Salisbury.Fake Uncategorized, Weekly Update

I Hope This Finds You

My brain is full of thoughts I don’t want to keep to myself. I’ve seen a lot of things on social media lately. People outraged, people ready to tear down governments, and so on and so on. The World Cup has united people, and one phrase that’s stood out the most is “We’re finally seeing our disagreements aren’t with each other, but with our leaders” and that feels pretty spot on. When Artemis was launched and all the media content was coming out about that, I felt the same kind of unity. We were going to the stars and we were all excited to see what it meant. I see children wanting to be astronauts again. Parents enjoying the art their kids make in school about the sky. Animations, poetry, short films, all praising our innate desire to see past the horizon of our planet.

the curiosity of humanity is what keeps me steady, I think. The ever reaching to the beyond. Needing to see that we do have our purpose, and we will find it, we will. Do lions ask why they exist? Probably not, but they know they do.

I wish we weren’t in a constant “what awful thing is happening this morning?” as we drink our coffee, tie our shoes, and schlep ourselves to work. I wish we had answers for the kids who ask why the adults are all so angry at each other. I find solace in watching my nephew learn how to figure out his feet. In seeing my niece still want to be held like a baby even though she’s turning eight in a few months.

I look to them to remind me of the why. I know I talk about them a lot on here, and about how they keep me on my feet. But I’m trying to learn to do that for myself. It’s incredibly hard sometimes to believe I can just exist. That I don’t have to “be something” to matter. I saw a post recently that said “I can’t celebrate my achievements because in my mind, it was my obligation to achieve them.” Talk about being smacked in the face with an “oh, I see.”

So, there’s some of the thoughts I’ve been swishing around my head like the fluoride treatments we used to do in elementary school. A quick little “protect your teeth” except it’s my brain trying to understand itself.

I hope you’re well. I hope your words are what they need to be, and i hope you find where to put them. Thank you for being here in the same time as me. We’re sure kickin’ cans and chanting spells we made up for that afternoon, aren’t we?

Until next time, friends. ❤

Salisbury.Fake Weekly Update, writing

Writing Journal #25

Hello.

I’ve finished typing up my second content draft. Now I’m going to start going through for typos and closer line edits. I think I have content mainly where I want to.

I hope you’re doing well. This one is a little short today. Not at my best, but I think it’s important to hold myself accountable here with my writing. I feel the most like myself when I’m in the words.

Until next time, my friends. ❤

Salisbury.Fake Weekly Update

A Toss Into the Void

Heyo, I’m not dead. I’m not really much of anything at the moment. I got hideously sidetracked by something I’m embarrassed to talk about, so I won’t. Just know… I am fully aware of myself and my hypocrisy.

In other news, because I was so distracted, I have not done any writing. I have not typed anything since last we met, and I have done nothing with my made up language. I’m not … I’m not depressed, but I’m kind of just floating. In some kind of ether a bit.

But I wanted to give a quick “still kickin’ don’t worry” to the universe (and those of you who read this) because I know I have a habit of forgetting this place exists. I haven’t forgotten you. I could never, don’t look at me like that! You know you’re my favorite.

And now that’s done.

My nephew isn’t talking yet, but he makes Donny Thornberry noises and it is as precious as it sounds. He’s also very fond of yeeting things. My niece is now a second grader, and I’m so proud of how much she loves learning. My brother called me one night (which scared the shit outta me because we aren’t a phone call kinda bunch) to tell me that my niece went to bed, but she didn’t go to sleep. Instead, she was reading. I don’t have the words for how delighted I was to hear this.

I think that’s all I’ve got for now. I haven’t eaten yet today and I really probably should. Okay, that’s it. Bye!

Until next time, friends. ❤

Salisbury.Fake Weekly Update, writing

Writing Journal #24

Having finished the rewrites, I did start typing up, but I also used the weed whacker on my entire lawn because I “let the pollinators” have it. So my arms were absolutely borked for about three days. I did very little typing. My goal is to have everything typed up by midmonth, and then do a typo run because my god damn you wouldn’t even believe I know how to type. The worst one is eyes. I’m always typing eeys. Who is that, me? Who is that? Why do you insist upon that which cannot be insisted upon?

