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Author: Anne Cassidy

Typographical Tone of Voice

Typographical Tone of Voice

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If this post goes according to plan, I may insult you several times. That’s because I am, in that old-school, print-based way, using periods at the ends of sentences. (See, I just did it again. And again.)

In Because Internet, Gretchen McCulloch brings the term “typographical tone of voice” to my (somewhat luddite) attention. Exhibit A, she says, is considering all caps to be shouting (which is hardly news to anyone, even luddites). But a more subtle expression of typographical tone of voice is what she calls the “sincerity exclamation point.”

Ah yes, I think, this is why I’m using using exclamation points so much despite inwardly chafing at them. This is not due to grammatical sloppiness, but to friendliness and cooperation. When I say “Thanks!” at the end of a business email, I’m merely indicating that, sure, I don’t mind editing this piece quickly. I’m happy to do it (even if I’m not).

Periods are another matter. “For people whose linguistic norms are oriented toward the offline world, the most neutral way of separating one utterance from the next is with a dash or a string of dots,” McCulloch writes. But for someone whose linguistic orientation is more modern, the line break is the most effective way of separating utterances. In that case, then, the period is extraneous, and perhaps holds other meanings. In fact, it could even be considered passive aggressive.

But don’t worry, McCulloch assures us, in formal writing periods are still emotionally neutral. To which she adds this puckish footnote: “Or at least, I sure hope they are, because otherwise you’re halfway through a book where I’ve been passive-aggressive to you the whole time. SORRY.”

Appreciating Advent

Appreciating Advent

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It’s the first day of December and the first Sunday of Advent, and I’ve been trying to remember the last time we had such a tidy confluence. With Christmas on a Wednesday, that means each Advent Sunday will have its due, too.

I love Advent — the medieval-sounding hymns, the plain purple vestments, the wreaths and calendars, the air of joyful expectation.  Advent is about preparation, and I love that, too, because it reminds me that there are things worth waiting for and they are all the sweeter once they arrive.

Advent is often lost in the shuffle, folded into the Christmas season, but it has much to offer on its own. It reminds us to plan and anticipate, to watch and wonder, to read and reflect — and to do all of that secure in the knowledge that what we search for we will find, what we long for will be given to us.

White Stripes

White Stripes

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Crosswalks in my neighborhood are getting a facelift. A set of them on a road I drive every weekend have new paint, flashing lights and big signs in neon yellow to remind motorists to stop.

In my work neighborhood I’ve started taking a new route to the office, one that involves a crosswalk and the forbearance of drivers.

It’s interesting to be on either end of crosswalk etiquette — as a pedestrian on weekdays and a driver on weekends. It helps me see how important it is to share the road, to look out for the errant ambler or the distracted driver.

More than anything else, a crosswalk encourages engagement. Those white stripes on the road can be a walker’s — and a driver’s — best friend.

Hair of the Dog

Hair of the Dog

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A grocery store is a funny place to find one’s self on the day after Thanksgiving. There was a hair-of-the-dog quality to it.

On the other hand, it was a very good time to be food shopping. I had the place almost to myself.

I bought more eggs and bread and dinner fixings for tomorrow night (tonight will be leftovers) and some for the week to come. I avoided the Thanksgiving-themed napkins that were 75 percent off. Yes, they’re a good deal, but I won’t be able to find them next year.

In that way, emboldened, I enter the holiday shopping season.

(Alas, I did not shop at a picturesque farmer’s market this morning.)

Giving Thanks

Giving Thanks

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This morning I woke to find two of our three daughters sleeping in the house. They’d returned from the grand adventure of seeing “Hamilton” in Richmond and had driven back here in the wee hours. I wasn’t expecting them till later, so seeing the car in the driveway and finding the two of them asleep in separate corners of the house was the perfect start to a day of giving thanks.

I’ve read that if we forget all other prayers but remember this simple one — “Thank you, Lord” — ours will be a rich prayer life.

It’s so easy (for me, at least) to get caught up in the web of daily cares and to-dos that gratitude, which should be the ballast upon which the rest of life rests, is overlooked. But how hard can it be to say or think “Thank you, Lord” or  “Thank you, ____ [insert Divine Being of your choice]”?

Not hard at all, it would seem. In fact, imminently do-able. So on this bright, windy morning, I remind myself not only to give thanks today, but to give thanks always and everyday for all I have been given.

