Deb Vanasse's Blog: Book Birthday!, page 17

Love and Marriage: the Marguerite Saftig Laimee complication

Marguerite Saftig Laimee, third wife of George Carmack. Courtesy Yukon Archives.


In Wealth Woman: Kate Carmack and the Last Great Race for Gold, there’s a chapter called “A Troublesome Question” in which the common thread is the shifting of alliances as a means of managing change. The action unfolds from the perspective of three Indians: Lunaat, the Tlingit chief who’s losing control of the Chilkoot Trail; Bob, a young Northern Tutchone on a death march to deliver news of the Fortymile gold strike; and Kitty, niece of Shaaw Tlaa (Kate) and first wife of George Carmack.
Of all alliances, marriage is among the most fascinating, and it doesn’t get much more fascinating than George Carmack’s three marriages, not only on a personal level, but because of the broader sociological entanglements each represents.
There’s much to discuss. Here, let’s stick to a simple complicating factor, in the person of one Marguerite Saftig Laimee Carmack, aka (to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police) Biddy McCarthy. In this particular chapter, she gets only a passing mention. I’ll have a lot more to say about her once she becomes George Carmack’s third wife.
What compelled Carmack to take an Indian bride? What were proportions of love, convenience, and strategic alliance were involved? To what extent did he care about Kitty, or later, about Kate? I wanted to reach deeply into the emotions of these alliances without resorting to speculation.
Marguerite, on the other hand, would just as soon have forgotten about her husband’s previous marriages. Read his memoirs, none written in his own hand, and you’d think she was his one and only. I had to comb other primary sources to verify that he first married Kitty, and to create a sense of what that meant to his bride. Here, an excerpt that begins with George Carmack staying behind with the Indians while his fellow prospectors leave the region for the winter:
Instructed by [Johnny] Healy, Carmack needed little persuading. The others went on, but he stayed with [Skookum] Jim on the shores of Lake Bennett, where Kitty and her family had come recently from their summer fish camp. As the caribou trampled by thousands through the narrow valley at the foot of the lake, she and Carmack were married, the Indian way.
There would be among prospectors and Yukon Indians many such marriages. As with all matters of love and allegiance, the motives and circumstances were many, but there was this overarching pattern: after mucking around for a few years in the North, a man would grow attached to a place and a lifestyle and the prospect of fortune just around the next bend in the river. But he would also tire of the company of men, and the longing for female companionship would become too strong to ignore. A white woman was out of the question. During the earliest years of prospecting on the Yukon, there simply were none.
Having come in along the northern route used by Hudson Bay traders, [Arthur] Harper, [Jack] McQuesten, and [Alfred ]Mayo all married Indian women in the summer of 1874, roughly three years after arriving in the North. Their wives were Koyukon Athabascans from the lower Yukon, nearly a thousand river miles from the Tlingit and Tagish. Theirs was a region already penetrated by Russians, some of whom had intermarried long before. While prospecting new territory, Harper, McQuesten, and Mayo might leave their wives in their villages for a year or two at a stretch, but for the most part the women lived with their husbands at the various trading posts they established up and down the Yukon, raising their children much as they had been raised, a hybrid lifestyle, part Indian and part white.
How did love factor into these matches? Undoubtedly there was an attraction, at least on the part of the husband. J. Bernard Moore, who with his father later founded the gold rush town of Skagway, followed the typical pattern. Just as Moore began to get lonely from three years of traveling up and down the Yukon, George Shotridge, son of Koh’klux, invited Moore to a potlatch. “I was twenty years old, with no great and serious thoughts of the future,” Moore said. “I felt light of heart, though lonesome at times, living in and seeing only the present.” Across the warm, crowded clan house, as Tlingit dancers swayed and rocked, back and forth and sideways, Moore locked eyes with a delicate girl of fourteen. She ran off, but when George Shotridge invited Moore to his house after the potlatch, there she was, the girl Moore called Minnie, daughter of George Shotridge and granddaughter of Koh’klux. Soon they were married.
Whether Carmack felt the same sort of attraction for her as Moore did for Minnie will never be known, because his third wife, Marguerite Laimee, erased any mention of Indian women from Carmack’s memoirs.
It would be a lot easier to write about Carmack’s first two marriages if Marguerite hadn’t burned his papers and excluded these women when she herself re-assembled his memoir. But then again, if Marguerite hadn’t come between George and his wife, Kate would never have confronted the choices that make her story so compelling.

