Finding The Right Word

The English language is frustrating. For example, when I took anatomy and physiology in college there was a word (or more) to describe every fissure, nodule and curve of the human body. I had stacks of flash cards on my kitchen table to help me memorize all umpteen-thousand words. That was for the parts of the body that were visible or could be identified with a push pin. Physiology….forget it. For some reason we have all these words to describe a medical process or a pathology. We have all the words to describe our physical surroundings in great detail.

However, the English language falls short when it comes to feelings. Of course, there are “emotional” words. For example: joy, longing, agony, desperation and…love. The emotional lexicon is so short and finite; it’s amazing that more attention has not been spent on developing words to better describe our human condition.  I’ve created some words to add to the emotional vocabulary. They are as follows:

Brottle: The mysterious emotional hole in one’s chest when missing a loved one.

Sentence: I have a brottle the size of Jupiter when I think of her.

 

Urnum: An emotional capitulation.

Sentence: I can’t do this anymore, I’m urnum!

 

Vess: Anger that which is motivating.

Sentence: Vess helped me lose weight.

 

What do you think Merriam-Webster?  Next time the words will be a little more hopeful.

 

-        Bridget

Rogue Writing

This Method Writers blog posting comes to you from the hands of  Marty Pitchford, one of the characters in the book “The Method Writers”. The fictitious characters from the book continue to work on final edits of their own book – “Fictitious Fiction”.

Writing intoxicates me. I get on a writing binge and no power on earth can conjure the ability to dissuade my passion. Yes, everyday life steps in often, at times placing a painful dent in where I desire to go, yet I stay the course. The character I play in The Method Writers does not totally jibe with who I am. Hey, I play the part I’m handed, right?

I do connect with the daughter. She is everything I would desire in a daughter. You don’t necessarily read the depth which I know her to encompass, but you do get a feel for how special she becomes to my character. This inference of character depth and importance is one of the aspects of writing I enjoy. While at times I do it well, other times – not so much, I still love the challenge of putting together words that lend fictional people more than the sum of the letters.

I feel the Rogues Gallery Writers performed a masterful job in the book with all of us, Dorian, Georgie Mae, David/Kenny, Joe, Maria, etc. To work on a novel as a team produces rewards on levels a writer does not expect. Slightly different views of how a scene might go, or wildly divergent. Tiny tweaks and complete re-writes – each contributing to strengthening the book become magic.

As we move closer to publication, a tip of a phantom hat to the Rogues…

Cat House

Hello, everyone!!!  Had a great time in New Orleans, but glad to be back home here in Daytona Beach, even though it’s Bike Week.

Or, maybe it’s great to be back, because of Bike Week.  This and the 500 ARE Daytona. This rolling, rumbling, colorful festival of humanity is entertaining for the most part. The bikers are from all walks of life. Men and women from around the world descend on Daytona and surrounding areas to eat, drink and be merry. Vivid tattoos pale in comparison to the designs on the bikes and I find myself staring on occasion at the places that some folks will pierce, though that does not just apply to those who ride motorcycles. Hotels and hospitals alike are jammed to the rafters during our March madness.

Anyway, I did quite a bit of writing while visiting my parents and I’m delighted to announce that our short story collection FICTICIOUS FICTION will be available to readers very soon. And, I brought back a roommate.  She’s feisty and talks more than a two-year-old on Dr. Pepper. Her name is Harley, but she doesn’t appear to be particularly fond of motorcycles. Actually, as I’m writing this, she’s situated at the top of a “tree” in my living room, looking extremely annoyed at all the noise roaring up and down the boulevard.

Harley Ann, like me, was an orphan. Mom said she was found sleeping under a Harley in the New Orleans impound yard. Unlike me, Harley’s absolutely beautiful and has the disposition of a nesting gator.  My mother worries because I live alone. And somehow, she thinks that this gorgeous long-haired cat with the terrible disposition is going to be good for my mental health.

I have to say, that somewhere out on Alligator Alley I discovered that she was more hiss and spit than mean. Though she swiped at me with those big furry paws, she never put out her claws. And when I pet her soft fur, she began to talk up a storm. I’d ask a question and she’d answer me. And when I put on a CD and started to sing along, I noticed she was singing, too.  If I tell the truth, she is sort of entertaining.

