Watching My Peeves and Queues

I’m still waiting to hear from the agent who has my complete manuscript. I queried her on September 13, 2006, and her request for the full story arrived on September 23. She asked if I could increase my word count, so I reread By the Light in order to answer. My response and the manuscript were sent for her consideration on October 4.

She had indicated that it would be three or four months before I would hear from her. The wait was on. I basked in the glory of having my whole manuscript in the hands of an agent for about a month.

Not wanting to bask in excess, I started tinkering with expansion ideas. That’s when I was horrified to discover that the first page of the manuscript contained a sentence fragment. I had apparently gotten distracted when making a minor modification before mailing to the agent. Rather than let my potential agent-to-be and beacon of hope think that I don’t know the difference between sentences and fragments, I sent a follow-up letter on November 7. I explained and apologized for the error and provided a replacement first page. Hopefully, dressing the message up with a touch of self-deprecating humor will work in a manner similar to wrapping Fideaux’s pill in a piece of cheese.

It is now a tad beyond the four months originally indicated as necessary for consideration of my baby. I am a perpetual optimist about these things. It is not my practice to give up on an agent until I receive their correspondence announcing that a plump female vocalist has unleashed a terminal aria. Rather than think negatively, I would rather believe that the literary expert so loves my novel as to require a second reading in order to compose words adequate to express the intensity of their desire to represent my work.

The energy required for such positive thinking comes at a price. It makes me cranky. Just ask my wife. One has a tendency to become peevish when in queue. If that happens, it helps to vent. In that vein, I am taking this opportunity to highlight a few things that make me even crazier than awaiting a literary verdict.

First up is why so many people, the Prez included, insist on saying “nuke-you-lar” instead of uttering a nuanced “new-clear” ever so much more like the spelling. Being the Prez is no indicator of one’s mastery of pronunciation. Take, for example, Gerald Ford’s manner of saying “judg-uh-ment” as if perhaps the word was spelled j-u-d-g-e-m-e-n-t and that first e was not silent. Someone eventually got to him, as he quit doing it prior to the end of his Presidency. I have been told by one friend who graduated from law school that one of his professors told his classes that he would fail them if they ever spelled judgment with that extra e. I could talk about JFK getting cigars from Castro’s C-u-b-e-r, but I believe I’ve made my point.

Next, what is the deal with the inability of some people to pronounce pundit, which is correctly uttered exactly as it is spelled. Most notable among those who make this mistake are pundits themselves. For some reason, they seem to think they are instead something that sounds like it is spelled p-u-n-d-a-n-t. Merriam-Webster says that a pundit is a person who gives opinions in an authoritative manner usually through the mass media. It could be that the talking heads that keep popping up on our TV screens are simply something else that ends in a-n-t. Pundits who call themselves “pun-dants” seem somehow similar to a mathematician who says, “Pi(e) are not square, pi(e) are round.”

Then there is that I-me thing that teachers have drilled so deeply into formative minds over all these years. It is a matter of subjective versus objective pronoun usage. An example of the subjective case is: Bob and I explained our position to the boss. An objective usage is: The boss asked Bob and me to explain our position. Speaking or writing the sentences with out “Bob and” makes the correct pronoun obvious. Either the teachers have overemphasized “I”, or the students failed to hear the argument for “me.” Whatever the case, it seems that the use of I occurs in objective instances more often than does me, and that ain’t write.

That’s enough with the words. What’s wrong with the huge number of people who insist on turning on their parking lights instead of their headlights when driving at dusk (or dawn)? Not only do they do it, but they seemingly do it smugly, as if they know something we don’t know. Perhaps someone should inform them that dusk, already a very dangerous driving period, is not a good time for them to fool other drivers into believing they are parked. Besides, when does that precise moment occur at which you recognize dusk’s end and switch to the headlights, assuming you both remember and have not been in an accident.

Thanks for listening. Please forgive my peevishness. I feel better.