Zelda 12: But What Does She Want?
I’ve been thinking about Zelda and James, and I realized that I have once again committed the same mistake I always make: I’ve given them negative goals. It’s all the more galling since we were just talking about this on CherryForums and I did a huge post on it. And then I rewrote those two scenes and completely missed that I’d constructed them originally on negative goals instead of positive ones.
Basically, Zelda doesn’t want to go inside Rosemore. That’s a negative goal, as opposed to “Zelda wants to go to Paris and will miss her plane if she goes inside Rosemore.” If that were the goal, then Zelda’s struggle would be about Paris, not about staying in the cold and dark. The reader would be saying, “Hell, yes, go to Paris,” and rooting for her. Zelda doesn’t lose anything in her struggle with Rose because she has nothing at stake except for her peace of mind. She has nowhere else to be, might as well be at Rosemore.
James has the same problem: He doesn’t want to go to Rosemore. If he were missing something fabulous back in Columbus and these yahoos had dragged him away from it but he can still get back to it if he drops them off and goes, then when he gets out of the car at Rosemore, he’s lost something. There are stakes to that scene.
I can’t believe I didn’t SEE that.
On the other hand, Scylla’s scene was tight from the beginning. I only cut two hundred words from it and I changed very little. Why? Because Scylla wanted something in her scene and went after it from the beginning.
And Scylla’s scene gave me back the core of the story which I’d forgotten: That all these people are telling themselves stories that they’ve been living and they think of as true, even though other people’s stories don’t mesh with theirs. Scylla does it blatantly, but James does it, too, telling himself the story of that fifteen-year-old summer and how it shaped him. Zelda doesn’t have a story which I bet is where I’m going to find her goal. My idea in 2003 was that reality is a construct, and that all these constructed realities were going to collide, and I still love that. Scylla can keep hers going because she’s aware of it and constantly revises hers to fit the bumps she hits, but Zelda’s and James’ and Rose’s are all going to shatter because they can’t revise what they don’t even know they’ve constructed. And of course the same goes for Mike and Ruby and Keith, not to mention Malcolm and Mary and Angela and Issy and Quentin.
So now I have to rewrite Zelda and James, as soon as I figure out what they want and get the stories in their heads straight. Positive goals and constructed realities, that’s where I’m going.
And since you waded through two long scenes with negative goals, here’s Scylla’s scene with a positive goal. It comes after Zelda’s first scene and before James’s scene in the car.
But before that, I’d like to thank those of you who stuck with me for twelve days. Your comments were a huge help, truly.
Now here’s Scylla:
*************************
Scylla flipped on the overhead light in the kitchen, looked across the ancient blue Formica serving bar to the chipped red enamel colander on the shelf and the deep yellow mixer on the counter, the cherry-printed hand towels hung against the blue and white tiles on the backsplash, and the battered copper pans hanging on the scrubbed white walls.
Mine.
She pictured herself in a blue gingham apron, her blonde curls gleaming in the light from the square frosted ceiling light, her cheeks rosy from the heat of cooking, stirring things that smelled like heaven. She wasn’t sure who’d be watching her, except that they’d be guests at the Rosemore Bed and Breakfast, and they would admire her and tell all their friends about how charming she was and how fabulous the food was, and their friends would come, too, and the Rosemore Bed and Breakfast would be famous, and she could stay there forever.
She’d have to get a blue gingham apron. Zelda would know where to find one.
She went around the bar, the blue and white checkerboard linoleum under her feet almost soft with wear, touching the ancient gas range and the chipped white cast iron sink, making her way to the broad oak table by the archway to the housekeeper’s lounge. She caressed the wood and saw herself rolling out cookie dough while Zelda sat on the serving bar and gossiped with her about the guests, and the sun would pour through the win–
“Who the hell are you?”
