On that note, my introspective and thoughtful writing word vomit today came from a moment of random spying: while peering out the window during a momentary break from work, I saw crushed ice on the sidewalk. It was an unassuming and disorganized pile, and likely broken into unceremonious jigsaw pieces while myself and others walked to-and-fro from the front door to mailbox.

Still, I found myself thinking of all the times I’ve crushed winter ice beneath my feet, walking to-and-fro to places. Walking outside during the bitter winter cold is not always a pleasant adventure, but it opens up a world of chapped lips, homemade knitted scarves and vulnerability. I am one of many who cannot stand winter cold for but a second, but I once braved the ice in heels for fifteen minutes of frigid wedding pictures. I am eternally grateful for my groomsman, who held me fast while I navigated treacherous and uneven ground with heels that measured three inches.

Yes, I am a wimp in heels. Please hand me tennis shoes on my own wedding day, and the bride will happily grin.

Journeys for shopping, attending class, heading to work or playing with friends have previously placed me outdoors in the crunchy ice and snow. I look outside my window and am reminded of how dependent I am on my protective things: my house, with a roof and furnace for heat; my clothing, mismatched due to laundry day but nevertheless warm; my fleece blanket, now pitifully worn with tiny balls of lint neatly spaced over its soft surface; and even my cat, my dedicated lap companion of thirteen years.

If only he were less grumpy these days, and less prone to laying on my left arm whilst it types. If only I could blame my frequent grammar trespasses on him.

An introspective word vomit today, born from a moment of staring at crushed winter ice. If I wrote a similar thing in summer, I am not sure what words would spout from my wayward fingers. Still, I welcome these thoughts and moments of word fancy, despite the precious time it diverts me from work to be done.

Speaking of…

The ice photograph is courtesy of user audreyjm529 of Flickr.

Why circle or square wheels? Some stress is quick-to-hit, while other stresses are slow, plodding marches to doomsday.  A quick circle versus the clunk, clunk, clunking of the slow-but-steady square. The image is amusing, but the square stress cart eventually reaches its destination.

Both can end in the same result: threshold reached… ka-boom.

So are you a ninety degree stress threshold bearer, forty-five, twenty-two-point-five, or perhaps only nine? Does it vary? What happens then as the stress cart reaches the top? And the ultimate question: how does stress reflect in your writing?

My stress pitfalls, as reflected in my writing…

Word replacement. Typing fast is a useful ability in many accounts, but it is a bane if your WPM  speeds along by the cracking of stress’s merciless whip. For me, words that are similar phonetically or grammatically but otherwise bear no semblance to one another end up interchanging like the Prince and the Pauper, but with less whimsy.

Example: While the Wright Brothers are often credited as the first men to successfully pilot a controlled winged aircraft in the year 1903, some students of history forget that manned flight had always existed in the form of the hot air balloon, invented centuries before.

The word replacement is there, perhaps tiny, but there.

Always, but not quite. The intended word was already, and makes more sense in the context of the sentence: the hot air balloon had already existed, not always… much like the Wright brother’s plane, the hot air balloon is not eternal, as always implies – its invention has a start date!

Oops. And these word replacements can sometimes sneak by the editing eye on second or even third review. Stress editing is stress replacement’s brother culprit.

I have made this word replacement mistake many times, and with the following co-conspirators: now/not, know/known, server/serve, always/already, occasionally forgoing the word “the” altogether, and many others.

All of these stress replacements are met with the following reaction: where did that come from, and what was I thinking?

Threshold reached… ka-boom.

I write to you directly for the first time, despite using you for a number of years. However, my use can best be described as rampant misuse, and spectacular misuse at that. Today, I will atone to all my wrongs, this I promise you.

Actually, may I call you English? I feel as if we know each other. After all, we have been fraternizing for a while. In fact, both of us have names that begin in capital letters – we’re both proper nouns! English, we’re bonding already.

So I come to you now, my good friend English, perhaps not quite on my knees, for I’m unsure whether you are tall enough for me to do so. I would grovel too, but in truth I am quite angry, and perhaps that will make this a terrible apology. I’m certainly not trying to be terrible – quite the opposite, in truth!

But English, I’m at an impasse:  I try, I so very try. But English, I do not know what you want. What do you want from me?

If your message was clearer, I could happily comply. Perhaps that is the source of my frustration, our frustration: English, you and me simply don’t communicate. So let’s communicate, be open and be honest. Let’s bare those scars and begin healing together Please, English.

Here goes.

English, I’m sorry for…

…the following mispronunciations I committed for many years:

Malady, bosom, pronunciation, brooch, Pacific, specific, Pittsburgh, Des Moines, Raleigh, Mississippi, definitely, machine, judicial, schedule, recycle, macabre, reconciliation, listening, responsibility, narrative, Carnegie, and many others.

