Toward a New Vocabulary


I’ve read that the majority of us have a working vocabulary of about 10,000 words.  This seems pitifully small to me, give the many, many more thousands of perfectly good words that could be ours at no charge, were be but to go and harvest them from time to time.  But as that would likely involve opening a dictionary or some other word farm (word a day calendars, etc) it seems unlikely that many of us, save those who were the unlucky recipients of said calendars from Secret Santas at the office holiday party last December, will ever get to 10,001.

So I thought that I could be of help here.  I recently came upon a nice shiny new word on the second page of a mystery novel (I always appreciate when authors of popular fiction go the extra mile in terms of word selection–something that is all too often left to “literary” novelists and the know-it-all poets) written by an internet acquaintance of mine, Steven M. Thomas.  In his new book, Criminal Karma, he writes, “The hills reminded me of an oil painting I’d seen while casing a Santa Barbara museum a couple of weeks before–a plein air vision of SoCal’s vanishing rural past worth $30,000, more than the rolling expanse of portrayed acreage was worth when the painter committed it to canvas in the 1920s.”

My built-in Mac dictionary defines plein-air (and yes, Steven, there should be a hyphen) as “denoting or in the manner of a 19th century style of painting outdoors, or with a strong sense of open air, that became a central feature of French Impressionism.”

Thus, we all have something new to say at the next dinner party we attend, the next new neighbor’s house we visit, “Such a splendid plein-air painting in the solarium.”  Or, “There is such a sense of open air and light in here, that one might venture to call it plein-air!”  After the first sentence, one should punctuate with a slight nod.  After the second a little tinkling “ha ha ha” laugh might be just the thing.

Either was, we are now, indeed, up to 10,001.


Christopher Isherwood’s Prayer for Writers

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He’s always been one of my favorite authors and I never enjoyed him more than when I jumped into the deep waters of his journals.  In them, I found this short passage, which he calls his “Prayer for Writers.”

“Oh source of my imagination, teach me to extend toward all living beings that fascinated, unsentimental, loving and all-pardoning interest which I feel for the characters I create. May I become identified with all humanity, as I identify myself with these imaginary persons. May my art become my life, and my life my art. Deliver me from snootiness, and from the Pulitzer Prize. Teach me to practice true anonymity. Help me to forgive my agents and my publishers. Make me attentive to my critics and patient with my fans. For yours is the conception and the execution. Amen”

In his entry for that day, he continues on:  “Stop trying to use the conscious will.  Free the Ego from its attachments with expert gentleness, like a surgeon.  Remember that the strangulated Ego is everything you hate in others–so how can you hate anybody?  You are only hating yourself.  The surgeon doesn’t hate the hernia:  he simply reduces it…  Forgive yourself and then operate.”

This Heat Is Melting All My Verbs


I awakened this morning to learn from MSNBC that the hottest place in the nation was not Phoenix, as it should be, but was JFK Airport in New York City.  As I am located only a little to the north of that, I reacted with something less than excitement.

This is not the weather in which poor-but-honest artist/writer/poets can carve out a sad little living by having their dog Django dance on his hind legs down by the Piggly Wiggly, or by having their dear little niece, Faith, sell matches by Town Hall.  Django danced for a while, his belled collar making a jolly noise, until it became apparent that we was only dancing because of his bare paws on the sidewalk.  And poor Faith’s tattered little gown caught fire when her matches spontaneously combusted.

Most acts of begging are far better suited for cold weather than for hot.  Hot weather is for guessing the price of the showcases on The Price is Right and for rubbing frozen peas across one’s forehead.  We are not, as a rule, as well prepared for this kind of heat in Connecticut, any more than Tulsa is prepared for the snow and ice that comes as a surprise there every winter.

The point is this:  The old concept of Summertime and the Livin’ Is Easy has been replaced with heat alerts and the sound of window units cranking away as best they can and people hiding inside, sitting next to the units, trying to guess how many appliances they can use–dare they use the microwave to heat that frozen burrito or should they just eat is as a frozen savory treat?–before they blow the fuses.

And so as it all becomes like that Twilight Zone, where the world was heating, heating, and the paint came running down the artist’s canvas, I sign off, in hopes of better days ahead, or, at least  a ride to the beach.


Finding That New Agent Who Is Just Right For Me: Plan A, “The Sweater Girl”


So, here’s the thing;  I am stalking that rarest of game, the agent who actually believes in literary fiction and in my ability to write it (and sell it).

For some years now, it had been just Bob the Agent and me.  We laughed together, we cried together, and, once, a few years, ago, we went through an actual duel between two different publishers for one of my books.  I sat there in one publisher’s office with my sunglasses on, afraid that my eyes would give me away, as Bob nudged and noodled, trying to get the best deal.

How were we to know, like the husband and wife whose trip to Paris was their marriage’s highlight, that it would never be the same again.  When we ran out of the publishers’ and into a coffeehouse around the corner, each flushed from the meeting as much as from the running, sat down over lattes picked apart the two offers on the table.  We came to a conclusion, signed the deal and moved forward.  While the book that came out of that deal is still in print a decade later, and still selling, it was never the same again for me or for Bob the Agent.