Anyway, yes, so I’m doing writing stuff. I mentioned I was going to beta for someone, and I did start this. I backed out, however, because I don’t think my insight will offer much. It’s not a story I typically read, and while I don’t usually back away from such a project, this one felt a bit like I’d be playing a bit of Marco Polo with myself, so I respectfully stepped away.

I also have my first DNF of the year for books I’m reading. One of my bingo board books, which is one I’ve tried to read many, many times, but it just feels less like a cohesive book and more like a person climbing over the counter while you’re trying to pour them a glass of milk, and they need you to see this rock RIGHT NOW or else. It’s a non-fiction, which I am trying to read more of, but this one was a no from me, dawg. Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, and if you’re a long time listener of the blog, you’ll recognize that name as someone I’ve mentioned as a favorite. Well, his approach to non-fiction left a lot to be desired for me. I’ve been vegetarian for ten years now, and yes, when this book was published, factory farming was less talked about in larger conversations. So, perhaps it’s not a timeless kind of book. I often say I’m a cool vegetarian because I don’t judge people for how they eat. I have known food insecurity more than once in my lifetime, so I’m not about to say “you can’t eat that!” Especially nowadays? Goodness, have you seen the cost of broccoli?

But that’s my point. When we got so concerned over other people’s bodies, I’ll never know, but it’s kind of creepy and a bit weird, to be real frankfurter (the lightlife brand veggie dogs are decent. not perfect! but decent). I have been of the mindset lately that we should be much less eager to share everything. I say while writing a blog post. But I’m not giving you details about extremely personal bodily functions, or what … other things. Yeah, I want to go back to being quiet. Making sure my words have a purpose before I use them.

I had something else to talk about, but fuck if I remember what that was (the word fuck always has a purpose). I’m going to type now, though, with my non-borked arms. I hope you are–WAIT. I remember. I was going to tell you what I am reading now instead of the myeh myeh book. Two from my bingo board, and one from an excursion with a friend. The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver, The Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey, and Mule Boy by Andrew Krivak. Mule Boy is a trip down McCarthy lane because it’s all one sentence and there are probably a thousand commas before you get to page 30. But it’s an interesting concept, and I’m finding the rhythm of it, much like I do when I read McCarthy.

And now, I’m done. Thank you for sticking around. I hope you’re well, and I hope your words are never ordinary because you, my darling, are extraordinary. Look at ya. Would ya just look at ya. Stunnin’.

Until next time, friends.

Salisbury.Fake Weekly Update, writing

Writing Journal #23

Who’s your favorite Disney princess? If you say anyone other than Joanna from Rescuers Down Under, we need to talk further. Always herself, obsessed to the point of trouble, accidentally helpful, and a lizard. What else do you need for a role model as a child?

I’m a bit sleep deprived. I finished my content rewrites last night and then stayed up reading until about nine this morning. I slept for about two hours before an appointment and now I’m getting ready to start typing up the second half of the book I left so kindly for myself to do. Every time, you know? Every time I say “oh, I won’t leave the whole book for me to type this time.”

And yet, here we are. Currently, the book sits at 45k something. I basically rewrote the entire second half of the book, which I had a feeling I would do since I changed a bit of a setting. “A bit” like I didn’t change the entire heckin’ biome.

I’m reading, as well. And on Monday (tomorrow, me. wait no. today is saturday) I’m going to start beta reading for someone. Take a break and let Lazarus sit for a bit while I focus on something other than Frankie and her sadness.

The sun is out today, and my car was hot when I got into it after my appointment. This is my least favorite season. I like the nostalgia of summer, but the heat makes me want to peel my skin off layer by layer. I’m not a kind person when I’m sweaty and uncomfy.

What was I talking about? Oh, right. I’m going to get typing now. My dad has a play this evening that I’m going to, and then I’m going to do a big ol’ fuck you clean to my depression shrine that’s been existing for a while.

I’m ashamed of it, but it’s hard to keep up with the sad when all you want is a bagel and you don’t have any clean plates because you don’t buy paper for the environment. I did get paper towels for my most recent tattoo (so I wouldn’t get my plasma goo on the towels, even though that’s what they’re for) for sanitation purposes, so I’ve been using them as temporary plates.

Are we temporary? I guess so. We like to think there’s a bit of infinity within our carbon, but sometimes the infinite and finiteness dance too darkly, and we forget that dust is what we are.

