Another "iconic" Sighting

When even the notable Francine Prose -- novelist, short story writer, essayist, visiting professor at Bard and former president of the PEN American Center -- can fall into the "iconic" black hole, what hope is there. From tomorrow's NYT Travel section, the lead sentence: "For many people, especially those who don't live in and around Los Angeles, the idea of Sunset Boulevard conjures up the iconic Billy Wilder film of that name...." What does "iconic" add to that description? What does it even mean?

Pronouns and Their Antecedents

Time for grammar. Pronouns refer to nouns, and for them to make sense, they have to follow the noun (the antecedent) they refer to. If a pronoun precedes its antecedent, it can make the sentence more or less confusing. Here's an example:

"In 1976, the radical left was about as powerful as it would ever be in postwar Britain, and, much like their counterparts in the United States, British New Left intellectuals were increasingly focused on cultural questions, including questions about representation and language." (The Nation magazine, June 2015)

The problematic pronoun here is their, in the transition from first to second clause. In the first clause, the pronoun it refers to the radical left (collective nouns in American English are generally considered singular). But when readesr come to that their, they are left to wonder, what's its antecedent? The radical left? That noun phrase has already been replaced by it, so why switch to a plural pronoun here? In the second clause, however, we see that their really refers to British New Left intellectuals -- but with the pronoun preceding its antecedent, readers have to stop and do some mental untangling, distracting them from following the writer's argument. A little shifting around of phrases can solve the problem easily.

"In 1976, the radical left was about as powerful as it would ever be in postwar Britain, and British New Left intellectuals, much like their counterparts in the United States, were increasingly focused on cultural questions, including questions about representation and language."

Any questions?

Here's what the workshop did with my stories

So what we were supposed to do in the workshop was read our stories aloud, but in the following sequence: paragraph 1 from first story, paragraph 1 from second story, paragraph 2 from first story, paragraph 2 from second story, etc, interweaving the paragraphs from each story so we had an 8-paragraph story of 400 words. What was so curious to me about this exercise was that when I wrote the stories separately, each narrator was a completely different person, yet when the grafs were interwoven, it all sounded like the same "I." And similarities in the stories I hadn't noticed shone through: abandonment, language. 

I don't know whether this exercise would work with children, but it might well work with high schoolers.

 Untitled (so far)

            I don’t know who I am talking to. I don’t know whom I am talking to. Mrs. McHenry knows if I should say “who” or “whom.” She marked my 10th-grade papers for grammar. Never spelling. I’ve always been good at spelling.

            We drove into Dubrovnik from the airport. The winding road up the coast offered glimpses of the blue Adriatic, diamonds of sunlight floating on the surface. Thank god they drive on the right side of the road here.

            The cardboard sign I made for when I sit on the street is perfectly spelled, but I’m not sure of the grammar. “Im lost in New York City need to get to Richmond, Va. for my mother’s funeral. Please help.” Should I put a comma in there somewhere?

            At the hotel I let Dominic talk to the desk clerk. Dominic seemed to inhale languages as soon as he stepped off the plane. I watched him chat up the clerk in his baby-Serbo-Croatian. The clerk laughed, shook her head, repeated some word several times.

            I lost everything when my boyfriend took my suitcase. I didn’t notice. I’m napping at his friend’s apartment. Not really napping. I smoked a joint right after breakfast, well, it’s not a joint, it’s crack.

            At lunch in the old city, inside the medieval walls, Dominic told me the clerk almost didn’t give us a room because she thought he was  Serb. “There’s no Serbo-Croatian language anymore,” he mused. “She said I need a dictionary to translate from Serbian into Croatian.” I didn’t know. I was a typical American, monolingual and condemned to stay that way.

            I don’t notice when he takes the suitcase. I don’t notice when he doesn’t come back. I don’t notice when his friend says I have to leave. I notice when he pulls me up from the chair and pushes me out the door. I notice I don’t have my suitcase. I notice when I pawn my pearl necklace so I can eat dinner. I notice how cold it is on the street.

