11 has come in triplicate—nay, quadruplicate! (Hurray! A whole tarantula!)—as I discovered I was nominated by SLS Oborowsky of Authors Thought to receive the Liebster Blog Award.

To her I say: “Thank you, thank you! Thank you very much!” and I would say this eleven times, but honestly . . . that would get really annoying. I could just hand her a tarantula, though she might not be completely amenable to this.

What is the Liebster Blog Award, and how does it work? Eleven random personal facts, eleven questions answered, eleven questions asked of eleven nominees.

Here, I’ll show you:

First, eleven random personal facts:

1) I’m highly allergic to peppermint oil.

2) I love the smell of honeysuckle and lilac (separately).

3) I’m the mother of four (two human, two canine) children.

4) I abhor money; I think it causes too many problems between people.

5) One of my favorite things to do is to help out fellow authors.

6) I love golden retrievers.

7) I helped build the house I currently live in – yes, with a hammer and nails and hard labor and all that.

8) I absolutely cannot walk in stiletto heels, and I prefer jeans and sweats over fancy skirts and dresses.

9) I used to traipse through the woods in the middle of the night – alone.

10) I think “whimsical” and “wholesome” are the two most fake sounding words – ever.

11) Not much ever “creeps me out”; thus, I wish to eat a scorpion-pop.

Now, eleven questions answered from the one who nominated me: SLS Oborowsky:

1) What is your favorite animal and why? Ooohhh . . . that would have to be the golden retriever, only because they’re so cuddly and lovable and soft and squishy and cute and, and, and . . . need I say more really?

2) If you had a choice to live anywhere in the world, what place would you choose? Someplace warm. No snow. I can’t stand snow. Abhorrent white stuff . . .

3) What is your favorite food? Wow. Um . . . I don’t have one favorite food. I love all foods, really.

4) What is your most memorable moment? Wait, I have a memory? *puzzles*. . . Oh! Hang on . . . yes. My most memorable moment (say that ten times fast!) would have to be my wedding day, when I married the most wonderful man in the world.

5) Do you have a hobby? Gardening, if I ignore the fact I’m terrible with most plants.

6) Do you have a favorite childhood nursery rhyme? Not in particular, although it was an interesting moment in my adult life when I discovered what the rhyme “Ring Around the Rosy” really referred to!

7) What type of music do you enjoy most? Not sure how to categorize it, but stuff by Linkin Park, Evanescence, Muse, and, well, generally music with lyrics that actually make one think or tell a story.

8) Are you a country bumpkin or a city slicker? Oh, country bumpkin, most definitely! I’d rather pull weeds and walk through the woods, haul hay and ride horses than bumble around, lost and alone, in a scary city setting.

9) If you could rewrite a chapter in your life would you? Yes. All of middle school. No, in fact, I’d delete that entire chapter out of my life.

10) Do you have a fear of anything? Clowns, spider webs in the face, and someone driving heavy machinery through the woods. Combine the three, and I’m likely to have a heart attack.

11) Do you have a favorite place you go for a latte, coffee or tea? My favorite place to go for coffee is . . . my writing desk.

Eleven nominees (well, really twelve now, due to a previous mix up on my part!) . . . :

Holly Current – A Little Literary; a Lotta Coffee

Stephen Dodgson – The Beach in Tenerife

Court Ellyn – Wordweaver

Robert Evert – Neurotic Novelists of the World Unite!

Heather Frizzell – Heather’s Revision Diary

Eve Gaal – The Desert Rocks 
David Gilmore – David Gilmore’s Blog

William Kendall – Speak of the Devil

Logan Keys – Logan Keys Fiction

Lorraine Sears – Red Lorry’s Journey

Ben Wallace – Dumb White Husband (blog)

Lena Winfrey Seder - Pearldrops on the Page

. . . and eleven questions asked of them:

1) What is your favorite mythical creature?

2) What are your five least favorite words, and why?

3) What inspires you to write what you write in your blog posts or other writing projects?

4) If you could have any super power, what would it be, and why?

5) If you knew the end of the world was coming, how would you spend your final day on earth?

6) What’s your biggest accomplishment?

7) If someone handed you a tarantula, what would you do?

8) How do you write? In total silence, or with background noise?

9) Who is your biggest writing influence?

10) Who’s your favorite author?

11) What do you believe is the most important thing in the world?

And finally, here are the eleven official rules of the Liebster Award. (Well, all right, there are really only eight, but I had to keep to the “eleven” theme!)

Copied from the blog “Lorraine Reguly’s Life.” :

If you have been nominated for The Liebster Award AND YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT, write a blog post about the Liebster award in which you:

1. thank the person who nominated you, and post a link to their blog on your blog.

