Elocutionary Practices

"I'm off to work, love. See you this evening."

I set my book down and stood up to kiss Nate. "Fare the well, beloved. I pray you return to me, hale and hearty."

He pulled me into his embrace, frown evident in his clear blue eyes. Then he said, "You're still reading Lymond, aren't you?"

"I fear I am. Alas, 'tis a fleeting venture, for I am on the last book of the series." I sighed with every fiber of my being.

"I see. And can I expect you to speak like this until you finish the book?"

Pursing my lips, I pondered the question. "'Tis nigh possible that I may follow these elocutionary practices to the end, yes."

Nate dropped a kiss on said pursèd lips. "What are you going to do when you run out of book?"

"Plague me not with such vile questions!" I pressed my arm to my brow. "To contemplate thus pains me."

"Oh love." Shaking his head, he grinned.

"Thou art fair fortunate that I choose not to speak in medieval French," I pointed out.

He squeezed me. "I am fair fortunate, aren't I?"

Playing Hooky

I don't feel like working this afternoon. It's unseasonably beautiful out—bright and vivid and warm. You'd have to be insane to stay in and flog yourself at your keyboard.

If I still had a real job, I'd convince my coworkers to take an extended lunch hour, which, in actuality, would be two or three hours long. We'd eat something decadent like strawberry French toast with chocolate sauce and whipped cream and then work off our sugar rushes in a rousing match of bumper cars.

Sometimes I miss those days. Now I have a boss who's a tight-ass and always pushes me to do more work.

But my boss and I are compromising. I'm going to finish this post and then it's Lymond, a glass of wine, and sunbathing in the backyard for me. Followed by a nap. And maybe some ice cream. Because some days you just have to indulge, you know?

Vagaries of a Fickle Industry

I recently commented on a colleague's blog about how much I loved Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond series. I got so excited thinking about it I pulled out the first book, The Game of Kings, from my library. I read the first lines and fell in love with the book all over again.

"Lymond is back."

It was known soon after the Sea-Catte reached Scotland from Campvere with an illicit cargo and a man she should not have carried.

"Lymond is in Scotland."

So I deprived myself of sleep and reread the book this weekend. Lymond is one of the best characters ever—a seductive, drunken rogue who's not quite on the right side of the law. Although he's nothing like George MacDonald Fraser's Flashman because there's actually method to Lymond's madness. Anyway, I love this book.

However, it's not easy to read, especially in the beginning. Dunnett incorporates Latin, Middle English, Old French, Spanish, and Gaelic into the dialogue with no translations. I'm multilingual and studied Old French in college so I revel in the wordplay; I imagine it's confusing for most people.

Also, Dunnett writes in an omniscient voice. I usually hate omniscient stories but it works for her. Mostly. All in all, reading her work is like reading Shakespeare—you have to learn the rhythm of the writing and then you get lost in its beauty. And, gosh darn, the characters are good—the kind of good that gives you shivers thinking about them even after you've set the book down.

But, as wonderful as the book is, I doubt The Game of Kings would be published today. It just doesn't fit into the commercial market like it did forty-five years ago. Maybe there'd be an editor out there who'd recognize its genius, but it'd be a hard sell.

Sad, isn't it? It makes you wonder what great piece of writing isn't getting published.

Man Chili

"Love."

I looked up at Nate from the book I was reading. "Yes?"

"Dave and Monica are having a chili cook-off at their house for Super Bowl Sunday and I was thinking of making man chili."

"You were thinking of making man chili, or you were thinking I could make man chili for you?" I asked. I understand how things work. I am, if nothing, a realist.

"No." Nate's eyes radiated earnestness. "I'll make the chili if you tell me how. I'll even go grocery shopping."

I gasped in amazement. If he was willing to go grocery shopping--which normally rates just under having a tooth pulled on his list of favorite things to do--then he was dead serious about this chili endeavor. "Sure, I'll tell you how to make it."

He smiled. "Great."

An hour later when he got back from his shopping trip, I joined him in the kitchen. I looked at what he bought as he pulled everything out of the bags and set them on the table.

Frown. I picked up a can of beans. "These are cannellini beans, not kidney."

"I know." He grinned with excitement. "I thought I'd use white beans instead."

"And these are Italian tomatoes." I held up another can.

"So?"

"It has basil in it."

"Hmm." He studied the can. "Oh well. A little basil can't hurt."

I bit my lip. Then I asked, "Shouldn't you preheat the oven? Because you need to sear the ribs first—"

"Love." Nate leaned down and kissed my forehead. "You know how you give your critique partners suggestions about their work but aren't attached to them using your comments?"

"Yeah?"

"And how you don't tell them how to write their books?"

"Yeah?"

"Well this is another one of those moments where you need to let go and let the other person do his thing."

"Oh." I glanced at the groceries on the table. "Are you sure? Because I could—"

He kissed me again, which always effectively distracts me. "Why don't you go read?"

"Okay." I worried my lip a little more, but I refrained from saying anything. Instead, I went to the living room, picked up my book, and settled on the couch. After a little while, I even stopped being on alert for curses or the occasional crash. My body relaxed and I enjoyed the yummy aromas from the kitchen.

And you know what? Nate's man chili, though very different from mine, turned out just perfectly.