So, now the Method Writers all have someone special in their lives. (Besides each other, that is.)  Marty has his little Anna. And David has that beautiful Kaybee. Georgie Mae has charming Boo Radley (and Joe, of course) and now I too, have a room-mate.

Somehow I suspect that I’ll end up being the room-mate. And the cat will have the run of the house…

Catch you in a couple of weeks.  Stay safe out there!

Dorian

 

 

Pinch Hitter, Part 4

(Click here for Part 3 of Pinch Hitter)

“Are you all right?” Herman asks and leans forward, looking truly concerned.

I sit back into the uncomfortable couch, relax my throat, and take a slow deep breath. No, I haven’t been poisoned, but something’s definitely up with this coffee.

“What the heck you put in here?”

“Good heavens, I didn’t even think to warn ya. I make my coffee a little strong.”

“Do you add a few drops of water to a bag of coffee grounds or something?”

Herman belts out a laugh. “No, no, you don’t have a problem with alcohol, do ya?”

“Only if I can’t get enough of it.” I raise the cup again and take a whiff. “It’s certainly not whiskey.”

“No, it’s not whiskey. Can you keep a secret?”

I’ve kept more than my share, old man. “Sure.”

“It’s moonshine. My own special blend. I make it in that ol’ wooden shed behind the garden. I think I poured in a little too much this time though. Didn’t even think about it when I offered you some. It’s just how I prepare it.” He laughs again. “I should figure that not everyone drinks their coffee this way.”

“Coffee brewed in part with moonshine? Works for me. You’re full of surprises, Herman. Your name is Herman, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Herman—here’s to moonshine and gardening.” We clink coffee cups and each take a healthy gulp. “That’s some potent stuff.”

“It’ll do the job, all right,” he says with a grin.

Herman may not be as religious as his late wife, and his role in the church may have mainly been to pacify her, but he doesn’t exactly strike me as a killer either.

“So, do you have a secret behind the success of your garden too?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t take too much credit for the nice produce it yields. I just do a little maintenance. My grandson—he’s got the green thumb of the family. He’s the one who prepared the soil and planted all the seeds. Did all the early care to make sure the crops would thrive. He still comes by to check on it from time-to-time, plants new seeds. I just tidy up and pull off fresh produce.”

“It sounds like he’s the one I should be talking to, eh?” Looks like Kenny Black will have to pay this little punk a visit.

“That’s right. I’ll have to introduce the two of you some day. Say, would you like some of his fresh tomatoes?”

Tomatoes grown by the aid of human flesh—I’ll pass. But once again, I say, “Sure.”

Mother

     It’s been two years since my mother passed away. Sometimes, when my sister looks over her shoulder at me and smiles, I see our mother’s smile. I hear her laughter when my brother’s laugh and inevitably, when someone says the word “arse”, I can’t help but think of her. But on no other day does her memory hit me more than St. Patrick’s Day. I’d like to share one of my stories about her.

     At recess I’d swing like a chimp on the monkey bars. I’d shoot out onto the playground with one idea in mind. The high bar on the jungle gym was coveted real estate and I was always determined to stake a claim.  One spring morning, as I swung to and fro, a girl from my class approached me. We never spoke in class and I wasn’t sure why she was talking to me. Our conversation began with saying our names and where we lived.

     She then asked, “Are you Catholic or Christian?” I stopped swinging and looked at her as if she had thrown dog shit my way. I asked her what the difference was between being Catholic than Christian. She didn’t know herself but was very adamant that she was Christian and that being a Christian was better than any other religion. I knew I went to a Catholic church, but was I Christian? I didn’t know. Panic started to seed in my stomach because this uncertainty happened before. When I was five, my siblings thought it was funny to ask me if I was a male or a female. I didn’t have that answer then, which was met with uproars of laughter and jeers. I still remember tugging on my mother’s skirt asking her if I was a female or a male.  

