Glad I’m an indie!
(from The New Yorker, via Jennifer Porter)
I did a bad thing.
Even though I had a campfire sweater already on the needles, I went on Ravelry and searched for sweater patterns. I don’t know why I do this to myself. I found a pattern called Mariah, I fell in love, I ripped out the mostly-done sleeve I had on the needles. (
Which belonged to a pattern that may or may not have been based on the sweater Bella wears in some Twilight movie or other, the fact of which makes me feel dirty.) Let us never speak of it again.
Sleeve, schmeeve, the new pattern has cables! And I love cables, I love them so, because they are so simple but they look so complicated and it makes me feel smart.
No longer will I be stuck wearing a sweater associated with a certain fluffy teen series! Instead I will lounge around a fire, in the dark, pleased as a cat with cream that I’m wearing a fancy sweater I made myself with fancy cables no one else will even see.
Now comes the part with the actual, you know, knitting of the thing. I have an inch of sleeve done. I want it finished in time for Fall, because I already picked out a hat to make for Winter…
“She’s only a little dead. I can feel the warm. The bits inside, for sure, are hot.
There was a lot more blood than I expected; more than when I done either the mouse or the chipmunk.
Maybe it’s because of the babies. I learned in school that a lady has more blood when she’s pregnant. “It’s because the baby needs more food,” Mrs Chappel told us. I don’t know what that had to do with anything; I just wanted to hear about the blood. But when she talked she rubbed her hand around and around on her belly, and the sound drove me bananas until I couldn’t hear her words anymore. She was always touching her belly and smiling; I don’t understand why she was so happy to be getting fat.
I’ve got my favourite sharp stick here and I squidge it around inside. There’s some lumpy stuff, and a thing that looks like a kidney bean. I tried poking at it but it got stuck on my stick and I had to shake it off. It went splat when it hit the dirt and had little stringy bits like a spider’s web all over it.
I kicked some dust on it. It’s not what I want.
I get up close again, and don’t get any grass on my knees. My Mom just bought me these jeans and she’ll be mad at me if I wreck ’em.
The knife I took out of Daddy’s drawer is right here with me. It’s all rusty and I couldn’t get it open at first but I worked real hard and it opened right up. It just took some wiggling.
“My clever boy,” Mom says inside my head, and it makes me smile. I love my Mom.
It’s starting to get a little dark out. Goosey bumps are all over my arms, even though I have my coat all did up.
What happened was I stayed in the cloakroom after the last bell. I was trying to think. It was warm and dark in there, and even though it smelled like wet boots it made me feel safe.
Mrs Chappel came to the doorway of the cloakroom and pulled me out of the pile of other kids’ clothes. There’s babies inside her, two of them. I wanted to know if they could see me from in there.
“Do your babies have eyelids?”
“Well, that’s a good question. Yes, I think they do.” She was rubbing at her belly again and her hand went scratch scratch scratch against her shirt.
“It’s too loud! I don’t like when you do that.”
Her hand stopped. “Okay, Cody, time to get you home. Put on your coat.”
I let her help me, even though I’m big enough to do it myself. And then I had a lightbulb.
“Mrs Chappel, my mom can’t come get me today. Can you take me home?”
“Hmm. Why don’t we call her? We’ll go to the office and I’ll let you use the phone.”
“No! She can’t come. She had a appointment. And my dad can’t come either. He works.”
Mrs Chappel’s eyebrows went all up.
“It’s close to here.” It’s not, really, but I tell good lies.
She got down on her knees and zipped up my coat. Her eyes were big and brown, with little bits of green.
“I can’t take you home to an empty house, Cody.”
“I could…I could go to my neighbour’s. She’s old, so we can’t call her. She doesn’t hear. But she watches me, sometimes.”
Mrs Chappel tried to stand back up, but it wasn’t easy for her. I put my arm out and let her push on it, but I knew she wasn’t really putting weight on me. Grownups never think you can do stuff.
I do lots of things that grownups don’t know about.”
“…Our talisman is updated from a design found in an ancient grimoire of magical symbols. The design consists of Angelic sigils and alchemical symbols around a rendering of a Celtic-stylized, six-pointed star by artist Chris Bennett. These symbols are said to create a powerful magic to help one find the right word at the most opportune moment.”
It can’t hurt, right?
Click here for yours.
(photo and witchcraft from Amazon.com)
I was reading Pillars of the Earth last night (and I’m NOT FINISHED so no spoilers please!) I reached the bottom of one of the pages and noticed it cut off mid-sentence; the rest of the phrase would be on the next page. I caught myself guessing which word would complete the sentence. It so happens that when I turned the page, I was right!
What does it mean? Absolutely nothing! But it’s a fun little game to see if you’re on the same wavelength as the author. By guessing the next word, you’re putting on your writer-hat and interacting with the book and its language.
Maybe you can see right away why the author went with that particular word choice; it might have been used for brevity’s sake, or because it was the most descriptive. Maybe it’s a signature word the author uses frequently (Ayn “Sanction” Rand, I’m looking at you).
If you guessed a different word, does your word substantially change the meaning of the original phrase? Or are they synonymous? Do you like yours better?
Try it! I’d love to know how it goes.
“For years, it was a schedule as predictable as a calendar: novelists who specialized in mysteries, thrillers and romance would write one book a year, output that was considered not only sufficient, but productive.
But the e-book age has accelerated the metabolism of book publishing. Authors are now pulling the literary equivalent of a double shift, churning out short stories, novellas or even an extra full-length book each year.”
Read the full article here.
Writers: are you concerned about productivity? How much output is “enough”?