On a Book Returned

Today I did something I’ve never done before: I returned a brand new hardcover book.

Like every author, I adore books. Like most authors I know, my budget is tight. Between travel and book-buying, I’ve already spent a few thousand dollars on research for Wealth Woman. Before I decide I have to own a particular resource, I weigh other options, mostly library and internet.
But sometimes those options are limited, or a particular book proves so valuable that I have to own it, so I can get my hands on it whenever I need it. That’s what happened with My Old People Say . Through interlibrary loan, I borrowed Catherine McClellan’s important but obscure ethnographic study, published in 1975 by the National Museums of Canada. Though McClellan has since consolidated some of her work into cheaper and more accessible formats, the information compiled in her full study illustrates the worldview and way of life of Kate Carmack’s Tagish band in such authentic detail that I decided I had to have the set no matter the cost, which turned out to be almost $100 from Abe Books.
Then there are books too new for the library, like the one I’m returning to the bookseller, a biography of another wealthy woman who lived during Kate Carmack’s era. I got excited when I found the title, certain the parallel stories of these two women would be fascinating. I’d already discovered one such gem when I picked up from Jeff Brady’s Skaguay News and Books, more or less on a whim, a nice firsthand account called Two Women in the Klondike . Though I already owned two shelves of Klondike histories and knew more trivia about the gold rush than anyone has a right to, I absorbed every word Mary Hitchcock’s engaging firsthand account, first published in 1899 and re-released by the University of Alaska Press.
A wealthy East Coast heiress, Hitchcock went to the Klondikeon a whim, bringing with her a bowling alley, portable movie theater, and a flock of pigeons. I couldn’t have invented a more interesting counterpart for the newly wealthy Kate Carmack, who as it happened traveled out of the Klondike on exactly the same river route as Hitchcock on almost exactly the same dates, so that I was able to draw from her account specifics even on weather. Since Kate never learned to read or write, I relied Hitchcock’s account of her river journey to draft passages like this one, helping to set the scene along with the cultural context for my book:
Hitchcock disembarked when the boat stopped, which was often, sternwheelers having large appetites for wood. While fighting off gnats and mosquitoes and horseflies, she gathered wild roses, mulberries, currants, and raspberries, along with groundsel, which delighted her canaries. She was forever photographing the Indians along the river, though for fear of vermin she refused to descend into a traditional community house to capture the dancing, and she writes with indignation of a group of Indian women who covered their heads with shawls, demanding a sitting fee. The tundra she mistook for prairie, lauding its potential for agricultural development. As the river narrowed, there were mountains and rapids and gorges, all wild and picturesque.
Pleased with Two Women in the Klondike, I got greedy. I found the book I’m returning, a new release. Certain it would offer up even more gems I could use, I bought it. I know book research isn’t a treasure hunt, but sometimes it feels that way. The rewards you find here and there spur you toward others, or so you hope.
If that were the only flaw of the book I’m returning, that it didn’t yield anything I could use in my project, I’d take all the blame for my bad judgment and trade it in at the local used book store. But this new book is so bad that I didn’t want anyone else wasting their money on it, which is why I decided I had to return it. Return numbers tell authors, editors, and publishing houses that books didn’t pass the muster.
I feel obligated to be generous with fellow authors whenever I can. The work we do is tough. It often goes unrewarded. As hard as we try, I’ve yet to meet an author – and I certainly count myself among them – who hasn’t turned out something subpar. For these reasons, I won’t mention here the title or the author of the book I’m returning, but I will say that I’ve seen this pattern before: an author with an established track record in nonfiction writes a book that gets a few rave reviews, and then under pressure churns out another that she must at some level realize she isn’t proud of. A team of assistants do most of the research, which the author cobbles together using a few narrative tricks: long descriptive lists of settings that are only peripheral to the people who matter, embellishment of facts to create pseudo-scenes, and broad strokes to summarize character traits, delivered in language sloppy with purpled prose and clichés.
In this book I’m returning, the transitions between the broader context of US history and individual narrative are so clunky, transparent, ludicrous that they’re laughable; I couldn’t help reading them out loud, interrupting my partner from the book he was reading, which happened to be a recent but well-crafted narrative from roughly the same era. From a summary of pre-Civil War slavery that might have come from a tenth-grade textbook, the author of my soon-to-be-returned book segues by saying that the main character’s mother is enslaved by her psyche. A few paragraphs on the woman’s inheritance follow, and then we’re returned to the broader context with, “Money may have ruled discussions in the ….households, but it was the demands of the South that inundated conversations around the rest of the country.” Really, author? That’s the best you could do? After several of these forced transitions, I couldn’t take any more. I had to quit reading.
From the book I did learn one thing. Whatever my project’s flaws, they will not be these. I refuse to make a lazy pass of the hard work that goes into crafting an engaging historical narrative – or any narrative, for that matter. My project must be more than worth the reader’s time. To honor Kate Carmack, to honor the reader, the book must be authentic and memorable and true.

