Print, Cursive, and Pictograms

An observation about myself: When I write grocery lists, notes on the chalkboard, take notes in a meeting or jot down quick details, I print my words. But when I write for fun – be it fiction or non – my script shifts into a cursive hand. Why is this?

I do not believe it was ever a conscious decision. I’ve been writing interchangeably like this since I can remember. Is this a difference in right and left brain? Am I subconsciously wishing for a century of ink that drips when you lift your quill? Does cursive bring out a more creative side of me? Am I just odd?

Then again, I’m typing this on the computer. Perhaps a cigar is just a cigar, and my handwriting just has its different purposes. Then again, perhaps, in some moods my handwriting breaks into pictograms. Maybe that’s why my husband and I rock at Pictionary.

A 1940 edition dictionary

A 1940, ‘National Dictionary based on the principles established by Noah Webster’ was passed onto me this past weekend. It had been my grandfather’s, one of his first tools for maneuvering through the English language. Pages were marked in his hand and in my grandmother’s, remnants of beautiful penmanship now gone. Flipping through the pages browning with years, a note fell out, a practice draft of a letter my grandmother had written to me in high-school. Phrases were crossed out; sentences were reworded; and my Ukrainian name was written in its Americanized shorthand, Kris. My deeply accented grandmother never called me by that name.

Flipping through the dictionary’s pages is a beautiful connection to my grandparents and another time. For example, on page ix in the Guide to Correct Business English, I learned:

“O and Oh. ‘O’ is used only in direct address, as ‘O George, come here.’ ‘Oh’ is an expression of joy, surprise, fear, etc., as in ‘Oh, how glad I am you’re here!’

How lovely is that?

Revelations (Biblical and otherwise)

I met one of my characters on Saturday. Yes, I do write fiction, but as I sat in the lobby of the Library of Virginia, one of my characters wandered in. An older man – he appeared homeless – walked into the grandiose lobby, ranting on subjects no one near him believed. I humored him momentarily, but as he raged on, I too disregarded him, with emotions mixed between pity and annoyance. Sure, my character is blind, and this man was not. This man, unlike my Felix, had his clear eyes open, searching for heaven.

Have you ever happened upon your characters? This is, I believe, the third time someone has suddenly reminded me so closely of a character I created on the page.

On another note, the James River Writers Conference ’09 was a smashing success. Inspired and armed with advice and new connections, we walked out with minds brewing and fingers twitching for pens and keyboards.

My sudden revelation of the weekend (with due credit being given to another): If I’m writing a fictional story surrounding events so scandalous in American history, yet still so unknown; if I found institutionalized secrets forgotten by even those who live around them; if I found a topic so unknown that Wikipedia does not even yet have an entry for it; if I teach research writing and enjoy writing the occasional non-fiction piece… why on earth am I limiting myself purely to fiction and not also working on a non-fiction manuscript? The idea seems obvious now that I consider it. Why didn’t I think of that?

With Scarlett as my witness

I’ve been twisting my words like licorice – tweaking, cajoling, poeticizing, intensifying, and making the pages (not even so old) shimmer like new. It’s funny how rejection can make you pout, then rage, then listen and swear, with Scarlett and God as my witness, that I will never go rebuffed – or was it hungry? – again!

On Friday night, I took a train-ride. Printed manuscript in hand, I scribbled away while scenes of green country fields, college campuses in the glows of a pink sunset, the Washington monument in lights, and city after city rolled by.

What do you think of when you imagine a writer?

Tweed coat with patches? Someone thoughtful and contemplative, who could get lost in his staring out to the horizon? Sitting in a leather chair surrounded by a personal library? Perhaps sitting in a Paris café?

It’s funny how the first thoughts that come to mind usually don’t include the drive, the persistence, and the hours upon hours of work involved. The beautiful part is, though, that I love every second of it.