lying for a living

I spend a lot of time thinking up names. For heroines, heroes, villains, sidekicks, and federal agents, and for their parents, henchmen, acolytes, and pets. I make lists. I let characters try names on for size to see if they fit. If a name’s wrong, I toss it. Sometimes a character starts the first draft of a novel with one name and ends the final draft with another.

Fortunately, the Husband has gotten used to this. When he sees 10,000 Fabulous Baby Names on my desk his jaw no longer drops. He assumes I’m populating a book, not that we’re going to have yet another nine-month dustup over what to call our offspring. Those arguments get messy, and turn unpleasant when the obstetrician and the labor-and-delivery nurses throw in their own gratuitous suggestions, and inevitably end with me heaving a whole slew of names at everybody in the delivery room. (And to Dr. Get the Hell Out and Take Your Ugly-ass Plaid Golf Pants with You: Hi! Hope you’re well!)

Anyway. Here are the top baby names in the U.S. for 2007. Emily and Jacob top the list.

And if you want to track the rise and fall of various names over the last 130 years, check out Baby Name Wizard’s marvelous Name Voyager.

I’m not an action heroine, but I am in denial.

It has come to my attention that while I was writing the previous post, about my loathing of heights, I was wearing this T-shirt.

I got it after going whitewater rafting on the Zambezi River below Victoria Falls, one of the wildest things I’ve ever done. The Zambezi has, I think, the biggest rapids run commercially in the world. I was a novice, and to get to the rafting launch zone, I had to climb down a crumbling trail to the bottom of a gorge. The gorge is one thousand feet deep. The trail is rocky, slippery, narrow, steep, and has no guard rail. Halfway down, I clearly recall thinking: This isn’t Disneyland.

Yet I did it, and I don’t recall being scared. I can think of three reasons for my lack of fear.

(1) My sister had told me that rafting the Zambezi was the most fun I could possibly have, ever — and I was hellbound to experience it. (2) I never looked down, because my eyes were glued to the rafting guide ahead of me on the trail, who seemed to be carved from the same incredible stone as the walls of the gorge and had a negative percentage of body fat. (3) I’ve lost the memory of the trek, because the subsequent rafting proved so terrifying that I nearly lost my mind.

And damn, it was awesome.

Mine is purple.

“You tend to spend a lot of time thinking of fictional people and places.” Such a surprise.

What color is your mind?

(Via Petrona.)

Don’t want to start a gender fracas here, but Rebecca Solnit rings a bell that chimes with my own experience. “Every woman knows what it’s like to be patronized by a guy who won’t let facts get in the way.”

“So? I hear you’ve written a couple of books.”

I replied, “Several, actually.”

He said, in the way you encourage your friend’s 7-year-old to describe flute practice, “And what are they about?”

Or, in my case, “Have any of them been published?”

He cut me off soon after I mentioned Muybridge. “And have you heard about the very important Muybridge book that came out this year?”

… Mr. Very Important was going on smugly about this book I should have known when Sallie interrupted him to say, “That’s her book.” Or tried to interrupt him anyway.

But he just continued on his way. She had to say, “That’s her book” three or four times before he finally took it in.

In my totally subjective experience, men are also the ones who say, “Anybody can write a novel.” And: “Your book — what was it called again? — you want to know how I would have improved it?” Which is the sure lead-in to, “My novel would be about Kilimanjaro and war and existentialism — sort of Hemingway meets Immanuel Kant… but deeper.”

But women don’t get off the hook. They’re the ones who say, “You write violent crime fiction where women die. Is something wrong with you?” And, “Why do you like the idea of murdering other women?” And, “No, seriously, are you emotionally disturbed?”

Go on. Have at me.

(Via Bookslut, who links to the story with this awesome comment: “Last year a man corrected my grammar five minutes after the sex was over. I did not sleep with him ever again.” Damn, that’s standing up for grammar and for yourself. Represent, girl.)

Find out how to get involved: The Literacy Project.

I’m doing some events this autumn with one of the projects, the National Year of Reading.

(Via Books, Inq.)

When I was tagged and asked to post six random things about myself, I said that this photo gives me the shivers and a lump in the throat. In the comments, Literate Housewife asked me the story behind it.

The photo shows Steve Prefontaine winning the 5,000 meters at Hayward Field at the University of Oregon, June 29, 1975. Pre was a legendary distance runner — a brilliant, gutsy competitor from Coos Bay, Oregon, a star at U of O, an Olympian, and an inspiration to innumerable others who, like me, have put on a pair of spikes and lined up at the starting line of a race. He’s an icon. My son’s best friend has a Prefontaine poster on his wall. 

The photo captures him at the finish line. The hometown crowd is on its feet. He has crushed the field, defeating, among others, Olympic marathon gold medalist Frank Shorter. He reaches to grab the finishing tape — to snatch the triumph, to seize the brilliant ending. He looks back. The sun is setting. The race, everybody, everything, is behind him.

A few hours later he was killed in a car wreck. He was 24.

I keep a quote of his on my desk: “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.”

Commenter mom2bnsb is no longer a mom to be. The baby is here! And despite everybody’s best efforts, his name isn’t Tiger, Immelman, Jacqueta Verde, or any of the other, ah, thoughtful suggestions various relatives offered along the way (Jesus Peace Muhammad? Yes, they’re two very popular names worldwide — along with the thing everybody wants — but the Husband should stand in the corner for proposing that one while mom2bnsb was in labor.) Meet my new nephew, Wyatt Marshall Gardiner.

But now mom2bnsb needs a new blog name. I suggest a verb name. An active verb, considering what her life’s going to be like for a while.

Congratulations, mom and dad.

I’m just back from watching the London marathon. A great day. The men’s race was extremely fast: Kenya’s Martin Lel won in 2:05:15.

Saw all the winners, plus a good portion of the other 35,000 runners. Missed the Maasai warriors, but did see Elvis.

Video and photos here.

“Hemingway haunt gives discount to ‘poor Americans’”

ROME (Reuters) - Harry’s Bar, the famed Venice watering hole where Ernest Hemingway held court over hearty food and stiff martinis, is offering a discount to “poor” Americans suffering from a weak dollar and subprime blues.

The owner has posted a sign outside, promising Americans “a special 20 percent discount on all items of the menu during the short term of their recovery.”

This doesn’t help writers, then. The discount is only on food, not drinks.

And drinking is what Harry’s Bar is designed for. I’ve been lucky enough to visit Venice, and — of course — stopped by Papa’s legendary hangout. Harry’s is near the spot where the Grand Canal empties into the Lido di Venezia. The view is glittering and timeless. But inside, the bar reminded me of the cabin of a boat, with dark wood and tiny windows. The design focuses your attention on either (1) the bar, or (2) the shadows lurking in one’s soul — which in turn sends your attention to (3) the bar. I don’t drink whiskey, but I ordered a shot, emptied my wallet, and toasted the big man. Then the Husband and I got out of there and took the kids out for pizza.

…where I made it through Waterloo station without the CIA spotting me. Sorry, spooks; if you thought you’d catch me on CCTV buying a dozen chocolate doughnuts at the Krispy Kreme stand — better luck next time.

More later.