Betty Adams's Blog, page 139

The Baader-Meinhof Cat

You know that thing? The one where you hear something (you think) for the first time, and then suddenly it starts cropping up everywhere? 
Well that thing has a name, The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon is widely recognized and plays a large role in the work of such literary heavyweights as Agatha Christie. Her mystery "The Pale Horse" starts with an instances of this. 
This author just had an interesting instance of Badder-Meinhof. The 1850's book "The House of Seven Gables" by Nathaniel Hawthorne was, unsurprisingly, full of words that were unfamiliar to the modern twenty-first century reader. As the book is read a list of such words is soon compiled. The meaning of some must be look up in a dictionary and the definition checked for timeliness. Some can be deduced by context and such was grimalkin. From the fact that this oddity startled a mouse and lurked about the garden it was clearly a cat of some sort. Further investigation revealed that it was denoted something mysterious, like a witch. 
Alas this word came near the end of the book and the author had to seek out another. Having only a few moments left before the library closed the best option was to pluck one of the bright novels displayed by the librarians at the top of the stairs. The selection was as different from the previous book as it could be. It set in the future of the publishing date, while 'Seven Gables' was set hundreds of years before it publishing date. The new book was about superheros of inhuman strength the old book was entirely about the frailties of the human nature. The new book was anchored solidly in the physical and scientific while the old drifted from one metaphysical fancy to the next. And yet these two very different books had a similar scene. The female lead, a morally strong and physical hale young woman of small proportions bends over to examine a cat.
The old book used the word grimalkin to create an air of mystic mystery while the new named the cat Greymalkin (an alternate spelling) to create an atmosphere of plain normality and domesticity. An interesting bit of synchronicity. 

World Book Day

According to the internet today is #WorldBookDay. Why the world needs a special day for books I am not sure. Books really are an everyday thing in my mind. However this is one author who is not going to complain. How will I celebrate this august occasion? Going to the local library of course. 

A Different Kind of Prophet

What was it about the mid to late 1800's? Was force was at work in the air? This strange air that had only just begun to feel the singing of man made electricity in its stirrings? What was it that produced prophets in an age that had begun to spurn spiritualism?  These men and women hid their revelations in the tawdry pages of penny novels and between the pages of cheap magazines and even so received little recompense in their time. 
One is know to many as such a prophet. Jules Verne predicted skyscrapers, submersible warfare, Neil Armstrong's footprints, and much more. There is another author, just as well know perhaps, but not so often recognized for his scientifically prophetic bent. He is know to many for his scathing indictment of hypocrisy and social injustice in his book "The Scarlet Letter".
By the time Jules Verne was born  Nathaniel Hawthorn was already an odd young man; college educated and living a strangely solitary ten year period of his life. But despite this lag in age, and and ocean between them,  both authors began their visionary writing careers in 1850. While Verne, born into the scientific revolution in the forward looking nation of France, focused on the physical and technological, Hawthorn, who grew to age surrounded by the mysteries of New England, focused on the personal and sociological. Vern predicted the tech, Hawthorn predicted what people would do with it. 
How so? Here is an excerpt from Hawthorn's "The House of Seven Gables" 

"An almost spiritual medium, like the electric telegraph, should be consecrated to high, deep, joyful, and holy missions. Lovers, day by day - hour by hour, if so often moved to do it - might send their heartthrobs form Maine to Florida, with some such words as these: 'I love you forever!' 'My heart runs over with love!' 'I love you more than I can!' and again at the next message. "I have lived an hour longer, and love you twice as much!' " 

Does any of this sound familiar? 
Or rather look familiar? 
​
Jules Verne predicted the Apollo mission. 
Nathaniel Hawthorne predicted text messaging and exactly what it would be used for. 

Some St. David's Day Haikus

Pluck a daffodil 
In honor of #StDavid'sDay
Don't ask why just do.

Do the syllables 
In a #hashtag count for the 
Haiku Syllables? 

Does five, seven, and 
Five include the pound sign that
Calls the attention?

Tarry not on such
Contemplations too long on
#StDavids bright Day

The Daffodils are
Waiting for you outside. A
Drop of golden sun. 