$27.95 for a sloppy product, when authors and editors and publishers are scrambling fiendishly to assure the public that books are worth buying? No thanks. 

A Writer's Mandate

Kate Carmack, born Shaww TlaaWith the exception of a few work-for-hire projects, most everything I've written has been because I've wanted to, not because I had to. It's a curse and a joy, this freedom. Writers get to indulge in pretty much anything, limited only by language and imagination. They also get to take a lot of wrong turns. Most have files bulging projects gone wrong.
Then there are those stories that have to be told, stories that for one reason or another can't be relegated to the never-mind folder. Wealth Woman: Kate Carmack and the Last Great Race for Gold is one of those. Once deemed the richest Indian woman in America, Kate claimed to have made the discovery of a lifetime. Though cheated out of her fortune, she stood her ground between cultures. Hers will the first book-length, mass-market gold rush history to be told from the point of view of the ones who were there first, the Indians.
From the beginning, I knew this was a story that had to be told, and that I was the one to tell it. How I reached that conclusion, and how I'm handling dozens and dozens (hundreds and hundreds?) of decisions and dilemmas connected with getting Kate's story into print will inform my 2013 teaching series. How to know this is a story that must be told? How to evaluate the merits of a project? How to know you're the right person to write it? How to organize research material? How to outline the narrative? How to refine the narrative style? Which title? How to put together a proposal? How to attract the interest of an agent and editor? How to deal with conflicting primary source material? What constitutes truth in history? In narrative? What place is there for invention in nonfiction? How to balance summary and scene? How to write scenes grounded in historical fact? How to cite sources? How to know when to stop researching and start writing? How to handle revision? How to handle culturally sensitive material? How to keep your momentum? How to pace the narrative? How decide on your form? 
These questions (and more) will be among those I address here. Whether you have an interest in writing, the Klondike, American Indian history, mining, the West, or gold, consider this your invitation to tag along as I see through to completion a project that's called to me from the start: the story of Kate Carmack and the Last Great Race for Gold.

Time, Risk, and Writing

The stately clock has been with us for years. When we moved, we transported it as carefully as we had when we first brought it home, even though it had never once while in our possession ticked off a single second. At the new house, we found a stashed key and finally delivered it to the local clock shop for repair.
Today we started it up precisely at 11:49, the moment at which it had long ago ceased tracking time. The pendulum now ticks and tocks, beating a rhythm all but forgotten in our digital age, a reminder of time passing, passing, passing.
Time is a tough foe. We race with it, beat ourselves up over it, lose ourselves in it. In the end, time always prevails. Writing, an inefficient pursuit at best, is especially at odds with time. As a New Year looms, full of promise, we can’t resist looking back at all we failed to accomplish – the unfinished manuscript, the imperfect poem, the unanswered queries.
But writing, as Doctorow points out, is no mere way of passing the time. It is an endeavor that entails large risks, risks that call your very sense of self into question.
“It is only when you open your veins and bleed onto the page a little that you establish contact with your reader,” said Paul Gallico back in 1946. “If you do not believe in the characters or the story you are doing at that moment with all your mind, strength, and will, if you don't feel joy and excitement while writing it, then you're wasting good white paper, even if it sells, because there are other ways in which a writer can bring in the rent money besides writing bad or phony stories.”
Real writing, the hazardous, vein-opening kind, is at odds with our schedule-happy, competitive, productivity-obsessed modern age. Revision is especially so. In her essay “Waiting and Silence,” Susan Snively notes that Franz Kafka kept a sign above his desk that said simply “Wait.” A writer’s completion of a first draft, Snively says, is “the most exhilarating, and therefore treacherous, moment,” because we are all too eager to show our unpolished work to the world.
The ticking of my clock is a gift, a reminder that as a writer, I’m privileged to step beyond time. In my stories, I can mold it as I choose. I can take immeasurable risks without leaving my chair. I can stop time, waiting until a piece rights itself, following the example of poet Elizabeth Bishop, who would leave gaps in her drafts where she lacked the right words, waiting patiently for them to reveal themselves. “Her refusal to hurry a poem was, among other things,” Snively says, “a way to say that the poem’s special life had to be honored above her own need for closure or publication.”
The swinging pendulum of our newly-refurbished clock says this: the passion for truth trumps the march of minutes and hours every time. As writers, may we be fierce with determination, unflinching with risks, and generous with ourselves.  