2. display the award on your blog — by including it in your post and/or displaying it using a “widget” or a “gadget”. (Note that the best way to do this is to save the image to your own computer and then upload it to your blog post.)

3. answer 11 questions about yourself, which will be provided to you by the person who nominated you.

4. provide 11 random facts about yourself.

5. nominate 5 – 11 blogs that you feel deserve the award, who have a less than 1000 followers. (Note that you can always ask the blog owner this since not all blogs display a widget that lets the readers know this information!)

6. create a new list of questions for the blogger to answer.

7. list these rules in your post. (You can copy and paste them from here.)

Once you have written your post, and published it, you then have to:

8. Inform the people/blogs that you nominated that they have been nominated for the Liebster award and provide a link for them to your post so that they can learn about it (they might not have ever heard of it!)

. . . See? Super easy!

Word of the week: audacity /ôˈdasitē/ (hear it!) - noun - a : intrepid boldness; b : bold or arrogant disregard of normal restraints - Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Time, Effort, and Dedication

What makes someone a “real” writer?

So often I've heard this question around the forum I help admin. Used to be a “real” writer was someone whose work was picked up and published by someone else, and sure, that somewhat holds true today for some people. All right, a lot of people. Still. But come on, really, does that mean those who write full stories, however long, and never get picked up by a publisher aren't writers?

I would certainly hope not.

By definition, a writer is: “One who writes, especially as an occupation.” All right, so by definition, money is apparently attached, as the definition of “occupation” is: “an activity pursued as a livelihood” and a livelihood generally requires funds to support. But if a writer never receives any money for his work, what then? Does that mean he's not a writer?

I would certainly hope not.

The amount of currency and the ability to live upon the turnout of one's work shouldn't be the only measure of success for a writer, not with so many different measures of success out there. Yes, it's certainly possible that what one person deems successful, another might deem a failure. Does that mean one writer's success, however small, however non-money related, however quiet and unknown, makes him a failure?

I would certainly hope not.

What I believe makes a writer a “real” writer is his (or her!) strict dedication to the craft. The willingness and determination to learn it well—and by this I mean all of the ins and outs, and yes, even how and when to bend those supposed “rules” everyone's forever yammering on about—plus the time and effort to create a well-written, well-developed story with engaging scenes and circumstances involving a host of well-rounded, well-fleshed out characters, all coupled with the drive and ability to captivate a readership.

*whew!*

So to hell with “Oh, I must be traditionally published to be a 'real' writer” crap. No. That's a bogus measure of success, and in my humble opinion (as tiny as it is in this hugely enormous world of writing), it's a lame excuse not to move forward on one's own, especially with such easy access to a possible readership.

Unfortunately, however, all-too-many would-be authors have the audacity to believe “easy access, easy work,” which is absolutely not the case. A serious writer—a “real” writer, if you will—totally dedicates himself (or herself!) to the craft and treats his writing like an occupation, money received or not. And he doesn't settle for anything less than the finest turnout of his best work . . . erm, to the finest and best of his (or her!) ability, that is.

My measure of success? I'd love to have an underground readership. Nothing fancy. Just a smallish group of followers. No fame, no fortune, no high recognition. Just readers. They are my ultimate bottom line.

But you know, I gotta tell you a secret . . .

Some years back, I'd submitted a story to an online magazine, whose short story fiction editor recognized my name from the work I'd done in Writer's Beat Quarterly, online magazine for The Writer's Beat writing community. What a small, startling, and gratifying mood-booster that was! A small online press, sure—hell, seriously, what big-name company would ever know a small-time writer's name?—all the same, it was a mini-thrill. To know my name was “out there,” somewhat, already? Yeah. . . .

Well, now for my pen name: Devon Winterson. And that shouldn't be too hard . . . right?

Word of the week: defenestrate \(ˌ)dē-ˈfe-nə-ˌstrāt\ - transitive verb - (hear it!); defenestration \(ˌ)dē-ˌfe-nə-ˈstrā-shən\ – noun - 1 : a throwing of a person or thing out of a window; 2 : a usually swift dismissal or expulsion (as from a political party or office) – (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

I'm Done!

Well, I did it. It's done. Finished. Wrapped up. Complete.

And hell, if it ain't right by now, it ain't never gonna be!

After one hefty haul-of-a-decade of twelve (off and on) structural self-edit-throughs, and two long drawn out years (down to the very month I'd received my last “Thanks, but no thanks” rejection letter) of meticulously crafting fresh meat onto the old bones of a story long-coming (two and a half hours every morning, seven days a week), I'm finally done with my full length dark fantasy novel: The Perfect Player – Book One of the Caendorian World stories.

[Insert triumphant music here.]

And holy shit, what a feeling! Seriously, it's, well . . . a bit weird.

