Marissa Campbell
Author
Monday, 27 April 2015
Thursday, 23 April 2015
Tuesday, 14 April 2015
Sunday, 12 April 2015
You Draggle-tailed Bicche!
Draggle
To wet or befoul (a garment, etc.) by allowing it to drag through mire or wet grass, or to hang untidily in the rain; to make wet, limp, and dirty.
Draggle-tail
A draggle-tailed person; a woman whose skirts are wet and draggled, or whose dress hangs about her untidily and dirty; a slut.
Oh, I can have fun with this one! Used around the fifteenth/sixteenth century, I can’t wait to sneak this into one of my manuscripts.
During the many rounds of edits for Avelynn, I had the opportunity to work with a wonderful copyeditor, whose job it was to point out words that sounded grossly anachronistic for the tone and style of the novel. After perusing the changes, I sort of set upon a kind of lose time frame for my writing—anything that originated prior to the seventeenth century most likely stayed in the manuscript. Anything that was first used after 1600 tended to sound rather modern, but then again, not always. It was definitely a one word at a time approach, and sometimes, I had to leave the word in because there really wasn’t a good alternative.
Here’s some exciting ways to use our new D words:
I draggled behind. (The word can also mean to go slowly, trailing).
The onslaught was relentless; the horse’s pace mired to a crawl. I slid down, landed squelching in the muck, and pulled on the reins, urging the beast to press onward. We needed to find shelter. My cloak draggling behind soon weighed as much as a small cow, so drenched was it in mud and slime that the horse began to grow impatient with me.
“You draggle-tailed bicche!”
Yes, I think I’ll have fun with this.
In gratitude,
Marissa :) xo
Saturday, 11 April 2015
Friday, 10 April 2015
Ain't Nothin' Captious About That!
Cavil: cavilled, cavilling
To quibble, trick; To raise captious and frivolous objections; To find fault without good reason; To oppose by finding trivial faults.
Captious: captiously, captiousness
Apt to ensnare or perplex especially in arguments; Apt to notice and make much of unimportant faults or defects
Reading the one, led to making sure I completely understood
the other … so today’s post has two C words: cavil and captious.
I like these words because I can envision them fitting in nicely
somewhere in a narrative of one of my novels or short stories. E.g., I wanted
to smack him for his captious rejoinder. Or perhaps … I was tired of him
cavilling every point I made. J
Years ago, I delegated the district school board on relocation
and boundary issues. Our community was a new one, and overpopulation at our
local schools was rampant. The planning department was using outdated models of
1.5 children per household to determine the size and location of new schools.
While that may seem like a reasonable number, in this particular community,
with basement apartments and multiple family members residing in the same
dwelling, that number was grossly under representative of the actual picture.
It was a challenging fight. I had local newspapers following
the story closely, even the big city publications had their eye on the dilemma.
I arranged for buses to bring parents to the meeting. I handed out flyers, knocked
door-to-door collecting signatures for a petition. I spoke to everyone I could
whose children were affected by these rigid, old-school practices. I went to
the city. I obtained maps, and statistical data representing both past and
projected future enrollment. I poured through figures. I worked out solutions.
I polished my speech.
When the day came for my audience with the school board, I
had four busloads of parents and their children in tow, not to mention the
families that drove to the board head office to support us, including families
from out of our immediate school zone. People scattered throughout the school
board’s territory came in droves to lend their support. We were all fighting
the same battle! We weren’t the only school whose children had been displaced
and shuffled. My son attended four different schools and was subjected to four
different boundary changes in five years of his elementary school life … and we
NEVER moved! We lived at the same address, but the schoolboard wasn’t prepared
for the influx of children and had nowhere to put them. Each change broke
friendships and undermined any semblance of continuity in our children’s lives.
Back to the big day. There I am, in front of the trustees
and superintendents with the support of hundreds of parents, the press in
solidarity at our backs, even the school administration supported our efforts. I
gave them no quarter. There was no loop hole in my arguments. There were
suggestions and alternatives. I gave my all. The crowd of parents roared to
their feet at the end of the presentation … and what did those elected
representatives and educational leaders have to say? A captious, frivolous
cavil of a response. They said, “Well, we’ve always done it this way.”
To say it was a staggering blow, is well, an understatement.
The papers called it a travesty, where elected officials didn’t even bother to rise
to the concerns of their constituents. The school board conceded on only one
point. They changed some of their wording in their policy documents, so residents,
when they looked hard enough, could read between the lines and come to the
conclusion that by moving into this area, there was an understanding that their
children were going to be relocated and moved about, consistently and constantly.
At least this way they were being transparent.
In the end, our family stuck it out another two years in
that district then moved away all together.
If someone has an objection to something I say or believe
in, I’m a pretty easy going person. If they can base their opinions on balanced,
reasonable, or well thought out responses, I will listen and respect their
point of view, they might even sway my opinion. But, if they are going to cavil
based on an outdated, ignorant view of history, or a familiar way of doing
things, so as not to rock the boat, or just because they say so, well, then we
have some work to do.
Check out this little nugget of wisdom:
Kalama Sutta: To the Kalamas
“Now, Kalamas, don’t go by reports, by legends, by
traditions, by scripture, by logical conjecture, by inference, by analogies, by
agreement through pondering views, by probability, or by the thought, ‘This
contemplative is our teacher.’ When you know for yourselves that, ‘These
qualities are skillful; these qualities are blameless; these qualities are
praised by the wise; these qualities, when adopted & carried out, lead to
welfare & to happiness’ — then you should enter & remain in them.”
