Blossoming is a pain

Why does pain always have to blossom? Why do gun shot wounds blossom red on white shirts? I've read this "blossoming" description so many times in spec fiction books that it's starting to annoy me, and has officially made my list of expressions I want to avoid in my own writing.

Isn't blossoming a gentle, slow-motion process, anyway? I wonder what attracts writers to this description for being on the receiving end of sudden acts of violence . Perhaps it is the juxtaposition between the beauty of a blooming flower and the horror of intense pain.

The Meaning of Everything

I was really excited to read Simon Winchester's account of the making of the Oxford English Dictionary. As a linguistics buff, I was hoping Winchester would delve more deeply into the process of unearthing etymologies through the use of specific, juicy examples. Although some lists of words and their geographical origins were included, they were far from meaty or detailed, and I did not feel as though I got to experience the thrill of ferreting out any especially interesting etymologies. There were a few small inaccuracies when wandering outside the author's expertise in the English language (such as the influence of the Florentine Academy of the Italian Language- which, quite unlike the Academie Française, does nothing whatsoever to defend the Italian language from the encroachment of English language words, and does little more than give exams for Italian language learners). Further, Winchester made a lot of remarks about the fact that English is the dominant world language now (agreed) and will continue to be forever...a fortune telling whose likelihood would be fun to discuss, but is certainly not 100% guaranteed.

The most joy I got from reading the book was its trivia. Did you know that J.R.R. Tolkien labored on much of the W section of the dictionary- and loved every minute of it? That editor Murray paid his eleven children pocket money for sorting quotation slips- rates based, not on productivity, but on age? That the famous Scriptorium in which much of the work was done was a prefab garden shed erected in Murray's yard? That the dictionary was originally released in fascicles (small, periodical releases of a larger work) that generally did not even encompass an entire letter? That the standard English-language dictionary before the OED was the American Webster's Dictionary?

More interesting still was learning about the scores of volunteers who made the project possible. Although I would hardly compare the OED to Wikipedia, there is no doubt the OED was a precursor to popular volunteerism aimed at collecting, preserving, and distributing knowledge. The OED project began with a call to readers to collect words, and quotations which accurately illustrated their meaning, from a set reading list. Thousands of volunteer readers from around the world responded, flooding the editors with millions and millions of quotation slips. Among these volunteer quotation-gatherers, certain volunteers were chosen to help with editing and proofing tasks- and these volunteers were far from English professors. One of the most prolific volunteer contributors lived in an asylum for the criminally insane, and only stopped his long and diligent work on the OED after cutting off his own manhood in a fit of madness. Even John Murray, editor through the bulk of the hard-working years of the dictionary, was not a traditional scholar. Murray left school at the age of fourteen, went to work at a bank, and only received honorary college degrees well into his work on the dictionary. The OED was a labor of love for the people by the people, a truly great achievement.

I have the two-volume Compact Edition of the OED, complete with magnifying glass (this edition was supposedly very popular in America). It's out in the garage, now. My Kindle has an OED search function (I used it yesterday to look up the word "purlieu"). I wonder what John Murray would have thought if he could see his Scriptorium full of quotations living in a small device I can hold in the palm of my hand.

Word Warp

Over the holiday break my husband and I became total addicts of a simple anagram game for the iPhone called Word Warp. Believe me, we had plenty of high tech gaming options, but we spent long, happy hours huddled around the iPhone, dreading the moment when we would fail to find the six-letter word that separated us from moving on to the next level, or Game Over. Although the game had options to extend our time limit, we kept to a strict two-minute timer. Our best game ever spanned two days (even addicts have to pause to eat and sleep), and we scored a whopping 51,680 points!

Word Warp is generally pretty good about making sure the all-important, six-letter word is vocabulary the average person would know. But we did discover a set of little three-letter words that we had never heard of before- and they came up over and over again.. We memorized these three-letter oddities, and it wasn't long before we had to know what they meant. Often these rare words were the names of birds or fish- not super interesting. But here were some of our favorite obscurities, a few of which have begun to come up in our everyday conversations:

ted- to spread out to dry (as in damp straw to dry for animal bedding)
ret- to soak to loosen the fibers of fibrous materials
ort- a morsel or scrap of leftover food
lea- meadow, pasture

A lot of these older, out-of-use words are related to farm life. But who among us never has some orts to scrape off the plate before loading it in the dishwasher? It's fun to get some use out of these old, three-letter gems.