Now, you would think I'd feel elated, excited, overjoyed, ecstatic, giddy, over-the-moon, or whatever other wild and wonderful sensations could course hot through my veins. But you know what? I'll be damned if I feel any of that.

Nope. You know what I feel?

Pride.

Pride in a job finally complete; pride in my perseverance, when many times I just wanted to defenestrate every chapter and every character and give up on the project entirely after constantly questioning and re-questioning my writing and storytelling abilities; pride in starting myself down a path to what hopefully will become a somewhat steady career (sales and new novels pending, of course) . . .

Yes. Pride.

But I also know this: I never could have finished it without those terrific people who helped me along the way—the beta readers and sounding boards, the editors and proofreaders, the online writing community I've been a part of for nigh on six years. All the advice and the feedback, the support and the “kicks in the rear” and well as the “pats on the head” have made all the difference in the world, and for those who were there for me:

Thank you!

I'm done.

Ha! Imagine my hubby's concern and confusion when I had texted him those two exact words just over a fortnight ago, the moment I had lain down the last sentence of my three-section, fifty chapter novel.

“I'm done.”

His response?

“Great!”

And you know what? . . . I have to agree.

Indie author shout out: Indie author (and my good friend and editor) David Gilmore has published a short horror story with a bonus flash piece, The Dead Should Stay Dead, now available on Kindle for only 99 cents. Go, read, and enjoy! Please support this indie author. You'll be glad you did. 

Word of the week: behest \bi-ˈhest, bē-\ - (hear it!) - noun – 1 : an authoritative order : command; 2 : an urgent prompting - (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

Slug Fears and Smelly Depths: Chapter Nine From My Humorous Middle Grade Novel, It Happened on Tarantula Island

A little something I've been writing with my son . . . for five years. Background info? Sure! This is chapter nine, after all.

Fourth cousin fourth removed from the fourth family of Forths, ten-year-old Christopher Forth has traveled the sea on the back of a beluga whale at the behest of his crazy cousin, the loopy scientist, Gerald Passion, to a small isle named Tarantula Island to become Passion's perfect personal scientific assistant. But pirates are coming, and Passion has decided that slugs are scary, and making sticky potions and tea is the best way to solve that problem.

Bob or Jeff?

Oh yes, and Bob and Jeff are cabin-sized talking tarantulas.

* ahem *

Please note: This is in very rough draft form, and it's quite the deviation from my usual dark writing. Enjoy!

Slug Fears and Smelly Depths

“What!”

Christopher gaped at Passion. Passion gave him a nervous grin.

“I said, we need to make more potions,” he replied. “It's the only logical thing to do. Well, that and make tea, of course. You wouldn't happen to want some, would you?” He picked up his kettle.

“Are you crazy?”

“No, no, no.” Passion waggled his finger. “Never say crazy. I don't like that word. Tea?”

“But, Gerry, pirates might be coming.” 

“Yes . . . well, maybe. Tea?” He filled his kettle to the brim and hung it on the hook over the fire. Christopher shook his head, bewildered.

“Tea? Now?”

“No time like the present. Personally, I like the future, but it's so hard to see what's coming—”

“Pirates!”

“Where? Where?” Passion ducked.

Christopher smacked his forehead. “No, pirates might be coming.”

“Oh, right.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So what are you going to do?” asked Christopher.

“About the tea?” said Passion.

“No, about the pirates.”

“Oh, right, that. Yes, um . . .” The scientist tapped his finger against his lips. “I've thought about that little issue, and I've decided the best course of action would be, well . . . to do nothing.”

Christopher gawked. “Nothing?”

“Yes. Right. Nothing.” Passion gathered more ingredients from the floor and dumped them into a cracked beaker, which he stabbed into with the block of wood. Christopher snatched back his flashlight and shoved it into his rear pocket.

“Nothing, my foot,” he said. “I thought you said pirates were scary.”

“They are,” said Passion. “Sluggy, even.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So aren't you going to hide?”

“Oh . . .” Passion shrugged and poured some of the newly mixed potion into a fresh tube suspended over yet another orange-blue flame. “I suppose so, yes. Later. Maybe. Um . . . no. No, I don't think so.”

“But why not?”

“Well, you see,” said Passion. “I've never been fond of hiding, especially underground.” He uncorked the cotton-candy-pink liquid vial, dodged the itty-bitty puff of smoke, but coughed anyway. “Besides,” he added, “those annoying spiders will take care of everything, won't they? I mean, at least that's what Bob said.”

“Jeff. And what if they don't, what'll happen then?”

*  *  *

How cute is that?

To read on: Slug Fears and Smelly Depths, continued 

Word of the week: malleable \ˈma-lē-ə-bəl, ˈmal-yə-bəl, ˈma-lə-bəl\ (hear it!) - adjective - : capable of being extended or shaped by beating with a hammer or by the pressure of rollers; 2 a : capable of being altered or controlled by outside forces or influences, b : having a capacity for adaptive change - (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

Oh my Gosh! That is Like, So BIG!

