I came across that word in my travels this week. It gave me that magical, tingly, giddy feeling I always used to get when I found the perfect word for a very specific usage.
Understand, I was once a walking thesaurus. Then I met my mortal enemy, Flesch-Kincaid. And I hate that motherfucker.
So now in addition to being a grammar queen and figuring out where the point in the story is and making sure it’s at the top of the page and a great conclusion is at the bottom and then that there’s a super-awesome P.S. after the signature because everyone KNOWS that most orders come from people scrolling through the heart of the story just to get to the epilogue …
I have to take beautiful prose and julienne that shit so that even a fifth grader (or in this case, an eighth grader. Maybe 10th if there are a lot of numbers) can read it.
Funny how a gal who sought a career in wordsmithing would come to loathe sentences (rather, phrases used in place of sentences) so much.
Today I don’t care. I am insouciant. And the word rolls off my tongue. Monday, I will be indifferent or nonchalant or, here’s a thought, no one cares how you feel and I won’t be anything at all.