Catharsis

“In your writing, remember that the purpose of everything you’re doing is to bring about some kind of emotional reaction in your reader.” Christopher Vogler
What draws us to literature? What makes writing worthwhile? The holiday season has answers.
Yes, that holiday season, the one we love to hate. Whether you celebrate Channukah or Christmas or Kwaanzaa or St. Nicholas Day or St. Lucia’s Day, or whether you plug your ears and cover your eyes and roar humbug at it all, you need only a little fortitude and persistence to dig beyond the advertising inserts and glitter and cheesy carols to discover truths for your writing.
A recent caller to Rick Steve’s travel show described his favorite holiday ever: nestled with his family under a blanket on a balcony in a Swiss village that bans motor vehicles, listening to the clatter of horses drawing sleighs through the streets, enjoying a snowy scene happily lacking in bustle. As Christopher Vogler points out in  The Writer’s Journey , that sort of simple, reflective interlude was the original point of the solstice holidays, presenting a sacred opportunity, a turning point in which we collectively removed ourselves from the rhythms of daily life.
But in the modern age, we’ve subverted the ritual cycle which birthed literature, and we’ve lost touch with genuine rest. As a byproduct, we’ve also lost touch with catharsis, the sudden release of emotions evoked by story, which is why much modern writing, including our own work, can leave us largely unsatisfied.
A few years ago, I had my first cave experience, thanks to the kind owners of Alaska’s Boardwalk Lodge on Prince of Wales Island. (I also nearly blinded their fly-fishing guide, but that’s a story for another day). We hiked up the side of a mountain to El Capitan, the largest known cave in Alaska and home to the deepest limestone pit in the country. After belly-crawling deep into the caverns, we extinguished the lights. The total darkness we shared is what Vogler calls “the perfect stage to initiate young people into the mysteries of the tribe, its deepest beliefs, the essence of its compact with nature.”
Originating in festivals that ritualized the cave experience in a cycle of mythological death and rebirth that includes mortification, purgation, invigoration, and jubilation, story plunges us into a place of darkness from which we emerge transformed “The absence of things that were normally taken for granted created a renewed appreciation for them,” says Vogler of ancient rituals born from the disorienting effect of the dark. “It also focused the minds of the people and reminded them of the possibility of death that was always near.”
These days, mortification and purgation are out of vogue. Heaven forbid we deprive ourselves, which ritually speaking explains why the jubilation we’re supposed to experience at this time of year feels so feeble.
In Aristotle’s era, catharsis was a medical term for the elimination of poisons.  In story, the hero stands in for the sacrificial god-king (or queen). As her fate unfolds, we feel sorry for her, and we fear her fate. We are purged. The poisons are gone. We leave the story relieved that though we, like the hero, are flawed, we haven’t had to endure what she has.
That’s classic tragedy. We associate it with the Greeks, but the concept is universal. Consider what Mark John says about story-songs in  Yupitt Yuraryarait  (Yup’ik Ways of Dancing): “Even a song, our ancestors sang it to take out bad feelings inside, and they considered such songs powerful. And though one feels tired before the dance, when one goes home, it seems like one’s being has been expanded.”
Comedy, too, is cathartic. The jolly old elf of our current season is no accident. Neither are the celebrations of light, joy at emerging from the cave.
In your holiday greetings to writers, you need but one word: catharsis. It’s a reminder of purpose.  As Vogler says, “You are always raising and lowering the tension, pumping energy into your story and characters until some kind of emotional release is inevitable, in the form of laughter, tears, shudders, or a warm glow of understanding.”
Try This:  In a favorite piece of poetry or prose, identify the cathartic effect. Then do the same for your own work in progress.
Check This Out: The back matter describes Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey as “one of the most influential writing books in the world.” Though they must resist the urge to find formula in Vogler’s analysis of mythic structure, writers will benefit from understanding the primal function of myth in story.