Words.

Writers love them. Readers love them. They're flexible, malleable, tasty, and strange, and they're always at a writer's disposal whenever s/he needs to create or expound upon some narrative or dialogue, poke a reader with a certain point, or caress him with soft sentiments of oozy-goo in a romantic tryst.

They're fun to play with—to bend, twist, and break—and they even taste like pop-tarts, if you eat enough of them. In fact, Connecticut native Noah Webster believed they were important enough to compile and define in the high hopes of expanding upon people's knowledge back in the nineteenth century.

Mmm . . . words.

So why in the dad-blamed world are so many people today terrified of “BIG WORDS”!? [insert screechy music here: think Psycho shower scene]

Gasp, and highfalutin horrors!

Big words. Little words. Medium-sized words. Pfft. They're all the same—they're words. Wonderful letter-constructed play toys. So when someone ever told me: “Oh, don't use that word. It's too big. People won't understand it,” I nearly fell out of my chair in astonishment, befuddlement, and heartbroken sniffly-miffed-ness. I loved that word! And I couldn't use it in my own creative works because . . . people wouldn't understand it??

O_o

Really? Really?? (Touchy subject for me, can you tell? And yes, I plan to go against the grain of common thinking, here.)

Through the years, and through the time I'd been learning about and trying to teach myself the fickle craft of writing, I've had a half-dozen bits of projects critiqued at a half-dozen writing forums, and while I appreciate the effort (trust me, a well thought out critique takes a hefty amount of time; I've given enough of them myself) and all of the useful input I had received, I still find it mind boggling that another writer would even say that!

“Don't use that word. It's too big.”

Przewalski's Horse

These words, these large, obscure (but beautiful, and useful) words have been coined “fifty-cent words,” or “five-dollar words,” or even “ten-dollar words” (depending on the rate of inflation, apparently); they're words writers use to supposedly make them sound “clever,” or “intelligent,” or even “well-read,” according to some people.

Well, duh. Writers should be well-read; it's one of the essential tools for good writing. And readers shouldn't be fed a junk diet of only “two-penny,” or “three-penny,” or whatever other stupid phrase used for smaller (equally beautiful, equally useful) words out there (remember, they taste like pop-tarts). Heaven forbid we writers make readers think . . . and learn a new word. (Does my Word of the Week now make sense?)

Consider this: How exactly does the average child learn to successfully read, and expand upon his working vocabulary, if s/he isn't constantly, and consistently, confronted with new words? Kids are introduced to them all the time, and can certainly learn them contextually. Adulthood does not mean this learning stops. We have our own vocabularies to consider, lest we get mired beneath a bog of “little” words, with no hope of progression.

“Subjective!” you cry. “I know more big words than the average person does!”

Fair enough. Sure, it's probably subjective. After all, it's only my opinion, my belief, what I've seen/experienced. Yes, many people know a variety of big words; however, I'm willing to bet more don't. I still learn new words almost every day. So perhaps, if a writer's first task is to entertain, it should be his second (or third) task to inform or teach—on the sly.

No, of course, writers shouldn't cram string after string, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph of colossal, unfamiliar words down a reader's throat; it'll make him choke, and he's likely fling the book (or e-reading device) away in terrified escape from the bombardment. Horribly disastrous. Yes, “the expeditious russet vulpes vulpes hurdled over the indolent canis familiaris,” is more clunky to read than: “the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog,” with a greater chance of incorrectly used words (which I suspect is the real issue, and which I suspect I've done here).

But really, one, two, even three “ten-dollar words” per chapter should not result in torture. It should result in enrichment. And with the advent of in-device e-reader dictionaries, that “Oh, I can't be bothered to get up and get a dictionary” excuse is (again, just my humble opinion), no longer valid. Click on the word, and a dictionary will present you with its definition. There. Like magic. Use it. Revel in it. And please, always, always continue to learn exciting new words. Your brain will thank you.

Believe me, I'm extremely proud of my twelve-year-old son who has the vocabulary of a high school student, and of my kindergarten-age daughter who not only knows the words “concierge” and “defeat,” but can also use them properly in sentences without prompting or hints. I'm glad they're not afraid of “ten-dollar words,” and they know exactly how to spend them wisely.

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Photo credits:

Handwritten dictionary - autumn_bliss - Flickr Photo Sharing - Creative Commons License

Dollar horse - the real juston - Flickr Photo Sharing - Creative Commons License

Lazy dog -  Faith Goble - Flickr Photo Sharing - Creative Commons License

Fox - Minette Layne -  Flickr Photo Sharing - Creative Commons License