Mmmmm, we’ve hit the sleepy rambles. Maybe I shouldn’t type up today. Hah, nah. I don’t want to be responsible yet. So, chapter fifteen here I come, baby!

Until next time, friends. May your plates be clean and your socks be dry. Watch out for them there puddles, babes. Pretend I winked here. I can’t actually wink in real life unless I think reeeeeally hard about it. So I guess I just blinked at you.

….fuckin’ hell

Salisbury.Fake book review, Weekly Update

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Some of the reviews I read about this book chastised the author for giving the main character a “good life” after the horrors of the Great Wars. Count Alexander Rostov wrote an incendiary poem, and therefore becomes a Former Person in Moscow. He’s placed under house arrest at the Metropol hotel, where if he steps one foot outside, he’s going to be shot. I’m not saying he has it worse than those who suffered the atrocities of occupied territories, or those who went through the horrors of the Holocaust. There are several instances where I find him a bit too aloof for the realities around him, what his fellow Russians are going through in the direct aftermath of the war. I do think, however, that as one who is forced to spend the rest of his life in one place, he is doing his best with what he has available to him.

Alexander strikes up an unlikely friendship with a nine-year-old Nina when he’s in his early thirties. Her family visits Moscow and they explore the hotel, getting in near misses with the staff as they’re sneaking where they shouldn’t be. When it’s announced Nina is going away for good, she bequeaths him her master passkey, a gift of immense responsibility that Alexander takes very seriously.

Over the next decade or so, we get to see how Alexander spends his time, and eventually he begins work as the headwaiter in one of the hotel’s restaurants. This allows him to form friendships with the chef and maitre d’ and bartender of the respective restaurants. He has an affair with an actress, becomes annoyed with the various hotel managers, and life persists.

Count Rostov is not one to give in to the grief of his losses. He seems to find such a thing preposterous and whimsical, and that is not the kind of whimsy he believes in. He receives visitors over the course of his confinement, and forges alliances as one does in hotels when one is a guest for a lengthy period of time. I found myself wondering, though, if he was lying to himself about the weight of this confinement. While it wasn’t solitary, he couldn’t actually cross the square to the theater, or witness the ballet dancers on their stage, only hear about their performances whenever they visited the bar of his prison. A lavish prison, but prison nonetheless.

What I found the most compelling about Rostov is how beautifully he clocked a person when he first met them. One of his acquaintances is a colonel who comes to visit him monthly for a time, and he receives a Western culture education. At their first meeting, Rostov tells him exactly where he is from simply from the wine he chose to start with, and when the colonel asks “because he’s a hayseed?” Rostov responds with “Because he misses home.”

This was the first moment of the book that made me do a little “oh!” and cover my mouth to hold in my despair at how lonely he must have truly been. I wish I could go on forever about the way this book made me feel, but I’ll parse it down to this: we never know the impact we have on anyone, and most of the time we will never find out. The smallest acts of kindness, of restoring order after a crisis, we’ll never fully understand the effect they have on those watching us silently. We don’t know how others see us, and sometimes we don’t know we’ve been seen. That is the core of this book. Alexander spends so much time seeing others, he doesn’t even consider the fact he might be seen just as well, and just as purposefully.

And that is where I will leave this review. Not so much a review as a summary, but I gave this four out of five stars on Goodreads (five out of five on my bingo board because I got a bit carried away filling in the stars, but that’s not for me to discuss past this moment).

Until next time, friends. I hope the sun is shining for you, and you see the way the breeze moves the leaves.

Salisbury.Fake Uncategorized

Writing Journal #22

I’ve been rewriting most of the second half of Lazarus, and while that sounds like a lot, it is. I’ve discovered things about characters that didn’t exist before, and now I have deeper appreciation for all the things that happen. I’ve noticed a difference in my writing since asking myself why I use the words “when” or “as” so much. I’ve also changed my approach significantly by adjusting my use of eyes, breath, and something else I can’t remember off the top of my head.

I’ve not done much on the language creation aspect this last week, but I’ve got a board game now? Tacat, and the board is a combo of chess and scrabble in terms of design. Colorful glass mixed with black and white squares, but they’re not in the checkerboard pattern. Randomly placed and no boards are alike. The game is strategy based and Frankie turns out to be really good at it.