     As I walked home from school I knew my mother would be home. She’d be starting dinner in the kitchen. We went to church every Sunday. I attended catechism classes and was destined to be confirmed one day (which I’m still not, sorry Mom). My mother said the rosary on Easter and Christmas and all the holy days in between. I knew she’d be disappointed. All my Sunday mornings of sacrifice, confession and spiritual schooling would all be for not because I could answer this girl’s question.

     As predicted, she was in the kitchen. She was washing dishes in the sink when I placed my elbows on the counter and stared at her. She looked at me and asked, “What?” I recounted the playground conversation and confessed my ignorance. She reported that I was Catholic, but Catholics are Christians too. I was more confused than ever. How could I be both? When I posed this question she looked at me with frustration, just like when I asked about being male or female. Then and a smile crept across her mouth and this was her response:

     “If anyone asks you what you are, tell ‘em you’re Irish.” And she laughed her laugh and I did too. I liked that answer much better. Miss you Mom.

Bridget M. Callaghan

Delivery Rooms and Dads

This Method Writers blog posting comes to you from the hands of  Marty Pitchford, one of the characters in the book “The Method Writers”. The fictitious characters from the book continue to work on final edits of their own book – “Fictitious Fiction”.

I realize the writer who created me, Michael Ray King, wrote his own book on fatherhood. Heck, he should! He only has six children! For me, fatherhood came as a shock-wave that did not settle down until Annabelle turned two-years-old.

The midnight feedings I heard so much about were actually midnight, three-in-the-morning and six-in-the-morning. Jessica did not want to get up in the middle of the night much. I didn’t either, don’t get me wrong, but this was our precious daughter. I cannot tell you how many times I fell asleep in the easy chair with her on my chest.

The sleep I got ended up very shallow, as I feared she might roll off. I placed couch pillows on the floor around the chair just in case.

I nearly got fired from my VP job because I dragged into work sloppy and half out of my mind. If my boss hadn’t been a woman, I’m not sure I would have received the benefit of the doubt. She knew Jessica, and she knew me, of course. Not long after Annabelle’s birth, my boss sat me down and gave me a boatload of tips. Most I didn’t remember, but I was thankful that she understood what I was going through.

The diapers seemed to fall my way most of the time. I suppose I’m grateful for that as well. Whenever I changed a diaper Jessica had put on our daughter, I noted the carelessness. I should have begun adding all these signs up, but life had me running its gauntlet. There were many times I asked for more help, but Jessica felt I needed to carry my fair share of the load.

Yeah, I go to work, come home and Jess hands Anabelle off to me and disappears for five or six hours. The upside to this, of course, is Annabelle and I developed a strong bond. My little girl would smile and giggle at me and I knew there could be nothing more beautiful.

Oh yeah! I was supposed to talk about the delivery room a bit. So I’m in there, right? Jess is cussing enough to make Poseidon blush. I’m sure the nurses are going to boot us out, but they simply ignore her. I’m helping helplessly with the Lamaze breathing.

The doctor walks in, exhorts Jess to push after he inspects the situation, and the next thing I know, this purple creature is being held up to me. Scissors somehow get placed in my right hand, and I cut the chord to the most beautiful purple being on earth.

I soon note Annabelle’s skin changes to a much more normal looking pink. I’m glad I didn’t ask. I would have felt stupid. Since my baby was not exposed to air those forty weeks, of course she would come out some strange color. Once the light and air did their thing, poof! Normal baby.

Except nothing was normal about this girl. She was/is perfect. I believe I cried more than she did. Maybe not as loud, but I wept. Birth is one of the most amazing experiences we ever get to witness. I’ve been there for my girl ever since, and that will never change as long as I live and breathe.

 

Rogues Gallery Writers Books:

Writing is Easy

More Writing is Easy

SMART-ALEC PHONES

Dorian has deserted us for a couple of weeks to go visit with her parents in New Orleans. So, she asked me to cover for her and here I am.  I’ve dabbled in novel-writing, am accomplished in short story writing and enjoy writing articles,  but thought I’d share my latest column with you in hopes you can relate–Nancy Q.

