Epic, When Ordinary Words Become Extraordinary

When writing a magnum opus, bringing a canvas to life, or building the perfect software product, time can be an unending river—the push to finish is balanced with finding a certain perfection. Great work takes time. The Odyssey is one of the oldest recorded tales.¹ How did this stand time’s test when other stories faded to nothing? The author’s identity, the blind poet Homer, has been debated for eons. Was he one person? Or was this long poem a combination of stories passed down through generations, and Homer personified lived a thousand lives?

Before being written down, the Odyssey was recited aloud and refined over many performances, whether around campfires or in city squares. Its delivery likely evolved, constantly adjusting based on audience feedback. From start to finish, this is 12,000 lines of glory. A grand yarn that depicts battles between gods and goddesses.

An Epic

In the Greek text of Homer’s Odyssey, the term ”epic” as we use it in English does not appear. The word comes from the Greek word ”epos,” meaning word, story, or song. Basically, the muse begins by saying, ”Sit down for a story.” It’s meant to be simple.

In modern language, epic now possesses several meanings, all of which revolve around grand scale and significance.

We use this definition in sports frequently. These are considered epic:

- The 1980 Winter Olympics Ice Hockey Gold Medal Round, better known as the “Miracle on Ice” - Borg vs. McEnroe, 1980 Wimbledon Final - Super Bowl LI, Patriots vs. Falcons - The 2019 Cricket World Cup Final, England vs. New Zealand

And certain cultural events: <br
- The Moon Landing, Neil Armstrong “taking one small step for man…” - Live Aid Concert, the largest concert in recorded history reaching 1.9 billion people (Swifty Nation dream bigger) - The Release of Star Wars in 1977, transforming cinema with groundbreaking special effects

Yes, epos originally meant a simple story. But the Odyssey redefined the meaning.

Understand, this is one man’s raw determination to find his way home again.

Yet, it was an impossible task. Odysseus raised an army. Fought a war. Became trapped by a goddess. Blinded Poseidon’s Cyclops child. Sailed through rough waters. And saw his entire crew lost many a time. He did this to find his way home again, like a Quantum Leap episode.

Isn’t that everyone’s wish, at times? To go back in time, to the way it used to be? Sadly, I think we all know that you can’t go home again. Moving on is a gift, but there’s still a lingering sadness when we do.

When the original hero in a hero’s story regains his household, it’s a perfect ending—honed through centuries of telling. The words’ meanings have changed, including our interpretation, but the tale remains.

A Case for Changing Words

In the editing process, I painfully crank out multiple drafts. Here is what my process looks like:

- I’ll write. - Set it aside. - Read end to end, performing my own line edit. - Make corrections. - Read again; make corrections. - Get a professional line edit. - Shout in denial, and then reluctantly make corrections. - Read again; make corrections. - Conduct multiple tests (reader feedback). - Make corrections. - Get a professional copy edit (which is different from a line edit) - Make corrections. - Send for typesetting. - One last read, if I dare.

During this process, it’s common to have ten-plus drafts—a winding quest for perfection, a mistake-free finish. It’s the extra turn of the crank for polish. Yet, I read an older work of mine and noticed a misspelled word. After that many drafts, how is that even possible? Yet, ”extraordinary” stared at me, except my version reversed the o and a.

If you’re still reading, imagine a deep sigh.

Yes, this is also a post about making mistakes. Have you read The Da Vinci Code? Released in the 1990s, the Dan Brown book found critical acclaim. Some loved it. Others panned it. The book proved controversial because Mary Magdalene allegedly carried Jesus’ child, his lineage lasting centuries being covered up as part of a grand conspiracy. Incidentally, this wasn’t an original concept. Another author, who later sued, wrote an academic paper on the theory. Dan may be unoriginal, but it made for a fast-paced read. Brown can write a thriller.²

But this is about none of that.

Here, a villain is deeply religious yet tormented—often causing harm for his own sins. To pay for his misdeeds, the albino monk Silas whipped himself with a spiked chain, among other grotesque actions. He’s crude and brutal, believing his acts serve a higher purpose dictated by his convictions.

I’m not going to take my mistake quite that far. This is wordsmithing. But hey, what’s painful is that extraordinary isn’t even a hard word to spell. For unknown reasons, I like to roll the words together, which creates an odd rhythm in my head. Instead, I should write ”extra” and then ”ordinary.” Stop and pause, smash the two words together for … extraordinary.

It’s an odd word, if one ponders. If you’re ”extra ordinary,” that may mean you’re like me. Lame—goes to bed at 9.30 PM.

If you cram them together, it means you’re amazing. Yes, you’re extraordinary, living an epic-like tale. It takes work to write a tome that changes modern language.

Hey, we all can dream, right?

Footnotes