Scylla jerked her head up and saw a middle-aged man slouched in one of the chintz armchairs in the lounge, his stockinged feet propped up on another chair, a fat ancient beagle grinning by his side on a thick red velvet dog pillow. The dog’s muzzle was grizzled, but it looked better than the man, whose long seamed face scowled at Scylla from under a thatch of dry, graying dark hair that stuck up on the top of his head in two cowlicks, like little horns.
She felt annoyed with him for a moment—he had no business in her kitchen or her fantasy, although the dog was good, any story was better with a dog—and then she registered again that his hair was dry and his face was lined and she thought, not enough fat in his diet. That was probably why he was so grumpy, too.
“I said,” the man said with heavy patience and a light British accent, “who are you?”
“The cook.” Scylla went back to the fridge. If she was going to feed twelve people that night, it was time to get started. The guy with not enough fat kept talking, which was annoying because he was getting in the way of her story, but he didn’t belong in her fantasy so he would be gone soon anyway.
And she’d make a magnificent meal and everybody would love her, and Zelda would be happy again–
She opened the refrigerator and sucked in her breath. It was full of food, but awful food, plastic boxes of precut vegetables drying up before her eyes, chicken breasts with no skin looking obscene, a quart of milk—who used only a quart of milk?—and no greens in the crisper, no butter, nothing that—
“I beg your pardon,” the dry guy said. “I’m talking to you.”
Scylla turned around, in no mood to be harassed. “Is this your food?”
“What’s it to you?”
“It’s horrible. No wonder you’re so unhappy.” She thought of feeding him, of watching his hair get glossy and his cheeks fat so he wouldn’t be Skinny Dry Guy any more, and worked him into her story as she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll save you.”
His eyebrows met in a deep dark V over his long nose “I am not unhappy and I do not need to be saved and whatever Rose has told you, you cannot stay.”
Scylla began to open cupboard doors, ignoring him because he was clearly in denial. Nobody who ate food like this could be anything but miserable, and of course she and Zelda were going to stay. The more cupboards she opened, the worse it got. Everything that should have been good—poppy seeds and basil and rosemary—was too old, brown and gray and dead. And everything that wasn’t old was wrong: self-rising flour and instant oatmeal and biscuit mix. Biscuit mix.
Zelda was not going to believe this.
Then she stopped. In the last cupboard, toward the back, were six jars of homemade brandied cherries. “This is the family secret, Syllie,” her mother had said every summer when she’d put them up, always forgetting to share the secret with her. And then every winter, she and Zelda had dipped the cherries into fabulous chocolate and packed them into little gold boxes and sent them off to Rose for her family Christmases, minus the ones they’d pigged out on while they were packing. I could make these again, Scylla thought. If Mom left chocolate somewhere, I could dip them and serve them for dinner and Zelda would taste them and remember the good times and want to stay, and I could figure out what Mom put in the marinade and they could be the specialty at my Rosemore Bed and Breakfast.
She closed the door, imagining how delighted everyone would be to see the cherries, how much they’d love her for it, and then she realized the dry guy was still talking.
“. . . not staying here.”
“What?” she said, trying to think. Okay, she had twelve people coming to dinner plus the dry guy, who was desperate for real food, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
“You are not staying here,” he repeated.
“Yes, I am,” Scylla said. “And I’m going to save you, so if you don’t want saved, get out of my story.”
So all she had to do was make this garbage wonderful . . .
The dry guy got up out of his chair and walked around the table to plant himself in front of her, and the dog sighed and waddled after him. “Look, you won’t like it here. It’s a thousand miles from nowhere, there’s no cable, cellphones don’t work, and neither does the heat.”
“The heat works in the attic,” Scylla said, because her mother’s room had been warm when she’d gone up there. “And it’ll be warm in here because I’ll be cooking.” He kept talking and she walked around him to open the freezer. The top two shelves were full of Haagen Daz butter pecan ice cream pints. The rest of the freezer held at least forty boxes of Lean Cuisine, an eight pound turkey, and six bags of ice. Someone had to be playing a trick on her. Nobody kept a larder like this on purpose.