At the urging (constant urging is more accurate) of my spouse, I’ve retired my duct-taped, red, Nokia phone with the 500-minute plan for a Samsung Infuse that is smarter than I am and costs twice as much per month as the old one since it requires data plans and message plans and all sorts of things my simple flip-and-dial did not. It’s also not nearly so convenient to carry. No pockets for this thing, it requires Samsonite luggage of its own.

In the first two minutes of use, I reached out and touched someone in a country I can’t pronounce and I was just trying to turn it on. I thought if I could find my daughter’s number in my contacts, she could tell me how to use the darned thing, especially since she really IS smarter than I am about these things. I’m a read-the-manual type person, but phones no longer come with manuals, they come with web addresses for forty-minute tutorials. Who has forty whole minutes?

Although I followed the colorful QUICK START page, my phone was not activated, so I called the number provided. That produced some good and not so good results. The phone, after fifteen minutes of “please hold while I check this,” was finally activated and told me so via a free text message that made it jump off the desk and onto the floor. Good thing I’d bought that pretty blue protective cover.

But the phone company could not explain what had happened to more than two thousand roll over minutes, though they could see that we had minutes rolling over at one time, we just don’t have them now.  I kept asking where they’d gone and the answer was, “you don’t have them anymore.” The young lady assisting me pointed out that since I didn’t have roll over minutes anymore, the plan I had for the old phones would certainly not be enough so I added some more minutes. And some more costs.

Not to be bested by something this size,  I have figured out how to place a call, find a number in my contacts, and sometimes even end a call successfully. It has Wi-Fi built-in, but I’m terrified I’ll end up with a million dollar phone bill because my Wi-Fi went roaming, so I turn the phone off completely when I’m not using it. Now I don’t get my calls at all. Not entirely a bad thing, though.

My emails ding when the phone is on, but I can’t answer them because when I type a reply on that teeny-tiny keyboard, my smart phone changes what I type into something else that is either not fit for print or is total gibberish. “I’ll be there” turned into “I behemoth.” Just what I need–a smart-alec phone: a teeny-tiny computerized wise guy.

If I’m unfortunate enough to be retyping the gibberish when an incoming call occurs, it’s all over. The email disappears and the phone call shows up. And, one must understand that you can’t press the “accept” button on the screen, one must SWIPE the button to the right. I’m not sure what happens if one swipes left. When I tried that on a call that was not complicated by an email, my right index finger tapped the power button and the call went away.

I’m not so old I can’t learn this. And I’ve decided to look at that forty minute video as an investment in my future. I’ll pour a glass of wine, cut up some cheese and then sit back and learn how to use my smart-alec phone. If that fails, I’ll ask Dorian to tutor me.

And then I’ll start tracking down what happened to my roll over minutes. They have to be around here somewhere.

Pinch Hitter, Part 3

(Click here for Part 2 of Pinch Hitter)

You can tell that Herman hasn’t changed a thing since his wife had passed. The living room is a mishmash of pastel furniture with decorative throw pillows, dark-colored end tables with lace doilies underneath the table lamps, and a collection of religious paintings and quotes on the walls.

“Please, Kenny, make yourself at home,” the old-timer says and motions to the living room couch.

“Thank you,” I say and sit on the small, uncomfortable couch that has a gaudy-looking afghan draped over the top. The cushions screech at my weight.

“Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a pot.”

“That would be great.”

“Care for some cream, sugar?”

“I prefer mine black.” Just like my name.

While Herman’s tinkering around in the kitchen, I wonder why the hell I just accepted coffee from this stranger who may know more about me than I know about him. He could be slipping something into my steaming cup of coffee this very minute.

My mind begins to race. Did I even come over with a plan? That’s so unlike me. Just because he’s old, doesn’t mean he’s weak.

I’m relieved when Herman returns with a tray, containing a coffee pot and two empty mugs. He sets the tray on the coffee table and pours me a cup, than one for himself. He’s also drinking his black. I wait for him to take a sip, and then take a gulp from mine.

“So…you’re interested in my garden, huh?” he asks as I take a second gulp.

And then I realize my big mistake. Just because the coffee itself was fresh, doesn’t mean a thing. The poison could’ve been at the bottom of my cup all along!