Leap Day of Leap Year

Given that the concept of being given an extra day of life is considered a dijn gift of potent and often dubious worth it is quite astounding that there are not more (if any exist at all) stories of whimsy and tragedy associated with Leap Day.  I guess an internationally recognized day dedicated to a cute little mammal is more marketable than one devoted to bean counting scientists. 

Writing Prompt Fun

Writing Prompt
The Character has found this in the lair of a benevolent mad scientist. It is alive and hasn't killed anyone who touched it.
What purpose could it serve? 
What are its motivations? 

Musical Aspirations

Have you ever heard of the plot bunny?
To be honest I didn't until the early twenty-teens. I started writing and the term was dropped in writing groups. In context the meaning was so obvious that it needed to explaining.
A plot bunny is a story idea that is not fully formed but that has a life of its own. It won't leave the author alone until it gets some attention. Sometimes they come as songs. One of these bunny's attacked me the other day and by the time I was done one brother loved it, one sister liked it, and one brother glared at me and coldly ordered me to burn it with fire...
​

February 25th, 2016

Just a thought today. A big part of being an author is being what grandma would call downright nosey. An author wants to know what is going on and who, when, why, how, and what for. Then an author turns into the best sort of gossip. Names are changed to protect the innocent (and the author) and then hopefully the whole world finds out. 

Candy Apple Red Terror in a Blink

​Candy Apple Red Terror in a Blink
By Betty Adams
​
It was one of those vehicles, belonging to one of those moms, in one of those towns. You remember them. The rigs that came out a decade or so back, just before the explosion in chassis variety really took the market.  They weren’t a car, or a truck, or a van despite having vague resemblances to all three; and heaven help the poor soul who called them a mini-van in front of their elegant driver. You remember her too. She was that mom who showed up to the game with a full team in the not-a-mini-van. She was fashionably dressed, her hair was perfectly coifed, and she was in no way a mini-van mom. Not yet. Not ever. She was the duchess of her little town; a social butterfly glowing with personality who was desired at the head table at every gathering. No community event was considered successful if she didn’t grace it with her presence.
 What exactly she called the rig you really don’t remember.  The model didn’t take. It was too big and over-powered for a family vehicle, it wasn’t sexy enough to become a classic, and it didn’t have the torque or cargo room to be a viable work vehicle. It didn’t survive the efficiency cuts at the beginning of the millennium that birthed the hybrids and reinvigorated the station wagon. You don’t see them on the road any more. The last one you spotted was sitting forlorn in a large used car lot with clearance sticker covering most of its windshield. It is a sad end because back in the day they were prized. The not-a-mini-van-moms who drove them kept them gleaming and scratch free. They had paid top dollar for them and the choking grasp of rising gas prices had yet to foretell how little resale value they would be able to command.
So you knew she must have loved that kid; the one who sat ramrod straight in the driver’s seat of the brilliant candy apple red not-a-mini-van. His curly brown hair was already damp with sweat despite the cool spring air and the fact that he was only sitting in the driveway exit. Through two windshields and traveling at a communal twenty-five miles per hour you can see each and every drop of perspiration that dripped down his face. His hands were gripping the steering wheel at the ten and two position so tightly that you see that his knuckles are white. His brown eyes are wide and dilated, darting up and down the street frantically. His mouth is a thin line that twitches in time with his turn signal.
Oh yes, his parents both trust him. A man, possibly the father, possibly an uncle, probably not an older brother –you can’t be sure in this brief and stunningly clear moment- lounges in the passenger seat. Maybe he is talking to the younger children in the back seats. You can only make out one of them. He is a lad with a twelve year old shape and a partly mischievous, partly vindictive grin on his face seated directly behind the driver. That and the plans forming in his head to kick the back of the driver’s seat the entire length of the drive are all you can make out. If there is any concern in the man who has placed the lives of the younger children in the hands of the older he doesn’t show it. He trusts the skills of the young driver.
The young driver clearly does not. The tension is so palpable that you can feel it vibrating the air around you. He is keenly aware of the lives in his vehicle. He wants to be anywhere but here taking on this responsibility. He wonders why, in the name of all things sane and safe, did he want to get his driving permit so badly. You see him take a deep breath…
And then you are past and a stop sign is looming ahead. 

Pretty Pictures

#IveGrownAccoustomedTo finding beauty in tiny places. 
Dwarf Monkey Flower
(Mimulus nanus) 
Crater Lake, OR