“I said,” the man began again, and Scylla turned to him, suddenly comprehending his role in her scheme of things.
“Can you drive?”
“Yes,” the man said, his face growing sharper. “But I’m not going to.”
Scylla turned back to her kitchen, too busy to convince him that he was her new assistant. She took a deep breath and saw herself pulling everything out of the fridge, saving it, making it succulent and irresistible, saw people leaning over bowls—she’d make soup, it would have to be soup with this stuff—breaking open muffins and inhaling the scent, smiling because the warm aroma of the thick broth and the crumbly pastry seduced them, drawing them into its savory embrace until they melted and moaned with satiation.
Even this dry guy would fall to her magic and want to drive her to the grocery.
He was still talking. “Do you know who you’re cooking for? They’re terrible people.”
“Rose Moore, Issy and James Entwhistle, and the Awful Inglethorps.” She looked in the fridge again.
She was going to have to be a miracle worker, she was going to have to raise vegetables from the dead, she was going to have to feed twelve, no thirteen, with an eight pound turkey.
Zelda would have to take her to the grocery tomorrow, that was all there was to it. In the meantime, thank God she had her box. With the box, she could fix anything, and she’d save people with her food, and they’d adore her, and Zelda would love Rosemore again, and they’d live happily ever after–
“—really depressing here,” the man was saying. “It’s dangerous. The housekeeper drank herself to death.”
“I know,” Scylla said, closing the freezer. “She was my mother.”
That shut him up for a moment. Then he said, “You must be Priscilla. I’m sorry. I truly am. But you should leave.”
“My name’s not Priscilla, it’s Scylla.” Scylla blinked at him. “And I’m not leaving. This is my story.”
The man drew back, scowling at her. “What the hell does that mean?”
She shook her head at him, more convinced than ever that he would have to go, and then stepped over the dog and around the serving bar and out the door into the checkerboard central hall. We played hopscotch here, she thought, that’s a good memory for Zelda, and made a note to herself to mention it to Zelda when she talked to her about the gingham apron and the grocery.
She went out the door to the front terrace and was surprised to find the snow blowing against her as she went down the steps. She had a brief Dr. Zhivago moment as she reached the bottom and the wind whipped her skirt around her legs. Too bad there wasn’t anybody there to see her. Not the dry guy, though.
The wind blew harder and stung her face, and she thought that she probably looked very fetching in the storm, her cheeks pinked with cold and her curls tipped with snowflakes. Then the cold got to her, so she hauled her box out of the back of the car and lugged it up the steps and back into the kitchen.
She slid the box onto the counter and pulled down the front panel and sighed happily when she saw the drawers of herbs and spices and her knives and her scales and everything else that made cooking better than sex. Now it was her kitchen, and the food would be wonderful, and she’d–
“Bloody hell,” she heard from behind her and turned to see the dry guy towering over her like Ichabod Crane, glaring at the neat contents of her box. “You really are staying.”
“Of course,” Scylla said, out of patience with him.
“Fuck.” He sighed and then nodded, evidently resigned. He gestured to the dog. “This is Plum. I’m Quentin.”
“Hello, Plum,” Scylla said and went to get the turkey out of the freezer and make all her dreams come true.
I love how, at the end, she goes out to the car and thinks she’s in her own personal Dr. Zhivago - it’s such a grace note on top of her constructing this whole fantasy. And I finally see what you mean about positive goals v. negative goals. I really like Scylla, and I want her to have her fabulous dinner.
I like it.
Where’s Charybdis? Swimming in the Ohio? Or maybe her name is Scylla Ann Charybdis. There must be a joke there; I keep waiting.
Teensy tiny suggestions: A frozen turkey to serve at suppertime? Better start thawing really fast. In the James chapter, there were a bunch of people introduced so fast that I had to scroll up and down repeatedly to try to remember who was who. Maybe they’re introduced earlier so I can keep them straight.
Plum? A dog named Plum must be a fine dog indeed. Oh, piffle, are we at the end of the 12 Days of Xmas? Say not so. More, pretty please.