Shit, Kenny, you’re losing your touch. Old-time criminals are old for a reason; they’re a lot smarter than you are, ya dumb bastard.

“What’s the matter, Kenny?” Herman asks.

My throat begins to tighten and my head feels heavy. It’s getting hard to breathe.

Honor Thy Writer

It’s not a secret that I love the Oscars. I love all of it, the speeches and celebrities and even the catty remarks from fashion paparazzi. Something re-struck me while watching the Oscars on Sunday night. The nominations for best-adapted screenplay were being shown. One could see the film nominations with the actor portraying their character and shown beneath the actor was the typed dialogue from the screenplay (or direction; nods to The Artist). Even as a writer I forget! The actors do not come up with the dialogue or direction…it’s the writers! Too easily I forget that Charlton Heston did not come up with, “Get your stinking paws off me you damn dirty ape!” Nor did Carrie Fisher just happen to blurt out, “Help me Obi-Wan Kenobie, You’re my only hope.”

It’s not very often we get to see writers celebrated. It’s always the actors who speak the words of the writer who are celebrated. Safe to say I’ve never watched a talk show where a screenwriter is being interviewed about their life and interests and acclaimed for writing that “perfect line”. In many ways, writers are the ultimate man-behind-the curtain. And for me, the curtain was raised again on Sunday evening.

Cheers to all writers, everywhere!

Bridget

Fictitious Characters’ Office Romance

 

Jessica Pitchford from "The Method Writers"

This Method Writers blog posting comes to you from the hands of  Marty Pitchford, one of the characters in the book “The Method Writers”. The fictitious characters from the book continue to work on final edits of their own book – “Fictitious Fiction”.

Back in the day, Jessica and I were quite the item. I never felt like our love mimicked the typical office romance. Our passion for each other transcended the vicarious thrills of possibly getting caught in the cleaning closet. The office we worked in did not allow internal ‘fraternization’ so we kept things as cool as possible.

One time, when the company president left for an afternoon luncheon, Jessica decided we should commandeer his office. I thought she meant to use the nice soft, cushiony couch to the right as  one walks into the office.

No, no. She had her sights on something else – his desk. I suppose I was like a puppy being fed tasty morsels by someone who wanted to lure me into a carrying cage to go someplace scary – like the vet. In my similarity with the puppy, I sensed this desire for the desk  said something about Jessica of which I should beware.

But the morsels she handed out made the word ‘allure’ dull and dingy. I could not resist her energy. On that desk I swear we conquered the world. Looking back, I see the situation more along the lines of she conquered me with her daring-do. She established herself as the risk-taker – the person who feared nothing and who got what she wanted.

I suppose I was smitten by the apparent desire she showed for me. I stepped out and did things I would never even think of on my own. Other than the president’s desk and the cleaning closet, we often worked after hours. We would push hard to get an abnormal amount of work accomplished, then spend the next two or three hours finding new places to christen in the professional highrise where we worked.

Near the end of this madness, about three weeks before Jessica had to quit and we got married, she got into putting a show on for janitors and anyone on the street who happened to look up. In fact, she insisted we use the less plush offices on the second floor to see if we could attract attention from people in the street.

Being with her during this time was like becoming a live mannequin except we didn’t dress the window, we undressed it, so to speak. Around this time I began to sense Jessica’s dark side. Unfortunately, this simply propelled me further into her world of chaotic passion. I never met anyone like her. I wanted to be with her all the time and she responded with open invitation.

What a wonder that I did not get fired in those last weeks of her employment. The Human Resources person actually sat us down and gave us an ultimatum – one of us quit or we both get fired. Since I made significantly more money, Jessica bowed out. Gracefully.

That act of her not making a scene, of her simply stating she understood how the company could not allow us to continue on, endeared me more to her. This level of responsibility looked like the entire package to me. She’s wild beyond my craziest crazed dreams, she could be humble and respectful, and she wanted me.

I proposed as we walked out the doors that day. A little background for you, the reader, of how Jessica and I came to be.  As a character, existing in a book is great – getting to write a book is divine. Be sure to keep up with what is going on with The Method Writers to see what happened in our lives next…