Over the years, we grew apart.  He stayed true to himself and his attention to nonfiction books in the category of health and healing.  I strayed, I must admit, ever more longing for fiction, fiction, beautiful fiction.  Ever more wanting to not have to double check spellings and dates and come up with appendices to support the material in the book.

Bob the Agent is getting older now, doesn’t want to work very much, and who can blame him–so he’s pickier about what he takes on.  And I am pickier myself, wanting to limit my nonfiction work to few and far between.  So, while we remain good friends and a solid team, from time to time, our days as a hard-working team are now largely behind us.  Especially since, when it comes to fiction, I can’t help but think:  If not now, then when?

So now, in the middle of my life, I am out trying to get dates with agents. Sometimes I send them sweet query letters, filled with titles of books that they have sold or glowing accounts of their dedication to their authors and to the Art of Writing in general.  In those times, I am quite sure that my Paper Armada of queries will yield results.  And it does sometimes, some agents and I have dated briefly before we (they, usually) determine that we are not right for each other.

Sometimes I enter contests, quite sure that if my short story wins, it will carry with it an agent’s business card.  But not yet, my sweets, not yet.

Now I am planning other plans, as I become aware that one could spend the next fifty years honing a query letter until it is so sharp that it cuts, and still come away empty-handed.  (It doesn’t help that all too many agents now read–or, to me more honest–have their 23-year-old interns read incoming material just long enough to find an excuse not to work with it, which is sort of the opposite of the way it used to be, when readers read to find a reason why someone should pay attention to a particular piece of writing.)

Plan A right now is what I think of as the “Lana Turner Method.” Four younger readers, Lana Turner was once a movie goddess; she was known as the Sweater Girl, because she wore such tight sweaters and because she wore them so well. Legend has it that Lana was discovered in Schwab’s Drug Store in downtown Hollywood, where she was just sitting at the counter drinking a refreshing Pepsi. She looked so blonde lovely in her sweater set that an agent came right up to he and said, “Miss, have you ever considered being a movie star?”  She, as a matter of fact, had, and so they signed a contract and she soon was onscreen in full technicolor.  (If you haven’t seen her in Imitation of Life–well, what’s stopping you?)

So Plan A is this;  be not where the agents should be, which is in the office looking through all those query letters, but be where the agents actually are–which is a certain new book is to be believed, is in hotel rooms all over Manhattan coked out of their minds.  So let’s hope that that is not the case.  Instead, let’s hope that they are at nice dinner parties in the Connecticut Hills or the Hudson Valley, since the Hamptons are not what they used to be.  Let’s hope they are, as Bob the Agent was, stalking classes at places like the Open Center in Manhattan looking for new talent.  (It was there that Bob the Agent caught my act as I was teaching my heart out on the subject of holistic health.  After class, he called me and asked if I had ever thought of writing a book.  I had.)

So Plan A is to be where they are, where those dreamy, scrawny bespectacled agents are.  Since I don’t want to teach holistic health any more and don’t want to write nonfiction any longer, it may be harder to find their hunting ground. But my sweater is tight, my man-boobs are held high and I am on the prowl for that perfect literary other half.

May God have mercy on my soul.


It Adds Up

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A friend emailed me today to say that she was present for the launch of my new blog today and that she thought it very exciting, except that one of my posts had been so long that she hadn’t been able to finish it.  (Maybe she was reading in the bathroom–she didn’t explain.)

Truth of it is that I tend to think that you can never use too many words.  Maybe this is because when I first was working as a writer–I was the movie critic for a small weekly paper (a paper so small that I had to pay for my own ticket) in Tulsa, Oklahoma, I was paid by the word.  As I remember, it was only a nickel a word, but, as I soon learned, if you can be longwinded enough, it adds up.

And so began a life-long struggle with words.  I’ve tried weeding, hoeing, but they just keep growing back.  I can even claim to be the only person who can read Henry James and suggest just one more adjective in a given sentence.

But, I get it.  I understand.  Although it is better for everyone involved if I blog instead of tweet,  I will endeavor to shorten, tighten and otherwise restrict the prose from here on in, sweeties, so things should be better from here on out.


Re: Ars Gratia Artis

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As careful readers will notice and know, the phrase “ars gratia artis” while written in Latin was not, in fact, a model philosophy that Roman writers followed.  It was, in fact, the latinized motto for MGM pictures, the motion picture studio that dominated Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s.

A actual idea of art for art’s sake being enough, that art needed not to exist for any reason other than TO exist is, of course, French, what else could it be?  The phrase “l’art pour l’art” was popularized in 19th century France.  It has been credited to a number of people, but most often to Theophile Gautier, although the idea behind the phrase pops up from time to time, place to place.

It perhaps originated in ancient Greece where, without saying so in so many words, the culture understood that art itself was sufficient and need not serve any purpose other than simple being.

And so, as I am trying to point out, writing at its highest form, at the point at which it is True Art, need do nothing more than mean.  It need not educate, elucidate, innovate or pontificate.  It needs to only communicate.


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