“the housekeeper drank herself”- i thought Scylla’s mom was the cook and Zelda’s was the housekeeper?
i see what you mean about the positive vs negative goals- you root for Scylla to get her way, while you want Zelda and James stuck there because you know that’s where the story is going to be.
i have a question- what if over the story the negative goal changes to a positive one, as opposed to starting the story with a positive one? (sorry, more of a Writing Workshop question).
I love this. I want Scylla to save Quentin, too.
No more twelve days? Yikes, what are we going to do? Maybe we’ll have to get real lives or something …
Would it work to have Zelda already know about the garden project in advance of the trip, perhaps by letter or phone call? Maybe she needs the money. She wants the job, and while she hates the prospect of going to Rosemore the financial reward is needed for some huge reason (whatever that might be.) With James, he can be opposed to going to Rosemore at first but then he learns Zelda will be there and there is no holding him back. He wants to go because of seeing her again. Too simple?
Syclla is good. Quentin is good. The story is really taking shape.
Scylla is very cool– her sense of herself as living in her own story makes her seem delightfully daffy.
Having read all three scenes, I have to say that Zelda comes off less well in the context of the other two. I thought Scylla’s magic cooking box was wonderful, but it evidently isn’t a small thing, if she has scales and spices and stuff in it– if she’s carting that thing around, wouldn’t Zelda have had some inkling before they got there that she wanted more than a brief visit (making Zelda’s early threat to stay in the car seem petulant)? In James’ scene we learn that the/a problem with Rose is that she’s a terrible manipulator and from her interactions with Zelda she’s obviously a terrible snob, but because Zelda doesn’t articulate those things at all before they go into the house, she comes off not only as negative in her goal, but as having a pointless negative goal. James’ scene, in contrast, provides the reader with reasons why avoiding Rosemore is a good thing to do. Might Scylla do something more concrete to convince Zelda, giving her a positive reason to enter Rosemore and deal with Rose rather than just towing her along in her wake?
I think you get a real feel for Scylla and Zelda’s relationship in this scene - she wants to make Zelda happy. That speaks volumes about her and Zelda and their history.
Fantastic.
No problem about the turkey. It’s only eight pounds, so you can cook it in less than 30 minutes if you DEEP-FRY it in a big pot of canola or peanut oil, outside. We do that in the South all the time! The smell is heavenly, and the turkey comes out moist, not greasy. You’ll need a 40-or 60-quart pot, a propane gas tank and burner. Rosemore would surely have all that euqipment in the back shed. They might have used it for corn boils and fish fries in the summer! Scylla can thaw the turkey in a sink or tub of cold water for a few hours. You have to change the water every thirty minutes; she can make that Quentin’s job, maybe?
I did an emergency turkey thaw in the microwave once, I think it was a 12-pounder. It was 12 years ago, so I don’t remember how I did it, but you CAN get a start on thawing that way.
I, too, keep waiting for Charybdis. Scylla has a very nice interior show to star in!
I can still see Zelda stalling in the car if there is something she wants there, it’s just the PEOPLE she doesn’t want to deal with, but she wants to do the garden (maybe she’s got some super commission at another, cooler modern house IF she can show what landscape design ought to be that goes with the style,by doing Rosemore; all her previous work has been with either contemporary or classical design).
Quentin will clearly be lots of fun.
I like this, and the kitchen seems so cosy, but I must admit I was a bit confused as to whether Quentin was real or not. Was Scylla imagining him, or was he really there? I kept being thrown out of the scene whether I wondered about this.
It’s Pepper, all grown up! With her strong motivation, she makes a great antagonist for Zelda, who is having to be dragged kicking and screaming into life, again, at Rosemore. Likewise, Mike, with his own strong motivation, is a the perfect antag for James. And if Mike and Scylla get together again, well, imagine what can happen.
