2 posts tagged “bibliophile”

I had a friend who is very fond of cats (and she should never ever read this!). Well, one cat in particular named Napoleon. How he ever got that name beats me because he looked anything like a Napoleon. A Napoleon would have been charismatic, well groomed, handsome, with rippling muscles and oozing charm out of every pore. Nay this Napoleon looked more like a sumo wrestler on four legs covered with gray fur. He always had a slovenly look in his eyes, like a drunk who hadn’t completely slept off his drunkenness. And while cats are supposed to be agile and active, this one spent most of its days sleeping, rolling around, and when not eating, pawing at portions of the rug till it was threadbare.

Unattractive as he was, Napoleon was of the same breed as that famous cat on the cover of Friskies which I’m sure has a dashing sounding name like ‘Thunder Breed’ or ‘Royal Paws’. I suspect this is why my friend felt she should show him off to everyone that came around. Though I don’t care to know and will NEVER bother to ask. Last thing I need is allowing a cat lover (or any thing-lover except, of course, bibliophiles) unlimited access to my limited reserves of patience.

Anyway, back then I used to dread visiting her because of Napoleon. The first thing that hit me when I stepped in her house was that cat smell. Or should I say that distinct animal smell found in any home that houses pets. That is enough to make me turn around and take off running. They make my nose hairs curl up and shrink further into my nasal canal.

And if that wasn’t bad enough as soon as I sat down on the couch strands of hair would come wafting into my nose, filling up the air and settling all over me. You can’t get comfortable pulling cat hairs out of your ears. (Oh and when you look in the mirror and wonder why you’re going gray in your twenties, don’t be alarmed, its just old Napoleon’s shedding!)

I would still be grappling with these when Ana would plunk Napoleon on my lap. What was any understanding friend to do? I stroke the sucker. He spreads himself out and a look of intense pleasure spreads all over his face while he purrs with satisfaction. With each stroke more hairs come out. I endure it all while pontificating Napoleon’s cuteness and urging my friend on about him – what he eats, his favorite toys, his sleeping habits, etc this she does with ecstatic delight.

One day Ana called me almost bursting with excitement, “Napoleon is a dad! Napoleon is a dad!” she yelled down the receiver. I almost snorted and asked her how the fat cat ever got it up. And which she cat was stupid enough to look twice at him. Instead I heard myself saying, “That’s great! I’m coming over to have a look.” It was the natural thing to do, as a friend, but I swear sometimes I just know how to do myself in.

Or so I thought.

For the first time I didn’t want to take off running the other direction from her house. The kittens were the cutest things I ever saw. Seven tiny brown fur balls latched on to their mother’s nipple; diligently sucking away (I know this will sound stupid if female cats have only six nipples).

Alright, so Napoleon wasn’t that bad after all. That was why I was able to forgive him the day he scratched my arm. Never touched him again. I guess the cats sixth sense finally saw through my plastic smiles because I had some evil thoughts. We went our separate ways henceforth.

Looking through my writings the striking familiarity of expressions stick out like a sore thumb. I used to mentally rap other writers for using the same words and phrases. In Sue Townsend's Confessions of a Middle-aged Woman she kept at using 'virgin' to describe pristineness. The sheets were virgin white, the writing pad she was about to write on was virgin white, the bathroom tiles were virgin white. Though I read it two years ago I remember very clearly how sickened I felt, though no fault of hers. Another novel I read was ornery. Yet another was ivory. Between both books, anything that wasn't ornery was ivory. The blasted words kept showing up every five pages or so.

Innocently we all do it. It's as unique a flaw to writers as fingerprints and tongue patterns are diverse among people. Funny though, I hardly see such repetitiveness among more erudite authors. Toni Morrison, Woke Soyinka and Chinua Achebe (all my favorites if you haven't guessed) for instance, their vocabulary is so variegated that repetitiveness are seldom. Or maybe I enjoy it too much to notice.

So how does one not get gored by the bull of repetiveness?

Firstly, widen your vocabulary. Be a gregarious bibliophile. Read and vary the subject matters. Look up new words and USE them in your own writing. Even if it's in experimental works the word will become a part of you eventually. 

Secondly, fight your instincts. I personally tend to begin describing scenes with the sky. Even if the characters reside in an underground cave I'll inevitably talk about what they'll see if one of them decided to make the five mile hike to the surface of the earth and look up to the skies. Try something new!

Thirdly, new angles. Describe scenes and characters differently than the last time you did. If you read three romance novels back to back you'll notice the similarities in descriptions so much so you could accurately guess what will be written next. But if you ocsillate between several genres you'll start to see fresher angles. 

Lastly, WRITE.