What do I take away from that passage? We are meant to think
for ourselves, not to take things at face value just because someone has said
it, thought it, or written it, but rather contemplate the true meaning, the
true resonance/essence of the words, thoughts, or opinions. Then, if we look
deep within ourselves and see that when they are put into action they will lead
to happiness and wellbeing, well, then you know you have something. And there’s
nothing captious about that! J
In gratitude,
Marissa xo
Sunday, 5 April 2015
Bole - Day 2 of my Alzheimer's Prevention Plan
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Bole - The stem or trunk of a tree. |
Bole – the stem or trunk of a tree, or something cylindrical
resembling a tree’s trunk, like a pillar or roll.
The first usage of this word according to the OED was around
1314—e.g., ‘His neck is thicker than a bole.’ ‘The gnarled boles of pollard
oaks and beeches.’
When writing historical fiction it’s always a battle between authenticity and reader’s enjoyment. Avelynn is set in the year 869: a time when Old English reigned supreme—a form of our language that is unrecognizable today. If I wanted to make my book truly authentic, I’d be waist deep in obscure and obsolete words and usage that no modern reader could comprehend! The compromise then is to use today’s language to set the tone, without sounding too modern that the passages ring of anachronism—phrases or words that just sound grossly out of place, like saying ‘wowzers,’ or ‘that’s cool,’ in ninth century dialogue.
When writing historical fiction it’s always a battle between authenticity and reader’s enjoyment. Avelynn is set in the year 869: a time when Old English reigned supreme—a form of our language that is unrecognizable today. If I wanted to make my book truly authentic, I’d be waist deep in obscure and obsolete words and usage that no modern reader could comprehend! The compromise then is to use today’s language to set the tone, without sounding too modern that the passages ring of anachronism—phrases or words that just sound grossly out of place, like saying ‘wowzers,’ or ‘that’s cool,’ in ninth century dialogue.
Bole is a nice word. It has nice, deep linguistic roots, but
it’s not too obscure or odd sounding that I wouldn’t be able to slip it into
the narrative without too much trouble. It’s also part of my APP – My Alzheimer’s
Prevention Plan. Earlier, I opened my Webster’s dictionary to A and found
algid. Today, I peeked onto the pages of the letter B and happened upon bole. I’m
committing the words to memory to help grow my hippocampus. This tidy little
word will come in handy. Be sure to look for it in one of the Avelynn novels …
I’m sure I’ll find the perfect place for it. :D
In keeping with the three ‘Rs’ of writing and learning, as
outlined by my children’s elementary school teachers: retell, relate, reflect …
I’ve retold what bole is, I’ve related the word to my writing, now I’m going to
reflect on something that makes it personal to me. This, all in an effort to
make these words stick in my lagging short-term memory reserves and hopefully
help grow my brain and ward off the damaging effects of Alzheimer’s, which as of 2015 has affected 47.5 million people worldwide.
Here then is an amusing anecdote for your reading pleasure:
When I was young, my grandparents owned a few acres of property.
Picture little blonde me, running around in pigtails, playing in the dirt, barefoot.
Now, envision those apple trees. They were old, gnarled, and
beautiful. Not like the squat and compact hybrids and cultivars of today, these
thick boled giants were strong and sturdy, like protective, gentle matrons. Which
leads me to my favourite past time—climbing the apple trees.
When I was young, my grandparents owned a few acres of property.
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My Grandparent's property |
They didn’t have a ‘farm,’ per se, but my grandfather turned
one of those acres into a large vegetable garden, which supplied a good portion
of his culinary needs, as well as those of his friends and family who were
lucky enough to get some of his surplus harvest. My grandparents also had several
varieties of apple and pear trees, which garnered lots of delicious fruit for
pies and tarts and just plain eating! I loved going to my grandparents. In
fact, I was there most weekends of my youth.
Picture little blonde me, running around in pigtails, playing in the dirt, barefoot.
![]() |
Little blonde me |
Solid and wide, the branches were twice my width and easily
supported my tiny frame. I climbed them all. Admittedly, some were more
challenging than others, but I didn’t give up, persevering until I could shimmy
up each and every rough-barked bole and rest safely in the curve of a forked bough.
I was a tomboy, in case you couldn’t tell. :D But of all the trees on the farm,
there was one I held dear to my heart. Its boughs held me, supported me,
cradled me, but it also provided a fantastic opportunity for make believe.
Tucked away safely in the nook between two hefty branches, my
feet dangling on either side of the trunk, I would don my construction hat and
become a foreman, the tree my excavator. The little shoots that emerged from
knots and crannies in the bark were my levers and gears.
I would pull and push, lifting the great shovel up and down,
while a tug or jerk on a separate shoot swung the gaping mouth from side to
side. The amusing part of all this was, it was never a dig site, I was there to
demolish stuff! I would raise the big arm, crash the claws down into the roof
of an imaginary building and watch it chomp and tear away at the structure,
swing after swing, blow after blow, until finally the building would collapse
in a great puff of dust and smoke. It was a beautiful sight!
But alas, all good things must come to an end, and the horn
blast would echo five o’clock throughout the construction site. I would
congratulate the workers on a job well done, put my big rig into park, remove
the keys, set my helmet on the seat, and climb down. It was then a quick
scamper into the old farm house and a sprightly jump up on to the bathroom counter.
With my toes wiggling in the warm sink water, my grandmother would scrub the
dirt away until the brown water trickling down the drain turned clear. After
all, every barefoot construction worker must wash their hands and feet for
dinner. :D
In gratitude,
Marissa xo
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