I sure hope they get their wishes, Mike and Scylla. I think they really need them. I picture them beaming and shimmering in the foreground, while Zelda and James are looming and glooming all over the place, fighting their own secret desires for what Rosemore once gave them. And Rose is up there on the landing, yanking everyone’s chains.
Probably all in my head. I love Scylla. She’s very Crusie.
Ooh, someone mentioned Zelda and the gardens, so Scylla could be picturing Zelda doing a gorgeous herb garden for her, there are lots of perennial herbs, and being very happy. All part of her story of being loved and Rosemore being famous because of her. Just a thought.
Ahhh! Negative goals. Now I get why Zelda’s scene didn’t track for me. As for James: His goals didn’t feel quite so negative. I guess that I just assumed that he was going to be driving to Rosemore anyway to spend Christmas with the family. How else could Mike and Ruby talk him into driving them there if he wasn’t already planning to go himself?
Scylla’s dismay over the pantry contents reminds me of a challenge my brother (French trained chef for whom cooking is now a avocation rather than a job, in other words, a food snob) used to throw out to his friends: Bring him ANYTHING edible, and he would make a meal out of it. One day a girl friend brought him a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese - the powdered kind. He conceded on that one. The box was still in his cupboard years later and the only reason I suspect that it is still not in his cupboard is that he has since moved.
re corinne: i assumed Scylla had the box hidden in her trunk. then i just reread that and realized it was in the back of the car. so i guess either a) Scylla always has that box in her car, or b)Jenny could move it to the trunk.
Scylla always travels with it.
In the original, they were on their way to Iowa to do a book on a diner cook because Zelda was a cookbook writer and Scylla did the recipes. But then I did Agnes who’s a food columnist and switched Zelda to plant expert. So I think Scylla’s going to be the herb specialist and they work together on planning gardens, but she’d still have her box with her.
I have that box, BTW. Pottery Barn sold them as portable offices one year. I’ve got my sewing stuff in it.
I love Scylla and the dialog (both internal & external). I think it’s fun that she is managing reality to suit her needs and wants and editing out anything she doesn’t like as she goes.
You might want to consider the quality of the pantry though. The snowstorm is really ugly based on the descriptions you provide in both James’ & Zelda’s scenes. They are already sliding around in the ice & snow, it’s night time, and the storm is still going.
How are Quentin & Scylla gonna manage to get to a grocery store tomorrow to buy food?
Plus, Rose has been expecting several people to come & stay for a long houseparty. You don’t do that without stocking up on lots of food. I can’t imagine that the big deep freezer and the walk in pantry are completely bare, or have only old food (a kitchen in a house designed for residents, staff, and houseguests can’t be just upper cupboards; it’s too limiting). Quentin may be the caretaker & Rose just arrived & the house just reopened. But what has Rose eaten so far? Surely Quentin isn’t feeding her peanut butter sandwiches?
and if Scylla knew she was coming here, in advance, to cook for an extended houseparty, then she’s already considered her menus and probably put in orders for food to be delivered, because she’ll want to make sure she has all her ingredients in place.
Of course, if she’s done that, she won’t have the opportunity to save Quentin from his bad food, so I’m not sure how you resolve that. ;=)
I love Scylla’s blend of fantasy and competence. Can’t wait to see the miracle she works with a fridge full of awful food. Love lines like “…with heavy patience and a light British accent.” And, of course, the cherries!
Thanks for these 12 days. You’ve really shown what you mean by positive/negative goals and starting Where the Trouble Begins.
Scylla from the inside is much more amusing and entertaining than Scylla from the outside. While my initial reaction was “WTF? Her mother died and she’s flitting around playing pretend…” I eventually got that Scylla is grieving in her own special way.
I take back the suggestion about having Zelda’s mother be the one who died. I can see Zelda’s positive goal might be to rescue her good friend, Scylla from Rose who seems to use people’s rose-colored memories as bait in traps.
I’m thinking there has to be a good reason why Scylla’s mom drank herself to death at Rosemont.
Excellent. I feel right at home with Scylla.