To be real honest, I’ve not felt like being much of anything the last few days. I’ve found myself staring into space a lot and playing a game on my phone to keep myself distracted long enough to get to wherever it is I think I need to be.

There’s this image that keeps playing over in my head and I don’t know the significance, but it’s something I’m stuck on. Whenever I hold my nephew, he’ll grab my thumb with his whole little baby hand, and he’ll hold onto it as we move around. I’ll have him on my hip and we’ll be exploring the world around us, and he’s got his emotional support thumb like a little rudder, telling me what he wants to see and where he wants to go. I don’t really think it’s that deep, babies like to hold things. But it keeps singing through my mind and I want to tell him he’ll always have my thumb to hold should he need it.

I’m not at my best. I don’t like the way it feels empty in my entire body. Like I’ve been shucked from my skin and the hollowness is moving around while I stay behind. It’s uncomfortable in a way I’ve not experienced before, and I dislike it intensely. This used to be something I sought after. Something I fought to hold onto, the comfort of brain numbness when the whatever got to be too dark. Now, I want it to go away, and it’s lingering and I feel like a lost little kid.

Apply it to my writing, maybe? I don’t know what I’d write with this. Maybe Frankie’s depression. Reach into the heap of my own sadness and allow it to be shown through her. Give her the words I can’t find for myself.

Sorry this isn’t a pleasant entry. I appreciate you taking the time anyway.

Until next time, friends.

Salisbury.Fake book review

We Weren’t Looking To Be Found by Stephanie Kuehn

Book number two from the Bingo Board! I am actually reading a third one, one that I started before this one, but that’s not important. This is a book I’ve had since 2024, and I picked it up at an indie bookstore in my town. This bookstore is known for it’s more YA selection of fiction, which is not a bad thing in the slightest. I think, however, I am not the audience for that, as I’m in my thirties and my joints hurt when it’s cloudy.

Hah, they don’t. Or maybe they do and I’ve just assumed that’s normal. In any case, this book is about two teenage girls who come from entirely different backgrounds who meet at a facility geared towards helping struggling girls. One has an addiction problem, brought on by her mother’s constant need for image control (she’s a politician, so do with that as you will). The other one is from a poorer tax bracket, and she ends up almost ending her life due to plans not going the way she expected them to.

Now, before we decide to go in on either one of them, I pose the question: do you remember what it was like being sixteen and your body had an influx of hormones and brain chemistry got altered? Do you remember what it felt like not understanding and knowing others were going through the same thing, but still feeling alone? Those questions are what I kept in my mind as I read this book. It’s a powerful look at two girls, both people of color (a genre I need to read more of, absolutely), and their struggle to know what it means to be who they are within the confines of their societal expectations.

I will say the book is slightly misleading in its description, because it has in the description that the girls find a music box that has letters tucked inside from a former resident of the facility. The way it’s presented in the description makes it sound like there’s going to be far more to the mystery of this unknown girl than there actually is. I think it lasts maybe two or three chapters out of the whole book. Which is fine, as again, YA fiction tends to flow differently from general adult fiction.

And I think that’s something a lot of people got hung up on. I read through some of the other reviews from readers on Goodreads, and while I agreed with some, a fair number were detracting points based on the pacing, the realism of a facility responding the way it did to a major plot point that I won’t spoil. I can’t speak to how facilities designated specifically for teen girls are run, but I do know that the author is, according to her bio on the back jacket cover, a psychologist. I didn’t know this going into the reading, but finding out about it afterward made some of the dialogue make that much more sense.

I think this book reminded me of what it was like to be uncertain in my own brain when I was sixteen. From my past entries on here, you might wonder if that didn’t send me into a spiral of “oh no, I’m not better.” But it didn’t! I felt sorrow for Camila because through her introspection, I saw my own. I felt such pity for Dani and her need to have control over just one part of her life, feeling like she didn’t anywhere else. What I think this book brought out for me is my ability to see it from the other side. No, I’m not cured of depression and all that garbage, but I can carry it better. It doesn’t weigh me to the floor so I can’t move. There’s a difference between uncertainty when you’re sixteen, when the world falling apart is quite literal, and the uncertainty one feels in their thirties, almost forties. Flashes of being young and afraid go darting through like fireflies, the familiarity of “I’m not good enough and never will be” stabbing every so often. What was the future if it felt so bleak at sixteen?