Instant asynchrony

I've really been thinking about letter writing lately. Maybe it was writing holiday cards, or maybe it was listening too many times to "From My Own True Love (Lost at Sea)," a song in which the Decemberists keen "Mr. Postman, do you have a letter for me?" The Decemberists' tune brought back memories of listening to "Please Mr. Postman-" the version by the Carpenters my parents used to play when I was just a tater tot. I remember really connecting with that song, because when you're three years old, mail addressed in your name is a really big deal. I used to long along with Karen for someone to seal a message in an envelope, mark it with my name, and send it through mysterious channels to reach my front door. Magic. Slow motion conversations.

Now that I'm old enough to send and receive letters, I mostly use email. Sure, the delivery system is different (email has no yucky envelopes to lick) but letter delivery technology has a history of changing with the times- think back to the Pony Express (later replaced by the First Transcontinental Telegraph), or the pneumatic tubes that delivered mail twice daily in Paris. What interests me about the modern letter isn't just the technology used to deliver it, but the persistence of the letter through the dozens of way we now have to communicate.

Telephone, fax, mobile phone, SMS, chat room, message board, instant message, sites that allow users to share photos and video, blogging, online games, voice chat, and video chat. We have the technology to talk to each other across great distances face-to-face, real time, and to call each other anytime, anywhere. So why is so much of modern communication conducted as letters, albeit mailed electronically?

Email offers us instant asynchronous communication, and gives us the power to control the pace of our slow-motion conversations. Recipients can take as long as they want to reply to an email- hours, days, even weeks or months. But they also have the possibility to reply within seconds- which gives email superpowers that the guys running the Pony Express never dreamed of. I have written email to my husband while he is sitting in the same room with me. Why would I do that? The power of asynchronous communication is all about time- the summary of my research on feline nutrition may not be best communicated to my husband while he's battling the final board of his favorite video game. You might decide to email a colleague a few feet from your desk. Let my husband- and your colleague- get to your email when they have time to process it.

Asynchronous forms of conversation also leave a record- whether we're blogging, posting to a message board, or sending an email, it's pretty easy to re-read what we've written and how others have responded. The likelihood of finding a record of a conversation is in direct proportion to the asynchronism of the form of communication. I can pull up an email from 2004 with a few keystrokes. I can scroll back and re-read something a friend has written in an instant message window. Although it's certainly possible (and a little creepy) to record a telephone conversation, the content of a conversation isn't very searchable unless I keep written records correlating each conversation to its specific content.

The speed of interpersonal (and business) communication has an effect on our artistic expression. The epistolary narrative of Dracula was born in an era when people kept in touch by writing letters that took a long time to reach the recipient. Bob Newhart developed his famous stand-up routine (and later running TV gag) of one-ended phone conversations when it became possible to telephone people across incredible distances. The mobile phone has become a staple of modern action movies, to show the hero receiving critical information in the nick of time.

How is the instant asynchrony of the ubiquitous email affecting artistic expression?

William Shatner speaks Esperanto and the Curse of Incubus

For the past two years my husband and I have gone on Esperanto learning kicks over the summer. This year we had enough of the language under our belts to start having fun. We ordered a book of poetry in Esperanto, downloaded some songs from iTunes in the language, and we even found a film spoken entirely in Esperanto!

The film is called Incubus. Made in 1965, Incubus falls somewhere between a guilty-pleasure B horror flick and an Ingmar Bergman Cries and Whispers or The Seventh Seal. The plot of this movie isn't nearly as important as the emotion and symbology conveyed by the cinematography- which the film can express much better than I can. There has been a lot of discussion about William Shatner's pronunciation of Esperanto- which he learned expressly for the film in a matter of weeks.

But what I'm really interested in is the curse. The special features of the Incubus DVD made a convincing case for the Incubus Curse. Wikipedia did a good job of enumerating the incidents, too.

1. The pure young woman threatened with rape by evil was played by Ann Atmar, who committed suicide a few weeks after the film wrapped.

2. The spooky, creepy bad guy in the film was played by Milos Milos. About a year after the film was shot, Milos shot his girlfriend, then himself.

3. One of the female "bad guys" was played by Eloise Hardt. Her daughter was later kidnapped and murdered.

4. In 1993 Consolidated Film Industries reported that the only print and all negatives of the film had been lost in a fire.

To listen to the film's producer, Anthony Taylor, describe the incident, he was crushed when he learned the last surviving print of Incubus was destroyed. Several years later, Taylor's friend happened across a battered and forgotten version of the film (subtitled in French) at the Cinematique Francaise in Paris. The print was in awful shape, and it took international cooperation, modern technology, Taylor's passion to revive the film, and funds and promotion from the Sci-Fi Channel to bring the light and shadow, the love and hate, the purity and corruption of Incubus to a new generation of spec fic fans.

