P is for . . .

Portmanteau words. Such as:

ginormous = gigantic + enormous

jeggings = jeans + leggings

turducken = turkey + duck + chicken

Seems like a lot of these have been coined lately.

For a long list go to Wikipedia, itself a portmanteau word consisting of wiki (a website where users can add, modify, or delete content) + encyclopedia.

I don’t like or dislike portmanteau words in principle, but I love the fact that language is organic and ever changing—new words budding, old ones falling away. In my opinion, dictionaries should mirror word usage rather than proscribe it—unlike Noah Webster’s, which aimed to give us standard “American” English.

My problem with that is: who elected Webster official lexicographer? Fact is, no one did; he was self-appointed, all the while claiming he wanted a language for a “democratic” nation. 

And was it really necessary in the first place for Americans to break away from “British” English, especially over trivial matters such as how to spell labour, judgement, or theatre?

Webster’s opus. It rubs me the wrong way, and I therefore dub it frictionary.

O is for . . .

Opinion piece. Here’s mine.

In a January post, Unfinished Masterpieces, I wrote about screenwriter Gwyneth Hughes’s completion of Charles Dickens’s, The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Sunday night the Hughes drama aired on public TV and I happened to tune in.

Never having read the fragment by Dickens, I don’t know precisely where he left off and Hughes began, but I do know that Dickens never identified the murderer. Hughes, of course, does—but I don’t think it’s the one Dickens had in mind. Or if she got the murderer right, she must have twisted the plot in the wrong direction.

Hughes herself admitted that she “felt emboldened . . . to go where the characters took me, and hope that people who love the book even if they don’t like what I’ve done with the mystery—[would] still love Dickens’s characters.”

From reading other Dickens novels, I’d say most of the characters in Drood are Dickensian for sure. John Jasper is as black hearted a villain as any Dickens created, utterly loathsome. The crypt keeper, Durdles, is stock Dickens. 

If you read my N post yesterday, you perhaps will remember Alun Armstrong from New Tricks. In Drood he’s the benevolent guardian of the heroine, Rosa Bud—both of whom have parallel types in other work by Dickens. 

Edwin Drood himself is curiously inconsistent. He manfully accepts Rosa’s wish to break their engagement, but immediately does something impulsive and immature. This action, which I won’t spoil by divulging, is crucial to the mystery. I can’t decide if Drood's inconsistency was his fatal flaw—or Hughes's.

The tale tangles right after the midpoint murder, and thereafter, the characters’ motivations and hence the plot grows less and less believable.

And then there’s a major loose end. I can’t tell you what it is without giving away the climax. But this surely was not Dickens’s ending. His plots are organic, causative, and neat above all.

It could be that Dickens himself couldn't undo the plot knots and thus left the tale unfinished. Hughes's version doesn't solve The Mystery of Edwin Drood. It deepens it.

N is for . . .

Netflix and New Tricks.

First, Netflix. Still a great deal, even after their P.R. snafu.

New Tricks is a BBC-TV/Acorn Media crime drama series that my husband and I get through Netflix. 

The ambitious Sondra Pullman (Amanda Redman) gets demoted to head up the cold-case unit (UCOS) of the London Metropolitan Police. UCOS consists of Pullman, whose officiousness only partially hides her insecurity, and three old codgers that prove, alas, that old dogs really can’t be taught new tricks. No matter. They solve cases the old fashioned way: they’re resourceful, clever and, occasionally, underhanded.

The old dogs, all retired policemen, are: Alun Armstrong as an obsessive-compulsive with a photographic memory; James Bolam as a widower who talks to his wife at her backyard shrine; and Dennis Waterman as a hyper-sexed ladies’ man with—appropriately—daughters by three different ex-wives. While you’re feeling affectionate toward these odd characters and their sometimes hilarious interaction, you might not notice that the crime plots in a few episodes are contrived.  

You could do lots worse than this series if you’re a writer looking for a tutorial on: (a) creating interesting characters; and/or (b) crafting plots that explore and develop your characters’ idiosyncrasies. 

The acting is excellent too, but I recommend you mute the theme song.

My husband and I have watched Seasons 1-5 already and all but the last two episodes of Season 6. That should tell you what we think about its entertainment value. Since Season 7 won’t be available to us until June, we’re casting around for a new view from the BBC. Any suggestions, y’all?

P.S. N is also for News. My first published article is now online here. Close or minimize the pop-ups and it will be easier to find.

M is for . . .

Metaphor.

It’s the red wheelbarrow of prose.

L is for . . .

Light, both real and metaphorical. It intrigues me.

Real light always wins. It banishes darkness every time. 

It’s the fastest traveler in the universe.  If you could travel at the speed of light, so I’m told, you could go anywhere in the universe in zero seconds. (Intrigued? Go here for more.) 

Photographers and other visual artists use light to create depth and interest. Morning or afternoon light, striking the subject at a slant, dramatizes, picks out intricate details and leaves mysterious areas of darkness.

A ritual at my house is commenting on the change in light as seasons change. It’s gradual, of course, but one day near the solstice or the equinox, the light will be different enough to notice. Faulkner noticed, even entitling a novel, Light in August.

Then there are those evenings when the fading light is blue and transcendent and tinges everything with its failing pulse. Pure magic.

Metaphorically speaking, language is a lot like light. “Lucid” means to transmit light. Lucid prose is transparent and easy to understand. But a perfectly lucid story will be a boring story. Storytellers must cast shadows.  Readers demand the drama of light battling with—and usually defeating— darkness.

No one wants to read about the happy protagonist lolling about in the sunshine—not for long anyway.

K is for . . .

Kid lit. Yeah!

Some of my favorite books are children’s books:

•        To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
•        Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling
•        Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli 
•        From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E. L. Konigsburg
•        The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J. R. R. Tolkien
•        Hatchet by Gary Paulsen
•        Ramona the Pest by Beverly Cleary
•        Jacob Have I Loved, by Katherine Paterson
•        Junie B. (Jones), First Grader: Toothless Wonder by Barbara Park
•        The Bartimaeus trilogy by Jonathan Stroud
•        Because of Winn Dixie by Kate DiCamillo

And that’s just a start. 

Did I mention your favorite(s)? If not, leave me title(s) and author(s) in a comment.

J is for . . .

Jargon. Nothing excludes better than a bunch of ten dollar words. In medicine there are wheezes, rales, and rhonchi (lung sounds); in law there are Chapters 7, 9, and 11—and they aren’t sections of a book. 

In some fields, jargon is verbal precision and a matter of life and death, while in others it is merely fashionable cliché: at the end of the day; upwards of  (more than); and quite frankly (are they quite lying the rest of the time?) Talking heads say these things all the time.

Then there’s business or office jargon. Some of it is clever—at least the first time you hear it:

al desko—to dine at one’s desk 

deceptionist—the person up front whose job is to block or detain potential visitors

visual noise—office clutter so thick you can’t hear yourself think

If I never hear “at the end of the day” again, it will be too soon. Please. Save five words. Say “finally.” Or “ultimately.”

What about you? Is there jargon out there that irks you?

(Thanks to The Office Life.com’s The Ridiculous Business Jargon Dictionary for these. (Go here for much, much more!)