I also apologize for listing words above that were not originally English, but English speakers are required to know regardless. English – you’re a beautiful jewel, why not shine and borrow less from others? Haven’t we borrowed enough already?

Whoops, a little of that frustration came through. I’ll try to keep that in check, English. Promise.

…the following innovation to your alphabet I added as child:

A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P…
Q, R, S, PEE-YOU-PEW! W, X, Y and Beee…!

In my defense, English, my addition still made  a catchy song, perhaps even more so. I think I will delight in hearing the accidental additions of my own children… oop! I mean, this is an apology. English, sorry for doing the alphabet thing. It wasn’t funny. Wasn’t funny at all.

…the following word abuses:

Prefixes - noninteresting, misbelief, uncorrect, ununderstandable, inconstructive, inbelievable, misusage, undescribable

Verbs -  goed (went), seed (saw), hitted (hit), swum (swam), broked (broke), runned (ran)

Plural - deers, sheeps, fishes, mooses, meeses, mouses

Miscellaneous -

never understanding when to invoke or evoke,

attain/obtain,

writing “business” instead of busyness,

a/an,

affect/effect,

their/they’re/there,

it’s/its,

subject verb agreement in general, really

alot,

alright,

gratuitous portions of “like,” and “you know” and “you know what I mean,”

and many others.

Really English, “goed” makes much sense. When a little girl conjugates “to go” all by herself, it’s a marvel of language learning to see her independently jump the gap between present and past tense. Why then, must we correct her and tell her that though her idea was astute, it was incorrect, because the past tense of “to go” is “went?”

Urk, wait! This is an apology. I’m sorry again, English. I’m sure the little girl will get over it – get used to it, even. Thick skin and all… ahem. To continue:

…the following misspelling atrocities, some recent:

misspell, accommodation, rhythm, embarrassing, knight, museum, voluntary, restaurant, Pennsylvania, refrigerator, license, exaggeration, foreign, argument.

…demonstrating exactly how I misspelled these words:

mispell,

accomidation,

rythim,

embarising,

night/nite,

musuem,

volintary,

resterant,

Pennslyvania/Pennslyveinea,

refridgerator,

lisence,

exsaggeration,

foriegn,

arguement,

and many others.

I’m pretty certain that all these misspellings make sense in one form of another. If you were spelled a bit more phonetically, English… um, I did it again. Shutting up.

…making fun of all your homophones.

What are homophones?

bear/bare

their/there

scale/scale

rose/rose

we’re/were

board/bored

and so many others.

But English, there is just no way I can properly remember their spelling and meaning without a mistake now-and-then! And sometimes, the differences seem so silly… no, wait. Apology time, shutting up. Sorry again, English.

In conclusion…

It’s just so barely bearable to lay bare all the embarrassment and frustration over the years without that twinge. I must ask: are you embarrassed, too? Embarrassed that you are so difficult to master, or that those who attempt to master you come so short in such silly things?

Perhaps it’s a matter of pride. English, do not be prideful. Come to our parties, grace our presence. We’ll memorize your odd spelling, irregular verbs, homophones and other confusing nuances together. We’ll have such a good time, and we’ve managed to have good times over the years despite an argument now-and-then. I think you and I have a future. Don’t you?

English, you are difficult, you at times make my life difficult, but I forgive you. English, will you forgive me?

Forever with Love, and Always Yours,

- Mitzi

Oh, if only.

But to share my embarrassing realizations over the years, a slew of words commonly mispelled, by both me, dedicated word smiths or casual users alike:

definitely - often spell definately. I was guilty of this transgression until sixteen years of age, when spell check flagged this misnomer until my misuse finally clicked in my brain. The culprit? Attempting to spell phonetically, which is the most common yet most unforgivable part of writing the English language.

foreseen – also known as forseen. The e is not necessary in the word for, and it is pronounced in the same way regardless of its presence. In other languages, such a spelling would sound out as so: “for – eh – seen.”

pronunciation - often spelled as pronounciation. I am terribly guilty of this, and am attempting to drop this grammatical faux pas much like an addictive habit. I will personally blame variations such as pronounce for this common mistake, as well as the natural attempt for us English speakers to phonetically type out compound words.

publicly – or the incorrect variation, publically. Oh, how I’ve transgressed so. Another phonetic spelling, and the frequency of my phonetic typing attempts lead me to wonder how brother and sister writers in other regions spell things in embarrassingly incorrect manners.

a lot - more of a phrase than a word, this is more of a peeve on my part than personal mistake – alot. I was absolutely guilty of this grammatical crime until twelve, and perhaps it is the deep, embedded embarrassment as well as occupation as an English instructor that immediately throws me into a frenzied fit when this word crosses my path. A phrase, not a word! A plague upon you!

all right - the war wages between casual use versus formal use, the informal version is alright. I was once vehemently struck down by academia for using this word in fiction, and now I meekly approach alright like a naughty child expecting a spanking. Is the informal version warmly adopted enough into our lexicon that my painful memory can be erased, or will the pain strike again the next time I dare? It is operant conditioning gone wrong, and now I expect an electrical shock at any point in time. And yet, “altogether” is acceptable… no, no! Don’t rationalize, just go with it!

