I Love Words

I love words. Wordplay, puns, new words. Most words. So I was thrilled to see this in a recent Sunday Times magazine colour supplement.

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“Pick a word, any word and redefine it.” It’s almost enough to make me join Twitter.

And the boo suffix reminds me of my all time favourite made up word. It was invented (to my knowledge) in 1989 thereabouts when I was a first year law student on a double date that involved potluck dinner and a game of Balderdash. (I know, what a rebel.) I can’t remember the specific definition but the bluff was that crackaboo was akin to  plumber’s crack, or, as we call it in the UK, builder’s bum.  Peek a boo!

What’s your favourite word, made up or otherwise?

Moreish

Today Missy (not Misty) had a friend over and they made Easter cookies with Nigella’s cut out cookie recipe. I made them four Easter coloured icings – robin’s egg blue, mauve, yellow and pink. Many of the cookies were eaten before they were iced. Collateral damage.

As they munched their work, Missy’s friend said: These are really moreish.

Is that a real word?

Mmm-hmm.

Mum, is more-ish a real word?

I don’t know.  I know what it means, but I don’t know if it’s a real word.

So I checked the dictionary:

Moreish: So pleasant to eat that one wants more.

Huh.

What’s surprising you today?

 

 

 

Please May I Have Permission ?

 

Marching right along  with the whack a mole/didn’t you use to have a funny blog clamour in my head, is a quieter, but no less insistent noise. It relates to a comment I made over at Averil‘s last fall. Averil asked:

Do you ever find yourself waiting for permission?

I replied:

Yes, but am not sure from whom.

Even as I typed that comment, I knew it wasn’t accurate. It’s niggled away at me ever since; I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m waiting for permission from myself. And  the likely  reason I haven’t given myself permission to finish the fucker is fear.

Fear of Failure.

Today I saw this parable from Pema Chodrun:

HOW TO DEFEAT FEAR

Once there was a young warrior. Her teacher told her that she had to do battle with fear. She didn’t want to do that. It seemed too aggressive; it was scary; it seemed unfriendly. But the teacher said she had to do it and gave instructions for the battle.

The day arrived. The student warrior stood on one side, and fear stood on the other. The warrior was feeling very small, and fear was looking big and wrathful. The young warrior roused herself and went toward fear, prostrated three times, and asked, “May I have permission to go into battle with you?”

Fear said, “Thank you for showing me so much respect that you ask permission.”

Then the young warrior said, “How can I defeat you?”

Fear replied, “My weapons are that I talk fast, and I get very close to your face. Then you get completely unnerved, and you do whatever I say. If you don’t do what I tell you, I have no power. You can listen to me, and you can have respect for me. You can even be convinced by me. But if you don’t do what I say, I have no power.”

In that way, the student warrior learned how to defeat fear.

Fuck off Fear.

 

Author Awful

Last week I went to a session of Forest Fit – boot camp in the forest. Stop laughing, because I wasn’t. It hurt. A lot. My only consolation as I struggled through sit-ups, push-ups and other inhumane treatment was that the other woman attending was as unfit as me, if not more. She was also at least a decade older than me and had a raspy voice that suggested years of hardcore smoking and drinking. She had brought her working lab, Flossie, along to the session and as we walked back to the parking lot car park, Flossie did a big poo in the middle of the path. I waited for this woman to poo pick but it didn’t happen.  She dipsy doodled around the doodoo  and kept going.

I was outraged but, being an overly polite Canadian, I said nothing. I wrote the woman off as nasty and uncouth and hoped she wouldn’t be in any future sessions I might attend.

Yesterday I heard  through the grapevine that this woman is a published children’s author and I found myself thinking, “How could an author do something like that?”

Which is crazy, right?

Do you hold authors to a higher standard?