Words are hard

Selecting the first word was easy, as it had haunted me since my teen years. When I cracked my hefty Webster's Dictionary this week, I found myself easily overwhelmed by, well, the ridiculous amount of words available for selection. I was surprised, too, to see how many words were used primarily in fields of study such as Botony, Psychology, Biochemistry, Genetics, and Medicine.

Letters swam before my eyes, turning familiar words into a jumble of consonants and vowels. I needed to take a break. I decided to check out  http://www.hippocampusmagazine.com/, an online literary journal spotlighting Creative Nonfiction that my friend Donna Talarico started just this past May. I was reading some of the stories from the June issue, hoping to turn those jumbles back into something I could comprehend. I'm glad I did. In Michael Andreoni's "Sell Me," I came across a word I didn't know: caryatid.

When I looked it up, I hesitated a moment. Hesitated as you might when you read it's definition below.

I mean, yay for the picture (a little visual aid is always nice), but, still. It's an architectural term, a word used primarily in a particular field of study. Insert brief moment of panic here. I wondered whether I could write a piece about architecture. I remembered, then, that Mr. Andreoni had used the word in a piece about the Michigan (and, similarly, the U.S.) economy. This word is exactly why I created this blog.

The assignment is the same. Write a piece in whatever genre you choose using the word of the week in a way that the context defines the word. If this goes well, it will open a world of possibilities for other words often used only by professionals in their field.

Good Luck!

Still here!

Never fear, dear readers. I have not abandoned my quest. I have merely gone all super-American and taken a long weekend to celebrate our nation's birth and the fact that I didn't have to be at work for a few days.

Check back Thursday for the next challenge.

Happy 4th of July! (Yes, I know it's the 5th of July, but, hello, long weekend, people. We went over this, like, 3 sentences ago)

See you Thursday

The First is Always the Hardest

Here it is, the first of many tales meant to teach us words instead of just memorizing them. Feel free to post your own pieces. All genres are welcome. This week, I chose a short piece of fiction. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you have a better idea of what gadfly means. I hope you'll be kind enough to tell me when I haven't done a good job, or I've muddled the meaning. Most of all, I hope you write.

Worn

Currently, there were only two stores in all of Pemberton that sold women’s clothing. When the town was founded in 1853, a direct result of the burgeoning logging industry along the river, the population of 325 was scattered across three miles of Pennsylvania wilderness and consisted mostly of men; but the town’s women still had their pick of four locations from which to purchase textiles and other female necessities.

As the years passed, more industries found their way to the small town along the river, and an explosion of employment and wealth helped grow the town to more than 8,000 in the early 1900s. There was a time, indeed, when you could count the number of commercial lots within the town’s borders and find that the number of clothing stores ranked third behind the number of churches and bars. By the time April and her mother took up residence in a one-bedroom apartment over the Woolworth’s in 1985, the industries responsible for Pemberton’s growth had become those responsible for its degradation; they left for better tax incentives in other states, and soon the number of bars overtook that of churches, proving that in times of financial difficulty, the working man turns first to drink and then to salvation.

Woolworth’s went out in 1992, eventually followed by The Smart Shop and Kathy’s Clothing, leaving April in her current and seemingly permanent predicament.

The Goodz was owned by a 42-year-old perpetual teen named Brittney, who thought the best way to advertise her teen-targeted inventory was to wear it. That left a 30-year-old transportation-deficient April truly only one option when she needed a dress for what she hoped would be the first date of many with a successful local accountant: Wear It Well. The inventory was not only age appropriate, but it was also a good mix of trend and tradition. Still, April paused as she saw the store’s sign swinging freely in the soft breeze.

April came through the door and winced as she heard the requisite chime signal her arrival. For a moment, she longed for the days when shopkeepers poised a bell above the door just so she could rip it off the wall and avoid what she knew was coming.

The source of her hesitation was upon her before the both feet had reached the carpet.

“Hello. How are you today?” April never answered this question, because her mother taught her to save her little white lies for people she cared about.  It never really mattered anyway. “My name is Tara. Would you like to hear about our sales?” April hoped in vain that if she stepped toward a rack of tank tops, Tara would back off. No such luck. “We have capris available this week only for $24.99, and if you get two pairs, you’ll get them for $22.50. What a deal, right?” While April tried to look interested in something she had no intention of buying, the largest gadfly to ever work in retail clothing sales continued.