            Dominic led me up to the top of the wall, where we walked until we could see the water. I tried to imagine the war, when Dubrovnik was bombarded. Dominic said, “Wait here,” so I watched sunlight drip into the Adriatic, the bright fade to glow, the shades of blue deepen to navy. The stone wall chilled in the dark.

Slice of Life Tuesday

     I'm taking a writing workshop at the moment, and today's assignment is to write two short stories, 200 words max, in 4 grafs, set in two different cities or towns. Once we get to the workshop, our instructor will have some "surprising" way of presenting the stories. Since we've been working on upending chronology, I wonder if she will have us mixing up the stories. But I thought I would share the stories as I've written them here, and tomorrow I'll let you know what they turn into.
     (For those of you who may have read my last Slice of Life, I want to assure you that things are better, not least because my husband has taken over the bandaging himself. I should also credit him with step 21; that's his dream, not mine.)

I Don’t Notice

            I don’t know who I am talking to. I don’t know whom I am talking to. Mrs. McHenry knows if I should say “who” or “whom.” She marked my 10th-grade papers for grammar. Never spelling. I’ve always been good at spelling.

            The cardboard sign I made for when I sit on the street is perfectly spelled, but I’m not sure of the grammar. “Im lost in New York City need to get to Richmond, Va. for my mother’s funeral. Please help.” Should I put a comma in there somewhere?

            I lost everything when my boyfriend took my suitcase. I didn’t notice. I’m napping at his friend’s apartment. Not really napping. I smoked a joint right after breakfast, well, it’s not a joint, it’s crack.

            I don’t notice when he takes the suitcase. I don’t notice when he doesn’t come back. I don’t notice when his friend says I have to leave. I notice when he pulls me up from the chair and pushes me out the door. I notice I don’t have my suitcase. I notice when I pawn my pearl necklace so I can eat dinner. I notice how cold it is on the street.

What’s Your Language?

            We drove into Dubrovnik from the airport. The winding road up the coast offered glimpses of the blue Adriatic, diamonds of sunlight floating on the surface. Thank god they drive on the right side of the road here.

            At the hotel I let Dominic talk to the desk clerk. Dominic seemed to inhale languages as soon as he stepped off the plane. I watched him chat up the clerk in his baby-Serbo-Croatian. The clerk laughed, shook her head, repeated some word several times.

            At lunch in the old city, inside the medieval walls, Dominic told me the clerk almost didn’t give us a room because she thought he was  Serb. “There’s no Serbo-Croatian language anymore,” he mused. “She said I need a dictionary to translate from Serbian into Croatian.” I didn’t know. I was a typical American, monolingual and condemned to stay that way.

            Dominic led me up to the top of the wall, where we walked until we could see the water. I tried to imagine the war, when Dubrovnik was bombarded. Dominic said, “Wait here,” so I watched sunlight drip into the Adriatic, the bright fade to glow, the shades of blue deepen to navy. The stone wall chilled in the dark.

Slice of Life Tuesday

How to Become a Nurse in 24 Steps

1. Have no interest in the internal workings of the human body. Have no interest in medicine.

2. Have a spouse whose health becomes less than optimal. Weather his health crisis, with complications, 17 years ago, and his fall last year and developing disability.

3. See a therapist to handle your emotional complications to your spouse’s physical complications.

4. Shriek in the quiet room of your dreams.

5. Wake up to water leaking from his legs.

6. Panic.

7. Find gauze bandages in a closet and wonder why they are there.

8. Panic.

9. Make a bandage to soak up the leaking fluid.

10. Change the bandage.

11. Change the bandage again.

12. Change the bandage again.

13. Cry in the shower.

14. Photograph the growing size and number of blisters on his leg.

15. Panic.

16. Change the bandage.

17. Think of spreading butter on puff pastry as you spread medication on the bandage.

18. Think of piecing a quilt as you position the bandage on his leg.

19. See a doctor, and another doctor, and another doctor.

20. Scream for help to gods you don’t believe in.

21. Dream of hordes of tiny insects and creatures crawling out of the leaking blisters.

22. Cover the creatures with more bandages.

23. Panic.

24. Repeat.