The above is just a smidgen of lessons and observations, there are many more mispelled words and bastardized phrases in the English language to share. Perhaps I will return again and lament another personal grammatical mistake on my part, and perhaps in the future I will eventually script a lengthy letter of apology and send it off to the void:

English, I’m sorry. You’re a difficult language, and try as I can, I cannot understand you, despite how much  I try, try, try.

January 25, 2011 edit: I do not possess the same satirical wit of as writers past, and cannot claim innocence. Mispell is also misspelled, and it is added to my list of gratuitous spelling crimes.

Year twenty-four, dear diary: the English language ever eludes me, but I can’t tell who or what is more silly – me, or the words with spelling that forever confuses. I’ll leave this page open and blank, because if today is any indication, I will add to this list for the rest of my lifetime.

I better start scripting that lengthy apology letter.

Novelit #1 -

Young Miriam was a bobbing head of hair, so dark in color that its sheen was a glossy oil slick, and so thick that every time her mother brushed it, it became an adventure in discovering the whereabouts of her daughter’s scalp. A brush snagged early in the attack, and combs hopelessly tangled to the point of requiring the expertise of scissors to reclaim status quo. But to Miriam, talks of thick and busy-haired appearances never penetrated her dreamy demeanor, it instead was a whimsy lifestyle of lengthy, excited narratives about princesses, narrow escapes and fantastical creatures made of the combined limbs of  lizards, birds, caterpillars and cat. So enamored she was by her own creations that Miriam’s mother began to wonder where, aside from the limited palette of animals Miriam could spy from her backyard, her daughter managed to obtain it all.

Word count: 143 / Sentences: 4

An excerpt and moment of characterization from Waldon Troupe, work-in-progress. The first notch of the Novelit Project is complete, now time for a moment of contemplation and planning to follow.

What then is the purpose of the night to the creative mind? If it robs of sleep, it robs of valuable hours in the day. Less hours to rush, compete and otherwise thrive in a society where every moment counts. But even under such a threat, the late night dips into a creative tradition, where playwrights, poets, authors and other wordsmiths burn the candle wick and pen words through midnight. It’s not quite a séance, but it’s the closest commune with writers past that a passing amateur can receive.

Tomorrow, another possibility of snow.

This blog will become a bit of a literary journal, I’m a writer and can best be described as both amateur and obsessed. I am afflicted with a terrible writer’s malady called perpetual word vomit – while traveling, talking, working or otherwise occupied, my mind will suddenly cough up an unstoppable slew of word vomit, with subjects that range from a sudden fictional narrative to social commentary. I’ve taken steps to control these word spews by carrying journals on my personal at all times, but I still find myself without enough venues to collect the splatter. Therefore, I’m charging this space with damage control: this blog will be yet another place to re-arrange the word splatter so that its contents make sense, and do not upset the mental stomachs of others. The upsets in particular that worry me with word vomits is the general making of sense, grammar and having a longterm goal in mind. At the very least, my tiniest long term goal is the goal of practice makes better, so practice, damn it, practice.

There you have it. My first word vomit of the year put to digital paper, which initially came to me as I walked my graduate campus and desperately lamented the lack of a pencil and pen while my brain silently vomited away. I’m certain that this disease is not particular to myself, so if at any moment someone crosses paths with this minuscule, unadvertised post on the web, and have also inexplicably thrown up a littany of words without permission or place to record, share. Let me see your word vomit, and I promise that I’ll share the best and worst of mine.

London is odd – a week ago, we experienced a horrid heat wave, which was admittedly mundane by most US standards, but then I was reminded that one of the reasons that Americans can withstand humid temperatures is simply because we have a wonderful commodity: an overwhelming presence of air conditioning.

London, a city of so many firsts, does not have this luxury in most places. The underground Tube was too hot to legally transport cattle, let alone commuting London office workers wearing full suits and touting brief cases.

But the “normal” London weather is frustratingly playful. One moment, the sun will beat down upon you with a heated hammer; the next, the chill wind will feel like pin pricks up and down your arms. It’s a conundrum, and only solvable by wearing layers that can peal away and come along for the read.