Between Plum and Mr. Entwhistle the lawyer and the Inglethorpes, we’re rolling in the atmosphere of the big old house party-cum-murder.
Thanks for the positive/negative goal example. I loved Zelda’s and James’ scenes, but Scylla’s is powerful.
It occurs to me that clashing “realities” are a common Crusie theme. The hero and heroine are either forced to adapt their realities to move forward in their lives (Cinderella Deal) or they’re forced to fight someone else’s version of “reality” (Crazy for You). Daisy was continually forced to adapt her “fairy tale” to fit Linc and the new people in her life. Linc had to adjust his “reality” to include chariots (the porsche) and damsels in distress.
Nick wanted the reality he was comfortable with: Quinn off limits. Bill wanted Quinn in the family home, close to the school, where she could stay home with their 2.5 kids and he could keep being the golden boy athletic coach. The principal saw himself as the school’s biggest booster and savior. And Quinn finally realized those “realities” weren’t real enough for her, so she created her own powerful story.
I can’t wait to see how Rose, James, Zelda, Mike, Scylla, and the Awful Inglethorpes reconcile their clashing realities. And I hope Angela is still James’ secret step-sister in the new, improved Crusie. I like how her (unknown) secret is like a prism view of Zelda’s.
Sorry for my verbosity. I’m just so excited to see this book take shape. Thank you for sharing, Jenny!
How do I love Scylla? Let me count the ways. I love the constantly changing story in her head. I love how she sees herself in the movie of her life–she is very real to me now! I like the fact that she is an herb expert. It goes along with her mother being the cook and Scylla standing at her elbow when she was little, watching and learning without even realizing she is doing it.
So her NEED to create those good meals goes back to her NEED to connect with her mother and those good memories from her childhood and her NEED to make Zelda happy again. She believes she can do anything with her magic box… I just love her to pieces already!
I love Scylla and now I want blue countertops and a red colander and a yellow mixer. I can picture her and her kitchen so clearly.
It’s amazing the difference the positive goal makes on a scene. Zelda seems petulant in not wanting to go into Rosemore, it’s almost childish (which makes sense given her childhood connection to the place and Rose) but it makes her seem whiny as opposed to driven. Scylla is driven and she is, by God, a famous Crusie Rat With An Island and she is swimming for all she’s worth. For those of you who don’t recognize that, look under Essays on the main page in the Books, etc. section. It’s fantastic.
So, Jenny, book done yet?
Jenny, if you’re still checking these comments…I just reread the rats with islands article OWC mentioned. And I’m wondering about CW’s opinion on what a collab with two names on the cover will earn. Didn’t you say on HW/SW that it made more than a single title of either or yours? Or is that my faulty memory?
What was the actual outcome? We know DLD did really well, but did it flip CW the bird? Please say it did. ;+)
Thanks for the reference to the Rat with an Island essay, Office Wench Cherry, which I had never read until now. It’s both brilliantly written and inspiring. At the risk of sounding sycophantic, I have to say that if Jenny is not remembered one day as being one of the greatest female artist role models of our time, no one should receive that honor!
This is an awesome scene.
NOT a British accent. An English, Scots, Irish or Welsh accent, but not British. I’m assuming you mean English.
Seems to be a bit of an ‘early Rachel and Leo’ vibe going on between Quentin and Scylla.
Would Scylla know to distinguish between the different types of UK accents? Has she traveled? Watched a lot of Rick Steves shows on PBS?
I had a friend ask me if England was part of Britain or if it was the other way ’round.
And I used to work with a guy from the North of England. He would get really annoyed when he was asked ‘which part of Australia’ he came from.
Ahh Mary - that’s just a cricket thing.
That’s what I thought, that Scylla would think “British accent” because she wouldn’t be able to distinquish English from Welsh from Scots.
I don’t think I can.
this could be a good way to add more conflict - make Quentin a Scot and let Scylla keep calling him British.
