Farrago: A confused group; a medley, mixture, hotchpotch.
The OED dates common usage about 1637. Old enough for me to include in my Avelynn novels, which are a farrago of different story elements.
An author takes a farrago of plot, characterization, setting, and theme, mixes them all together, waves a magic wand, and viola, they have a novel! I am often fascinated with the āmethodā of writing a good story. There are a lot of books on the subject, and in truth, I have just bought four more. However, in saying that, Iām terrible at figuring that āmethodā out. I write intuitively, which is a fancy way of saying, I have no clue what Iām doing as I do it. As I write out the farrago of ideas rampaging around in my head, they weave their magical way into scenes and chapters complete with tension in the right places, pacing that ramps up to a climax, and character motivation that drives the action ā¦ all without knowing how Iām doing it. The story just comes out that way.
This is all fine and dandy in a first draft but quickly becomes a problem when it comes time to edit and I realize something somewhere is off. Without a guide or a detailed treasure map outlining the elements of story and how and where to use them, during the editing process, Iām not always able to figure out what the issue is that just isnāt working. Itās like an Easter egg hunt in a mansion. They could be anywhere!
This is where wonderful people called beta readers come in. These hardy souls are a farrago of readers from all walks of lifeāfriends, editors, agents, friends, people you beg and cajole off the streetāwho critique your manuscript. You hand them your words, and they return with feedback that will help you zero in on those mistakes, those rapid misfires, those āwhat the hell was I thinkingā passages. They help turn a farrago of words, phrases, sentences, and paragraphs into something someone somewhere might actually enjoy reading one day.
Writing is a process, but I love what I do, and I love the people who support me every step of the way in this wild processā¦ including you dear readerā¦ whoever you areā¦ reading these wordsā¦ right hereā¦ right now. I do this crazy gig because of you. Thanks for being here.Ā š
The Latest Word is: Embrangle: To entangle, confuse, perplex.
The Oxford English Dictionary has embrangle coming into common usage in the 1600s but its etymology dates back to the early 1500s with brangle, which, Iāve decided, is a cool word all on its own and may have to write a post on it, tooāwhen we come back around to B. š
Hereās how we use it:
They were embrangled in the nets.
I am embrangled and torn between conflicting difficulties.
I like this word. So similar to the physical act of entanglement but with the added definition of a mental struggle. This is a word that even upon first glance, the reader should be able to determine its meaning based on its use in the sentence, even if theyād never happened upon the word before in their life (which I hadnāt until I read the entry).
Characters are often embrangled within their plot lines, and as an author, I am often embrangled in the plot itself. I have a rough outline, but as I write the story, it fleshes itself out and twists and turns and takesĀ new and unexpected forks in the roadāsome of which are entirely pointless and must be deleted. And far too often, half way through the story, in the murky, messy middle, all the plot holes and character motivational misfires start to rear their ugly heads. This is because I am a pantserāsomeone who basically flies by the seat of their pants when writingāas opposed to a plotter who meticulously plots out every scene, every arc, every development BEFORE they add a single word to the story. There is something to be said about plotting, and Iām going to try and write my next book with this approach because I am convinced, after Avelynn #2, that pantsing is NOT an efficient way to write a book!
In the murky, messy, pantser middle, I am often embrangled. Big time. The second book in the Avelynn series was very difficult to fix. I wrote 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo (a monthly writing challenge that takes place every November whereby we write 50,000 words in 30 days) most of which steered me off coarse and embrangled me in plot snares and character black holes that were almost impossible to recover from. The novel followed so many divergent threads, that I got to the point where I wasnāt sure what the premise was, or even what the main point was anymore!
With characters, to embrangle them in messy plot choices and make them clamber out of the carnage is what makes a story great. We canāt have characters riding along on sunshine and roses, we have to make the struggle, we need to throw story curves and plot bombs in their path and make them dodge or take a hit and recover. Thatās whatās so fun about writing books. Creating conflict and fascinating surprises and developments that seem to come out of the blue, or that have been building for chapters and acts. To embrangle is to drive the story forward, and thereās a satisfying almost sadistic glee to the whole thing. ;D
I’ve finished the first draft of Avelynn #2 and am currently working on fixing up the wayward threads as I work my way through myĀ round of edits. Hopefully, the embranglement from this point forward will be limited to what Iāve created for my characters and the rest of the edits flow smoothly. Cross your fingers for me. š
In my debut historical fiction, AVELYNN, we learn about a terrible Viking attack on East Anglia and the vicious killing of king Edmund. Here’s an excerpt:
Aelfgar cleared his throat and spoke louder. āOur king was seized from his hall and dragged behind the paganās horse to the forestās edge. He was tied to a tree, stripped, beaten, and whipped until his back was flayed open.ā
Whispers of outrage quivered through the room.
āIvar then brought forth his best archers. He told them to make their mark anywher…e as long as they did not inflict a fatal wound. Our goodly king was entirely covered with arrows, like the bristles of a hedgehog, yet he still lived.ā
It would appear the good Martyr Edmund hadn’t quite forgiven the Vikings for his death if #3 Sweyn Forkbeard is any indication. š
Have a peek at the Medievalists’ list of the shortest reigns of the middle ages.
Bole ā the stem or trunk of a tree, or something cylindrical resembling a treeās trunk, like a pillar or roll.
The first usage of this word according to the OED was around 1314āe.g., āHis neck is thicker than a bole.ā āThe gnarled boles of pollard oaks and beeches.ā
When writing historical fiction itās always a battle between authenticity and readerās enjoyment. Avelynn is set in the year 869: a time when Old English reigned supremeāa form of our language that is unrecognizable today. If I wanted to make my book truly authentic, Iād be waist deep in obscure and obsolete words and usage that no modern reader could comprehend! The compromise then is to use todayās language to set the tone, without sounding too modern that the passages ring of anachronismāphrases or words that just sound grossly out of place, like saying āwowzers,ā or āthatās cool,ā in ninth century dialogue.
Bole is a nice word. It has nice, deep linguistic roots, but itās not too obscure or odd sounding that I wouldnāt be able to slip it into the narrative without too much trouble. Itās also part of my APP ā My Alzheimerās Prevention Plan. Earlier, I opened my Websterās dictionary to A and found algid. Today, I peeked onto the pages of the letter B and happened upon bole. Iām 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 ā¦ Iām sure Iāll find the perfect place for it. š
In keeping with the three āRsā of writing and learning, as outlined by my childrenās elementary school teachers: retell, relate, reflect ā¦ Iāve retold what bole is, Iāve related the word to my writing, now Iām 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 Alzheimerās, 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.
They didnāt have a āfarm,ā 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.
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 timeāclimbing the apple trees.
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 didnāt 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 couldnāt tell. š 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 oāclock 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. š