Hot, cold, hot, then cold. It’s ever-changing, and with an occasional heat wave inbetween. Three days ago, Londoner feet waded through flooded streets. God bless those that have lived here for lifetimes, Mother Nature apparently enjoys performing whatever show she pleases.

He sits in the same place, usually the same position, with a gray-muzzled dog laying by his feet. The man’s back is to the curb and his attention stays wistfully upon the front automatic door. Although his hair is greasy and his beard unkempt, he always has the most pleasant face. I don’t know his name, but in my mind I think of him as the Tesco Man – uncreatively named after his grocery store.

Tesco Man doesn’t seem to speak much unless spoken to. Other passers by approach him with seemingly no trouble, and Tesco Man’s dog is more than happy to receive a friendly pat or preferably a scratch behind the ears. On sunny days, the dog will sit with a recognizable doggy smile – on rainy days, the dog will huddle close to its master, and miserably eye passing feet. I don’t know the dog’s name, either. Its coat is dark and fairly sleek, but its muzzle is peppered with signs of age. Much like the beard of its master. In my mind, I call the dog simply “Mutt.”

Mutt and Tesco. I’m not sure what to make of them. On some days, exiting shoppers will quietly lay plastic bags with spare items at their feet. A friend of mine once wordlessly donated a few pences worth of dog food. I’ve thought of doing the same, but mostly as a way to start conversation with Tesco Man – who is he? What does he do? Where is he all day, when not keeping quiet vigil of the grocery store? Where does he live, sleep? What is his name?

I look at Tesco Man and silently remember my own blessings. Anyone can complain of personal trauma or financial instability – but I haven’t seen those complaints yet in Tesco Man. Even Mutt on its most miserable days seems to take it all in stride.

Perhaps someday soon I’ll spare a few items to Tesco Man, just to see whether I can set a few moments of his advice or wisdom aside.

Luckily, my visit has so far completely lacked the latter. Instead, following at the heels of the recent UK heatwave, the London rain has soaked into the city’s routine once again.

It began with on-and-off rain throughout the day. Then without warning, a downpour began at about four-thirty. Judging by the sudden appearance of umbrellas walking about the exiting work crowd, no one seem to mind or even be surprised.

But then the rain fell thicker and harder, and froze into bouncing hail on the sidewalks. The herds of office workers and their umbrellas vanished from the streets. Bus and cab wheels churned through inches-deep water, looking very awkward and somewhat amphibious. Tiny waves started creeping over curbs and across sidewalks – it was as if Mother Nature planned to turn London asphalt into Italy canals.

At first, it was fun to watch the thick rain arrive in windy waves up and down the street. It was even fun to watch it turn to dancing hail. But when water crept to the lobby door, the situation grew a little less comical. The question that came to mind was, how are we all getting home?

The moment the rain let up, throngs of umbrellas surged into the streets. But while we all waded towards Victoria station, we were greeted by a most unwelcome sight – sirens, alarms and flashing lights. “EMERGENCY: DO NOT ENTER” signs were lit above the entrances, and like a strange, slow-moving stampede, Tube and train-goers were evacuating the station.

Bright yellow-vested staffers guided the crowd around a growing river, formerly known as a walkway – London talk for sidewalk. Stranded office workers and train passengers alike searched for high ground – which is hardly as dramatic as it sounds, since “high ground” was only a difference of a few vertical inches. But the driest grounds ran out quickly as they swelled with numbers. Some simply gave up staying dry and simply snagged their shoes off their feet and pattered about in the walkway river.

Cellphones appeared. Office executives both male and female, students of all ages and even some of the elderly began chatting or texting into their mobiles. Some asked friends or family at home for weather updates, others chatted nervously as they eyed the DO NOT ENTER signs. It was the anniversary of 07/07, or the day suicide bombers blew apart the buses above and Tube below of the London transit system. Perhaps 07/07 was more fresh in their minds due to the unveiling of a memorial for the victims, opened just that day.

But this 07/07 was simply wet and soggy – Mother Nature having fun, cutting back and letting loose after the heat wave the week before. So while some commuters chose to hang about Victoria station in hopes that services would resume soon, others simply left. Barefoot commuters trudged through the streets, while others stubbornly kept their shoes on as if they simply didn’t care.

Near Buckingham, finely dressed couples hopped over puddles as they entered the streets. Couples young and old eyed the skies and some laughed. Meanwhile, Buckingham horses hung their heads low, and accepted the occasional pat on the head by sympathetic passers by.

The next afternoon, free newspapers claimed that a “month’s worth” of rain fell in only two hours – or approximately 1.3 inches. Perhaps only a meteorologist can confirm whether that’s true.

The only assured thing is that I walked two hours through flooded streets and walkways to arrive home with mud still squished between my toes.