The confusion about Scots versus English, Welsh, Irish accents won’t be at all meaningful to American readers. They don’t realize that there’s still a big schism between the English and the Scots, for example (which I discovered only when I moved to Scotland for a year in college). So I think it’s perfectly “American normal” (not necessarily enlightened) for Scylla to refer to a British accent rather than an English accent.
after reading the first chapter car scene, I know who I would start with in the killing off of the relatives,if infact you are going to knock off some of the relatives. there are so many who the reader will be rooting for. um, i gotta get more cold meds
It was great reading these chapters and the rewrites. You know, I read Zelda’s chapter and I have no problem at all with her having only negative motivations, because her motivations are strong and understandable enough. Some people found her whiny, but memories of social humiliation are a powerful thing.
I know people whose drive in life is precisely the fact that they grew up in a snobbish environment and who suffered a hundred small humiliations as children because of their social background — that stuff just doesn’t disappear like that. Sure, social class may not be as important in the US as in Europe, but it still matters, at least in the situation you describe. And she wasn’t only the maid’s daughter, which would look comparable to Scylla’s position, she was conceived because one of the weekend guests had fun with the maid, and hell, I had no trouble understanding why she didn’t want to set foot in that house. Yes, it happened in the 70s, when being an illegitimate child was not such a stain, but knowing exactly in which social circumstances it happenened — and constantly being reminded of it, I suppose, by seeing her mother serve the weekend guests and by being hired help herself is a powerful motivation enough.
I had no trouble reading the character and I felt for her a little more than for Scylla. The latter is wonderfully written, but I thought she came across as willfully blind to her friend’s reluctance. I get it, because for her, it’s her story and people have to play their part in it, and it’s entirely believable that Zelda downplayed the reasons why she didn’t want to go back to the house, but Scylla looks a little like someone who is all “This is my ideal scenario and you’re not going to mess with it, dammit.”
Strop, remember POV. You’re in Scylla’s head. So, unless she would differentiate, it’s British. ;+)))
Well, dang. I guess I should have “refreshed” before sending that last comment. *sheepish expression* What exactly is that, anyway. Sheep don’t really have much expression, so where did it come from? Oh, for Tal or Tigress.
I’m neither of the T-women, nor would I dare try to play them on TV, but Dr. Goodword does have an interesting point on the animal adjectives used to describe people.
A human can be sheepish, or catty, but if you want to describe the animal itself, you have to leave English adjectives and go off into their Latinate equivalents, e.g. feline instead of catty or ovine instead of sheepish.
http://www.alphadictionary.com/blog/?p=49
I’m trying hard to think of a way to tie this in to Zelda and Scylla…
It’s okay, Mary.
This is not an On Topic site. Follow your thoughts wherever they may roam.
Jenny, I just reread a bunch of your books all at once. Your writing is delicious, and spoils me for everyone else except maybe Terry Pratchett.
But in rereading all those books, I noticed that in many cases, I felt like there were 50 pages missing near the end. Especially in Fred’s Book, where there should have been a full chapter about the house he bought without telling her, and a nice chunk of character development for the ob/gyn brother and the writer friend, each.
I know that you are under a lot of pressure from editors to keep the page count down. But you are a successful author, and you are entitled to a few (hundred) more pages to finish your characters’ stories properly. I, for one, would be delighted to find a 400 page Jenny Crusie book, and I would even pay the extra buck it takes them to print it.
Speaking of Terry Pratchett, nobody dares to tell him to cut pages, even though he rambles mightily, and don’t we eat up each and every word?
You, too.
Best of luck, from a grateful and admiring reader (and her equally admiring sister)
Since we can roam wherever, Jenny have you heard of Sufjan Stevens? He’s a singer/songwriter, sort of. He started out to be a writer but got sidetracked. Here’s a link to an interview:
http://www.popmatters.com/music/interviews/stevens-sufjan-050808.shtml
He has some interesting things to say about music and narrative structure. I’d be interested to see what you think?
Lovely scene. Thanks for sharing.