Category: The Writing Life

This is a story about how stories become, and about how words are adopted, and adapted, into private lexicons.

I was this morning talking with Lawrence M. Schoen about the possibility of including a piece I’d written for his Eating Authors blog in a new project he’s planning.  I agreed to the use, asking that a word that had been “corrected” for publication be put back to the original word provided by the author.  The “corrected’ word is “torches.”

The original word was “zorches.”

Lawrence agreed to the change, commenting that he had never heard the word — nor would it have done him any good if he had, as Websters defines “zorches” as moving at a velocity approaching lightspeed.

So much for Websters.

The real authority here is the late Gardner Dozois.  I’ll tell you why.

Back — ‘way back, when we were all Much Younger — Gardner was traveling to a con (aka, Science Fiction Convention), by car, late at night.  He had company in the car, in the form of some Clarion students.  It being late at night, the group was trying to stay awake — or at least to keep the driver awake — but conversation had flagged over the miles.

Just about then, the headlights picked up a line of orange cones in the left lane, ranged along the side of some sort of earth-moving project.  On the other side of the gap was a line of orange barrels.

The car passed on, but here were more cones, more barrels, always standing against each other, never with.  As the miles rolled away, it became clear that the carload of fans had come upon a major dispute between two opposing armies, who were each laying claim to the highway.

Mile after mile, the fans watch the drama unfold, narrating the events to each other.  It was discovered — somehow — that the cones — the Zorches, as they had come to be known — were the invaders, the Barrels the protectors of the highway.

Matters looked bad for the Barrels; though larger, they were outnumbered by the Zorch army.

Then, as the sky lightened, and the turnoff for the convention city loomed, the fans could see, just ahead, a long line of Barrels, and a scattering of orange impinging on the tarmac — the Zorches were down!  The Barrels had won!  The highway was safe!

Cheering, the fans were away, off the highway and into the city.  At the con, the story of the brave battle was recounted, and embellished, and was recounted at Clarion (so I’m told) as an example of how stories evolve from Real Life.

Steve and I, having heard the story separately, and then together, adopted the words “zorch” and “zorches.”  To this day, you can sometimes see the descendants of the survivors of this initial battle, now converted to the cause of the Barrels, guarding the edges of the highways.

And that’s what “zorches” means to me.

I have embarked upon a Project.

Over the next few days, I will be taking down the older — pre-2020 — Splinters from Splinter Universe.  These will be collected in an ebook (possibly print) volume tentatively entitled: Splinter Universe Presents! — so that they will not be Lost Forever.

This redesign will give us room to start posting a Very Long Splinter, which we’ve been thinking about posting for A While Now.

So!  That’s what we’re doing today, Brain!

Lately here at the Cat Farm and Confusion Factory, we’ve been doing a lot of waiting for phone calls of all sorts, and trying to fit cat physicals and shots in-between trips to Bangor.

Yesterday, I took a break from waiting for phone calls (have I mentioned recently How Very Much I hate phones, talking on phones, and waiting for someone to call me so I can talk to them on the phone?), to do errands in town, and to drive  out to Skowhegan to the Maine Grain Alliance, aka, the Grist Mill, to pick up some flour.  It was a nice drive, in that it was a sunny, warm day, and Route 201 is in pretty good shape, surface-wise.  I had Sirius XM Classic Vinyl station on, and had a fine run of music as I zipped up the road.

Unfortunately, it’s either Mud Season or Pre-Mud and Maine is as ugly as it ever is, with black snow melting into black dirt, dead grass and broken trees all too easy to see, so I can’t say it was  a scenic drive, but, still, very nice to get out of the house.

At the Grist Mill I bought a sack of sifted wheat flour and another of Red Fife.  I’d hoped for white whole wheat, forgetting that the mill prides itself on its heritage flours.  I’m told that Red Fife is an excellent bread flour, and the sifted whole wheat the closest they had to white.  Since I was out of flour entirely (which Will Not Do), I took my sacks away with me, picked up a Maine Root root beer at the cafe next door, and drove back to Waterville, much refreshed in spirit, and singing along with the radio.

This morning, we have contractors coming to look at the deck.  Indeed, one has already been and gone, and we await — ahem — a phone call from a second, letting us know that he’s incoming.

The cats have settled down after the excitement of Contractor One’s visit.  Trooper is in his box on the edge of my desk, Sprite is lounging in the open area between my office and the dining room, and I believe Belle may be supervising Steve.

Steve continues his labors on the next Liaden book, featuring the on-going adventures of Jethri Gobelyn.  I’m working on more mundane projects — like having to make a phone call to the plumber about his overdue quote — while the back brain chews over some story stuff I need answers to. . .

. . .and that’s kinda what’s going on, hereabouts.

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Today’s headline brought to you by Southern Culture on the Skids: “Camel Walk.”  Here’s your link.