Word of the Day: Foo-foo

I came upon this in a dictionary and it tickled me.  The meaning is "soft rolls of dust that collect under beds or other furniture."  Or, dust bunnies.  I love my husband dearly, but occasionally I'm struck by my super love affair with words.  Words are the greatest gift to human kind.  If I were stranded on a desert island, and could only have 3 books, I would want the Roget's International Thesaurus, the Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, and, well, that would be it.  If I had to pick a third, I'd bring a rhyming dictionary or one of the Dictionaries of American Regional English, which only include a few letters in each very huge volume.  And it is Volume II (D-H) of said Dictionary where foo-foo made its illustrious appearance.

I don't suppose this has very much to do with the upcoming holiday.  Other than I feel at peace, my holiday chores are completed, I'm half-way pleased with the gifts I've chosen, so my mind is free to do what a mind does best.  Saunter along and cherish unique words that cross its path.

Exploring ideas, is also a good mental exercise, but too often that takes me into ranting mode.  Politics, religion, social mores, and the stupid left lane driver going 59.5 MPH can send me spiraling into a full-bore frenzy.  It's fun, and I'll never quit doing it, but for a pure sense of peace and tranquility, give me a word like "quiche."  Isn't it lovely?

But quiche left under the bed too long soon becomes foo-foo.

I've been such a bad Auntie, not posting anything for over a year.

I've found that nothing quite saps the energy and excitement of writing more than dealing with the publishing world.  When you're in the first throes of writing, you're encouraged by wonderful people, including authors, who say things like, "Write from the Heart," "Write your most inner longings, beliefs, and ideas," "Write from the deepest part of you, that reaches into the core of your soul."  That's all very schmoozy, but the hard, cold facts of the publishing world dictate that you must write exactly what they want, exactly the way they want it, and no one gives a crap about your soul.

I may not be completely fair, because I can't say I've run the gamut of submitting to all agents, editors, and publishing houses under the sun, but even the idea of sending off my material in an endless parade of e-mails to these people seems beneath me.  There, I've said it.

Now, there's no hope for me.  But somehow, I feel so much better.

There's also a wide, wonderful world of self-publishing out there.  I've heard many good things.  The old-timey publishers should be quaking, but I guess as long as they have their reliable novel-o'month authors, and the occasional celebrity expose, they feel pretty secure.

But frankly, I'm a bit of a scairdy cat to take the self-publishing plunge.  Maybe I'm just happier grousing and moaning.  Yay, me.