See the Other Side

In my post today on the Friggin' Write blog, I give a very positive review to a story in the first person, present tense! For those who read my March 2nd rant on the overused combination of the first person and present tense in the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, you'll be interested to read how much I enjoyed the offending combination as used by Tatyana Tolstaya in her literary short story, "See the Other Side." Since the story was published in The New Yorker, you can read and enjoy it online for free here.

So, first person, present tense in The New Yorker is cool, but I throw a fit when I read it in F&SF? My complaint with F&SF is that they're printing too many (at times exclusively) of this type of story. More specifically, I was pretty upset by how badly M. Rickert's "Memoir of a Deer Woman" used the present tense.

Tolstaya's translated story flows beautifully in the present tense. The protagonist's present tense journey is the frame for a story that goes back decades in time. Memories of actions and emotions in the past are crucial to the plot of the story, and the author's use of present tense for the present time in the story avoids time line confusion. The tense choice gracefully avoids a lot of awkward past perfect tense (past perfect = "he had already written", "she had already called"). The fact that the author is a middle-aged Russian woman and the protagonist is a middle-aged Russian woman makes the choice of the first person, I, natural and genuine. Far from detracting from a lovely story, the use of the first person, present tense made "See the Other Side" more engaging and warm.

"Memoir of a Deer Woman" Far Cry from a "Blessing"

I have been noticing a trend in Fantasy & Science Fiction toward short story narrative in the present tense. The classic short story is written in the third person and in the past tense. Writers sometimes make a conscious choice to alter this- choosing the first person "I" voice, and/or choosing the present tense instead of the past to best tell their story. I've mentioned instances in Fantasy & Science Fiction in which these changes have worked well, such as when Carol Emshwiller published "Killer" in the October/November double issue. (see the post).

Two out of the two short stories in the March issue of F&SF are in the present tense. This is getting silly- present tense is an artistically selected deviation, not a norm. What's worse, M. Rickert's "Memoir of a Deer Woman" is so awkward in the present tense ("Her husband takes him out") that she must often write in the future tense ("He'll accept this as reasonable") and the conditional ("she would look at forever"). I'm all for trying out new ways of writing, but come on. We're not far from reading a story like this:

Susan will take her purse off the counter and walk out the door. She might forget her cell phone on the counter, and the global positioning device embedded in the phone could potentially make her show up as being at home when she is actually at the office. If a horrible disaster strikes and her husband is desperately trying to locate her, this might create problems.

That's not the kind of story I want to read. Do you see how the use of the future and conditional takes all the tension and drama out of the story?

To make matters worse, the protagonist of Rickert's story is a would-be writer with writer's block. She goes to hang out with other would-be writers with writer's block by attending a writers' group. It takes an enormous amount of magic to make a story about writing enjoyable, and "Memoir of a Deer Woman" didn't have it.

The first two-thirds of the story are from the viewpoint of the protagonist, then she drops out of the tale and the rest of the story kaleidoscopes through perspectives of her husband, random people we've never met before, and a member of the writers' group. This kind of kaleidoscopic perspective is best used for special effect in novels, not in very short stories. The tale ends through the eyes of the member of the writers' group. She is philosophizing on the nature of words, what they mean as symbols, in and of themselves. Rickert follows this philosophizing by telling us life is an "exquisite blessing." The connotation of the word "blessing" is religious. Nothing in the previous nine pages of story had religious overtones. This inappropriate use of a word in a story all about words destroyed the effect Rickert was trying to create.

The conceit of the story was fine. I liked the way the magical transformation was compared to suffering from cancer, and the idea of the words cut from the memoirs could have been cool. Rickert does an excellent job of establishing the setting in very few words.

Pluralism and the Language of the Future

Lots of science fiction writers weave future language into the fabric of their created universe. Orwell's 1984 had Newspeak. Joss Whedon's Firefly posits the dual spread of English and Chinese through the colonized universe. The real-life constructed language, Esperanto, is such a mainstay of visions of the future, that its use is parodied in the sf Britcom, Red Dwarf.

Why so much fuss about language? For one thing, writers know our everyday experiences and cultural identity are colored by the languages we speak. It's also an attempt to avoid unthinking ethnocentrism. Given the prominent place English holds in the international community today, it's especially tempting for sf writers to assume a future society where everyone speaks English.

So my interest was really piqued by Jean-Benoit Nadeau and Julie Barlow's discussion of the place of non-English languages in the future. Their book, The Story of French, may have started with the history of the language, but it brought readers up to date with statistics and events from 2006, and predicted language trends of the future.