Butting Heads, and Other Pursuits of a Writer

The youngest writers have no problem with conflict. Ask six-year-old Billy to tell you a story, and he’ll dizzy you with an unflappable hero who prevails against bad guys at every turn. But then Billy’s idea of conflict resolution is to whack Bobby over the head with the Tonka truck he wants. Grown-ups will spend lots of time and energy training Billy out of this impulse. For the sake of the greater good, he’ll eventually do a full 180 and spend a good part of his adult energy avoiding conflict. If he’s not careful, the characters in his stories will do the same.

To make sure your stories have enough conflict, you don’t have to re-inhabit your six-year-old self (though let’s face it – you know a person or two on whom you’d like to execute that Tonka truck maneuver). But you do need to acknowledge the importance of conflict and understand how to unleash it in your prose.
Conflict matters in story precisely because of how we train Billy and all of our children. To play well together as grown-ups, conflicts are channeled and rerouted and boxed in to sanctioned activities. They acquire protocol. The outing of conflict in literature allows us to validate that Tonka truck. As Sol Stein says in  How to Grow a Novel , “Readers enjoy conflict because it is in fiction and not in their real lives.
“Successful writing is permeated with an adversarial spirit demonstrate in suspicion, opposition, confrontation, and refusal,” Stein says. “A writer has to look only to his own humanity to find the material for conflict.” Those seven deadly sins? Wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony are all about conflict of one type or another.
Speaking of types, we all know these three: person versus person, person versus nature, person versus self. We also know that for conflict to matter, there must be something at stake, and that the obstacles need to stack up – in other words, the conflict gets complicated. What’s trickier, perhaps because of those suppressed Tonka truck impulses, is probing the emotional tension that accompanies conflict. Even as we love our characters, we have to prod them through hell and back.
In an article in the  The Writer  (“Get the Emotion into Your Fiction,” September, 2007), Eric Witchey suggests making at least three agendas for each of your characters: an overall agenda, as in her broad goals and hopes; a scene agenda; and a compulsive agenda fueled by deep needs known to others but not acknowledged by the character herself (pane 3 of the Johari Window). Conflict tests a character’s need to succeed, Witchey says, and it forces her to play out her own deep psychology.
“Conflict is not merely obstacle,” Witchey points out. “Conflicted characters can’t win. The best they can do is choose well. That makes them real to the reader and much more compelling.”
Conflicts unfold in many ways – that’s part of what makes them so interesting. Where do your readers first discover the conflicts your characters will grapple with? If it’s not early on, why are you holding out? Are the conflicts obvious? Why hide them?
From page one of  One Mississippi  (by Mark Childress), here’s the first indication of one of the conflicts young Daniel Musgrove is up against (overall agenda): “My father was a good man – I can say that now, after all these years and everything that happened – but on a day-to-day basis, he was about as fun as Hitler.”
Two pages later, after the father announces the family will be moving, Daniel’s oldest brother bluntly objects (scene agenda), and we learn the conflict runs deeper (compulsive agenda – the reader sees complications that Daniel appears not to realize): “Bud took my breath away saying things like that, things that would have got me backhanded and sent to my room. Dad darkened and loomed in his corner, but stayed silent. Bud looked like Dad, and Dad respected him for that.”
Chapter One seeds additional conflicts within Daniel’s family, complicated when along the highway they come upon the moving van loaded with all their belongings, wrecked and on fire. After refusing to admit he’s driven past their destination, Daniel’s father turns abruptly into a motel parking lot and comes back with a key. The chapter ends like this:
I don’t know why I felt moved to speak. It was like when I was little, playing hide-and-seek – I could find a good place to hide, but I couldn’t stay hidden. I always gave myself away.
I got up on my knees in the backseat to peer out the window. “Dad,” I said, “are you crazy? We can’t stay here. The pool doesn’t even have a slide.”
It’s a good thing there are laws against killing your kids. What I will never know is how he managed to hit me all the way from the car to the room without making a sound of his own.
A literary version of the Tonka truck? Maybe. Conflict doesn’t require such overt acts of violence, and you may favor a more lyrical style than Childress opens with. Regardless, the conflicts should be clear, to propel the reader forward.