Miles and Miles and Miles …

Miles and Miles and Miles …

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On the second day of my getaway I wrote in the morning and explored in the afternoon. About 20 minutes from where I was bunking, there was an entrance to Shenandoah National Park’s Skyline Drive. I’d been there before — it’s less than 90 minutes from my house — but I hadn’t been there in years, so I was looking with fresh eyes … with, dare I say it, eyes of love?

Virginia is for lovers, you know, though it’s taken some of us a while to love the state in which we live. But this reluctant Virginian was swept off her feet yesterday. First of all, the weather was perfect. It was almost 60 degrees, clear and bright. There weren’t many people around, and those who were there drove slowly, seemingly as much in awe as I was.

I did a couple of quick hikes, but what grabbed me most were the views. Skyline Drive runs along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains, so you don’t just have one vista, you have dozens. At some point I realized that if I didn’t stop pulling over at every overlook I would never get home.

I looked at the ridges, one behind another, as close to infinity as we are likely to have this side of heaven. In my head was that song from The Who: “I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.”

It reminded me of flying; there was the same above-it-all-ness, the sense of seeing more clearly because we can see farther. Real world problems didn’t go away, but for a few hours they seemed smaller and more manageable. They seemed miles away too.

Hot Spot

Hot Spot

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I’ve gotten away so far and so thoroughly that I almost thought I wouldn’t be able to get online long enough to write this post. As it is, I will make this one quick because I’m using my phone’s “hot spot,” and I’m not sure how long it will last.

The little cabin where I’ve escaped prides itself on lack of connectivity. There’s even a cellphone lockbox where you put away the pesky item while you roast marshmallows over the fire and look at the stars.

Alas, though I am not addicted to the internet in general, I have become pretty attached to writing this blog, so I have circumvented the cabin’s best intentions and have gone online anyway — but gone online only to extol the pleasures of being away from things, out of the loop, disconnected.

It’s ironic … but true!

The Gift of Time

The Gift of Time

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This morning I embark on a two-day writer’s getaway, courtesy of my daughter Claire, who decided last Christmas that what I needed most of all was the gift of time. She was amazingly kind and wise beyond her years when she made this decision, because I need it so much that I’m only now using it 11 months later.

Time is what writers need and what this writer lacks. I’m not complaining. I would much rather have more ideas than time than be twiddling my thumbs with vacant afternoons and nothing to say. And yet, it often frustrates me that my own writing time (writing what I want to write, not what I’m paid to write), is crammed into the bits and pieces of a day: scribbling on Metro, rising early, retiring late.

Today and tomorrow is a break in that routine. Two days to unwind and charge the creative engine. I always remember what happens to those who don’t, beautifully articulated by the poet Mary Oliver: “The most regretful people on earth,” she wrote, “are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.”

Thank you, Mary Oliver. And most of all, thank you, Claire!

Eat Dessert First

Eat Dessert First

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Long ago, when I was a musical purist, I would have thought it gauche to listen to only one movement of a recorded symphony. In most cases, I enjoyed the entire piece anyway, but even if I didn’t, diligence kept me on task. If I was going to thrill with the allegro, then I would muse with the adagio.

For several years now, though, my approach to music has been the aural equivalent of “eat dessert first.”  If I feel like listening only to the last movement of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, then that’s what I do.

Maybe it’s a matter of time, or lack thereof. Maybe I’m just giving in to a need for immediate gratification. I could also blame it on Washington’s classical radio station, which routinely cherrypicks the most notable movements of a concerto or symphony and seldom plays a piece in its entirety.

No doubt about it, listening to an entire work is a different experience, more ennobling, a journey rather than a destination. But these days I’m discovering the particular pleasures of listening to what I love best. In other words, to co-opt the catchphrase … Life is uncertain. Last movements first.

Counting the Carbs

Counting the Carbs

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Planning the Thanksgiving menu is not rocket science. You basically make every carb under the sun to go along with the turkey. Every year I have fantasies of roasted root vegetables or braised leeks — and every year I fall back to what I know.

Which is not to say I haven’t tinkered a bit with my mother’s menu. My brother upped the ante years ago when he took over the Thanksgiving meal. His turkey was brined, his broccoli was capered, and his homemade cream of mushroom soup was to die for.  And I have my own spins on the seasonal classics: a cranberry salad with cream cheese dollops, and herbed stuffing with walnuts and (this year) dried cherries.

But somehow, no matter what I prepare, the meal always ends up being one big mess of carbs. Tis the season, I guess!