Nadeau and Barlow explained that, while French was once the default international language for diplomacy, business, and education, English took over that role in the 20th Century. The aftermath of African colonization, French-speaking Canadians, and the spread of goodwill French-teaching organizations across the globe, have kept French on IV, but it was being wiped out on the international affairs stage (did you know the official language of the European Union is English?). An organization was created to promote the use of French on the international scene, but Nadeau and Barlow claim the Francophonie was only so much hot air until they hit upon a key idea: language pluralism.

France was once (and still is) the figurehead for democracy. Now the French language is becoming the figurehead of language pluralism- that is, of using more than one language. The trend in international bodies such as the UN, is to move toward a single official language (English) for efficiency. This leaves those who aren't native speakers at a disadvantage, and contributes to what Nadeau and Barlow call "mental colonization."

Waving the banner for more than one language in international diplomacy and cooperation, French speakers have captured the attention of other nations who don't want to see their languages disappear. That hot air Francophonie organization for promoting French is being joined by nations who don't even have large French-speaking populations (though they must prove strong French linguistic and cultural presence in their national identity to join- check out all 55 member flags). Momentum is slowly gaining for the idea that French is "the other language." Speaking French gives non-native English speakers an alternative to speaking English, and gives them hope that their language, too, might survive.

Just to be clear- I love English. I even spent several years teaching English to non-native speakers who wanted to learn for both practical reasons and because they just liked the language! But I'd hate to envision a future where there were no new French books for the September rentrée, where there were no new languages for me to study. Language is intertwined with culture, and learning a foreign language gives us a window to that culture. Efforts of the French-speaking community to promote linguistic and cultural pluralism may change the color of life in the space colonies of our future, and in the space colonies of our dreams.

Passwords: the new magic words

"In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God."
-John 1:1 KJV

Magic words have deep roots in our culture. In The Bible the creation of the universe is accomplished by the Hebrew god's declarative sentences. Adam's first important act in Genesis is to give the animals their names. Many of the phrases we consider "magic words" have their origin in Christian religious ritual. Hocus pocus , for example, may find its root in hoc est corpus (the "this is my body" line of the Communion ritual).

The neat thing about a magic word is that it can be written in an old language whose source is disputed (Abracadabra has possible sources in Greek, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Syrian), can be written in nonsense (presto chango), an invented language, or pseudo-Latin (popular with medieval conjurers and J.K. Rowling), pseudo-Arabic, or pseudo-Greek.

Regardless of how they are formulated, there is no denying that magic words are an important source of a magician's power. The wizard in LeGuin's Earthsea Trilogy performs his magic and can be controlled through knowledge of true names . In the Lord of the Rings, the fellowship is stopped at the Dimrill Gate, unable to open it and enter Moria. The door is inscribed with an obscure Elvish dialect that reads: "speak, friend, and enter." As Gimli points out, the inscription is "plain enough. If you are a friend, speak the password and enter." Gandalf tries a whole series of powerful magic words until, under duress, he stumbles on "Mellon-" the common Elvish word for "friend." Gandalf quite literally speaks "friend" and enters. His magic words were of no use to enter the door- and thus began the age of passwords.

Many years ago I read an article by Robert Cringely pointing out that software programmers building the applications that manage our bank accounts, mutual funds, and stock trades, manage our amazon.com transactions, eBay purchases, and my weekly grocery delivery, are huge fans of the Lord of the Rings. Is it any wonder that our entrance to these virtual worlds is guarded by passwords?

Our passwords are cobbled nuggets of our inner selves- words, names, numbers, phrases, ideas that have some very personal meaning to us. We take those nuggets and obscure them in a myriad of ways to keep our bank accounts and identities safe. When it is time to log on and open the magic door to our virtual life, only we know the password. And we protect the knowledge of these words in much the same way as LeGuin's wizard protects the knowledge of his true name.

Passwords are the new magic words of our magical modern life.

* I was helped writing this post by Craig Conley's book The Magician's Hidden Library . Check it out!

Coagulate

Today I encountered "coagulate" in two unusual descriptions:

1. Perdido Street Station (China Mieville)
"Perched where two rivers strive to become the sea, where mountains become a plateau, where the clumps of trees coagulate to the south and- quantity becomes quality- are suddenly a forest."
- Mr. Motley explains his theory of Transition to Lin.

2. "Revelation" (Albert E. Cowdrey)
"I can't coagulate my thoughts...I can think of A, or B, or J, but how they connect, I don't know."
-U blames this condition on the fact that he has been administered an anticoagulant.