In the Beginning

How to start? This isn’t a question of motivation or of how to get ideas on the page, though these are important considerations. It’s a matter of those essential first lines, the ones on which all your readers, including agents and editors, will judge your work.

Author Sinclair Lewis learned firsthand the importance of beginnings. Cruising the Atlantic aboard the Queen Elizabeth, he was pleased to see a fellow passenger settle into a deck chair and open his latest novel. She read the first page, got up, and dropped the book over the railing, into the ocean. “If I didn’t know it already,” Lewis told his assistant Barnaby Conrad, “I learned then that the first page – even the first sentence – of one’s article, short story, novel, or nonfiction book is of paramount importance.”
Suppose you hand the first 250 words of your manuscript to an actress, who then reads it before a panel of four agents and editors. Each agent raises a hand at the point where his or her interest fades. When two hands are raised, the actress quits reading. Yours doesn’t get read to the end? Don’t feel bad: only 25 percent do.
This was the scenario that played out at a recent “Writer Idol” event. As reported by Livia Blackburne on the Guide to Literary Agents, there were many reasons the panelists rejected the beginnings. They were generic, or slow. There was too much unrealistic internal narration, or too much information. There were too many clichés, or the writing was unfocused, or the writer seemed to be trying too hard. In her PubRants blog, agent Kristen Nelson elaborates on this latter problem, pointing out that too often authors trying for active beginnings overload them with action.
The fundamental purpose of a beginning is simple: it must entice the reader to want more. In  Learning to Write Fiction from the Masters , Conrad suggests several types of beginnings that, skillfully rendered, will lure readers into the prose. Conventions of the nineteenth century allowed the luxury of beginning with setting, or a combination of setting and character, strategies that are tougher, though not impossible, to pull off with today’s attention-challenged readers. If you begin with setting, Conrad warns, you need to be masterful with it, as was F. Scott Fitzgerald in launching  Tender is the Night , using specific details, imagery, dynamic verbs, foreshadowing, and a hint of conflict.
You can also begin with a provocative thought, though you’ll want to follow it directly with specifics of the story. “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife,” says Jane Austen in the opening of Pride and Prejudice. “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” opens Tolstoy’s  Anna Karenina .
By no means do beginnings need to be elaborate. The Old Man and the Sea opens like a news story, with the straight facts: “He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.” The appeal can be more emotional, as in the opening sentence of Mary McCarthy’s  The Company She Keeps : “She would leave him, she thought, as soon as the petunias bloomed.” Or the novel can open with action: “They threw me off the hay truck about noon,” begins James Cain in The Postman Always Rings Twice. In each of these examples, there’s enough said to engage the reader, and there’s enough left out for the reader to want to know more.
With some beginnings, the reader dives with grace into the story. With others, it’s more of a cannonball splash. In media res takes the reader directly into the middle of a scene. Opening with dialogue has the same effect. When you’re suddenly immersed in a scene, you grab for bits to hang onto. You want to puzzle your way to some clarity. In short, you’re hooked.
Character beginnings prove equally enticing. Look no farther than Conrad’s  Lord Jim  or Nabokov’s Lolita for proof that a book can open successfully with character. Also endearing is the author’s appeal to the reader, as in Melville’s “Call me Ishmael,” or Twain’s “You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but that don’t matter.” Conrad calls this author-to-reader appeal “disarming, confidential, effective, and somewhat old-fashioned,” but given today’s emphasis on voice, it seems more than modern.
A final caveat: it’s all too easy to get attached to our beginnings. Because they come to us first, they soon feel indelible.  Remember - they’re not.