It’s not so bleak (current world climate aside, of course) because I know I made it out of the previous bleakness. And that was really, really, really fucking hard for a kid to do. In some ways, the kid I never got to be still dances in the living room, singing at the top of her lungs words she never gets right, but being wrong with confidence is a gift. She gets to see what we become, and I like to think she’d be incredulous at how far past the expiration date we gave ourselves we’ve lasted.

It is a wonder. It is a true, unfiltered wonder.

So, yes, this book is young adult, and some of it is unrealistic, but if it reminds me of how far I’ve come, I’m okay with it. I gave this book 3.5 stars rounded up on Goodreads.

Until next time, friends!

Salisbury.Fake Weekly Update, writing

Writing Journal #21

Morning!

Nope. It’s after noon now.

Whatever time it is, I hope it’s well for you.

What have I been doing? Well, I’ve been putting the edits into a second content draft. That will probably be revised, parts rewritten soon. But I’m finding out more things about Milton Fogg that are just diabolical, as the children would say these days. I kind of hate him. But in that “he’s so bad he’s good” kind of way. I’d go on, but I don’t want to spoil things. I also am biased, so maybe he’s not that deep of a character. We’ll find out.

I’ve been doing a shiiiiiiiiiiiit ton of work on the language. Found a new phrase the Moarteans use. If they’re startled or uneasy about something, they say “the hair of my stomach is bad” or “hair of my stomach!”

somsuk res xixba-mi

They also, when greeting people formally, will say “Are you well?” if it’s someone they respect, or just, “You are well,” if it’s someone they want to have a quick interaction with. It’s not fully disrespectful, but it is barely polite if you are told you’re well instead of being asked if you are.

These creatures and their social niceties, haha.

There’s a phrase they use that’s an insult that I just love. It’s essentially “lick death” but the literal translation is “use your tongue on death.”

bren ostipa-ti kil moartea.

Sometimes I find myself talking to my brain in Moartean and I look at where I’ve been and where I’ve gotten to and I have this moment of “oh shit.”

Saw a reel from Steve himself, the Blues Clues Steve, and the question was “What are you most proud of?” and my answer is two-fold. First, I stayed and I’ve gotten to see my brother be a dad. His kids are perfect. I know all aunts say that about their nieces and nephews, but if I could show you just how bright my life is because I’ve gotten to see a person grow into who they are, because my brother is the man he is, I would give that to you.

But then take it back because it’s mine, ha.

The second part of that answer to Steve’s question is: I am proud of my words. The ones I toss together in books, but especially the ones I’ve made up. I’m obsessed with words. I love them with so much of my heart sometimes I forget to exist outside of them.

But that’s what nieces and nephews are for. To keep us real. To keep us from getting too far away from ourselves.

I hope you are doing well. I hope your words are friendly, and if they’re not, shape ’em up, yo. They belong to you. You belong to them. It’s a dichotomy of osmosis. Or some shit. I don’t know, wanted to be pretentious at the end here.

I’m grateful to you. For reading my words whenever I drop them here. Like little crumbs of my consciousness. Glimpses into the maze of TV static that is my mind. It’s not always awful in there. I do spend quite a bit of time in it, so I’ve found some nifty things along the way.

Feel the wind today. Let it lift your face to the sky and you smile at it. Give those clouds, the sun, the rain, whatever! Give it a smile and let it warm you even if it’s cold out. You are just as much a gift to it as it is to you.

Until next time, friends.

Salisbury.Fake Weekly Update, writing

Writing Journal # 20

Well, well, well. We meet again. Hello.

I’m buried in edit mode, and I’ve been basically rewriting the whole thing. But that’s how edits usually go, right? It’s not the whole thing, I’m not that bad of a writer. But there are definitely spots that need some expansion. I’ve added about three hundred words so far, which sounds like I’ve not made much progress, but the way I’ve rearranged sentences and removed others entirely, it feels good.

I don’t really have much to talk about this round. I’m going to try and get back into reading a bit more now. Had a weekend of books, some gifted, some I spent too much money on. All adventures I look forward to eventually.

I hope you’re doing well. Maybe next time I’ll talk about how I find little pieces of real life to stick into my main character’s life. Scenes along a road. Drifting in limbo of a sort.

Until next time, friends.