“These tank tops are 3 for $25. You can wear one at a time,” she glanced at April’s miniscule muffintop and broadened her lacquered smile, “or layer them for a more fun look.” Tara grabbed a purple tank from the rack and held it up to April, hoping, perhaps, that proximity improved her odds of a commission. But the intrusion of her personal space finally elicited a response from April.

“I’ve never really liked purple. I prefer red.” April noted the twitch above Tara’s left eye.

“I’m not sure that’s the best way to go.” April’s mouth opened, but it was Tara who spoke. “Have you had your colors done? You really should. You could find the right colors to wear.”

“I didn’t know there were ‘right’ colors.” If it hadn’t been such a telling gesture, April would have clamped her hand over her mouth.

“Oh, there are. Every person matches a season. I’m an autumn. You’re definitely a spring.” April wanted desperately to avoid a conversation about colors, convinced she’d mastered the subject back in kindergarten.

“That sounds—,” April glanced at her wrist, and decided that a trio of freckles made a perfectly accurate clock. “I am actually running a little late. But I’ll look into it.” Tara just stared at her for a second before turning around and heading to the back of the store.

April took advantage of the reprieve and strode toward the rack of casual dresses a short distance from the cash register. She had two date-worthy options hanging over her arm when the gadfly came buzzing back in her direction.

“Can I get you a dressing room?” she said as she clasped her hand over the hangers.

“I’m okay. Thank you.” Tara released her grip but surveyed April’s selections.

“I see you’re looking at the red sheath.” Tara quickly sifted through the rack and produced the same dress in a deep purple. “Trust me. You will love yourself in this.” Again, April’s silence seemed to signal acquiescence. “I’ll go get that dressing room for you.” April found herself handing the dresses over and watching, helpless, as Tara selected two others. Burdened as she was, Tara somehow found a spare hand and produced a small accordion-style picture album that unfolded in front of her, spilling a rainbow of swatches nearly to the floor. “And we can do your colors, too. Once you see what you’ve been doing wrong, you might want to take a second look at those tank tops.”

Curse of the gadfly

Like many writers, I worked on my high school newspaper. Also like many writers, I fancied myself a talent. Like many teenagers, I didn't realize that what I felt was talent was actually plain youthful cockiness. Regardless, I went about my journalistic duties with a confidence I haven't been able to attain since.

In my seemingly infinite wisdom, I believed that a journalist needed to write to her audience. When writing for teenagers, keep the verbage dynamic, but keep the vocabulary distinctly young adult (Read: no big words).

So when I read a piece by a fellow student that was being prepared for publication, I had my first argument with an editor. Now, I looked back through my old-but-nearly-pristine copies of Paw Prints, but I did miss a few issues, and I was unable to locate the piece in question. I don't remember the topic, the angle, or the people interviewed, but I do remember the word I fought so hard against: gadfly. To honor the humility that comes with age, I thought it only fitting that I force myself to use the word I'd rallied so hard against.

So there it is, in black and white, the word and its accompanying definition. Granted it lists two definitions, but the one we're going to focus on for this week's creative writing experiment is the second.

The assignment this week is the same as it will be each week: Create and original work that uses the word in a way that best provides a definition through context.

Check back Tuesday for the first of many mini masterpieces.

Good Luck!

What does that word mean?

It happens a lot. You're reading a book or newspaper or magazine, and suddenly there's this thing, this collection of letters, this word, staring at you with what can only be described as disdain. You remind yourself that you know all the letters of the alphabet, but they seem to be arranged in an unfamiliar way. You say to yourself "What does that word mean?" A trip to the dictionary (or the dictionary website) provides the necessary information, and you resume your reading, content in the knowledge that you've just learned a new word.

But then, a week, a month, or even a year, later, you're reading something else, and you see that word again; and it's just as confounding as it was the first time.

Or the word will come back to haunt you in a different way. A spouse, a child, a coworker, or a friend will come right out and ask you to define it. Serves you right for lending them that book in the first place. You search your mind for the information, but you can't quite place it.

That's when I seek context. "Say it in a sentence," I request. The context given in that sentence usually allows me to provide at least a general definition for my hapless acquaintance.

And that's the purpose of this blog; use context to learn new words. 

While I'll be posting my own stories, of course, I hope my readers will post their own original works inspired by each week's word. In my next post, I'll present the first word. There's no specific order, no alphabetical design, so we won't have to trudge through "aardvark" to get to "speculum." But I don't plan on visiting "speculum" anytime soon.