Salisbury.Fake Life, Uncategorized, writing

Bent Yet Golden

This is going to be a personal one, so if you’re not up for feelings, please skip this post. I won’t be offended.

My favorite thing to do in the beginning of spring is drive home with my windows down. Daylight Savings Time swung us back to the sun being up when I leave work and because of that, I get to experience the most beautiful time of the day. The golden hour before sunset. Have you ever driven at a high speed with your hand out the window and the sun beaming itself directly into your eyes? Terrifying. And yet, stunning.

It makes my eyes water.

It burns them.

Tears whip down my face with scalding accuracy that only happens when I cry for myself, which never happens. I am beautiful in that hour. That drive home. I am just as stunning as the sun because nothing matters. I am between the earth and the sky and the brilliance of the light is pulling me together. Holding me on its shoulders so I no longer have to hoist the burdens I place upon myself alone.

It’d be easier to let others see how hard I work to keep myself steady. How fiercely loyal I am to them, dedicated to make sure they live the lives they can with as much ease as possible. No one should ever feel inferior. I will let myself be trampled if it means someone else is able to shine.

Does that make me sound like I view myself as a martyr? I don’t. I don’t want anyone to see me.

And yet, I want to be known. Life really is one great big paradox and I still keep trying to solve it.

The rush of air fills my lungs, much in the way running steals it away. It pushes into me, through my nose and mouth, sometimes choking in its eagerness to give me life. To fill me to the brim with the desire to be more.

To become.

To exist within the world I see.

To be the bold, golden beam of light for others.

The buffeting wind on my skin, the promise of further breath. The sweet grass coming in along the side of the road, baking in the sun all day, letting go its almost saccharine scent as the light fades.

As I slow down to turn onto my street, I understand what it means.

Salisbury.Fake writing

What It Sounds Like When I Write

I’m not going to upload a video of pen scratching on paper, don’t worry. But what I am going to talk about today is some of the music I tend to listen to when I write. I was going to do a character playlist, but I think instead, I’m going to give a few theme songs and some of the main music I tend to gravitate toward when I work.

I think I should first say I listen to a variety of music, but mostly instrumental because if it’s words I know, I tend to find myself focusing on those instead. I’ll listen to classical, film soundtracks, alt-rock, sometimes Viking metal, and sometimes nothing. Since I do a majority of my writing at work on my lunch break, listening to music helps drown out the sounds of my coworkers so I can zero in my focus. Sometimes it depends on the mood I’m in when I search for something to listen to, and sometimes I’ll just keep listening to what I started the day with.

If I need to have something emotional going? Season 8 of Game of Thrones, the second half of that soundtrack takes me to feelings I can sink into and push into my writing. Specifically these two songs:

Ramin Djawadi has a profound gift for infusing emotion into his work and I try to emulate that in the words I put down on the page. It’s a way to remind myself not to make the words ordinary. That I want to tell the story, yes, but in such a way it sticks in the readers’ minds long after they’ve finished. I love dissonance in music. If it resolves, great, but if it doesn’t? I am tossed into a place of joy. This is a thing Djawadi uses well within his work too. How can I create written dissonance? Something that twinges the brain into wanting the safety of before, not the twisting discomfort of clashing feelings. How do I put it into words?

It’s not just the forlorn which inspires me, but also the music inspiring boldness, the sound that gets under your skin and makes you want to climb mountains and stare at the sky above the clouds. It carries you past the left for broken feeling the previous chapter left with you. There is hope in the ending going where you want it to. Songs like these:

(yes listening to this for this post made me tear up a bit because I love this so much)

The last few songs I’m going to give you today are theme songs for some of my characters. All three of them fit those people in particular, but the one I have for Naim, it hit me within the first few notes of the song who this was for. Right around 0:24 is where it starts truly sounding like Naim, and until 0:49 I had this clear image of him slow shuffle dancing along a riverside, cigarette in his mouth, dreadlocks secured loosely, his leather jacket open and his arms wide to the sky as he tilts his head back and grins at the sunset. And the rest of the song fits him too, but that short range hit me with such an intense image of someone I didn’t quite have a handle on before, and now he’s one of the more developed of the series. Here’s Naim’s theme song:

The next theme is Milton Fogg’s. I don’t want to go too far into why it’s his theme because I feel like that spoils more than I want to put on the internet, but again within the first few moments of the song, I saw Milton stepping into a building, his silver tipped walking stick tapping on the marble floor as peons scatter around to be ready for whatever he needs. He passes off his top hat to a quivering underdog, and he makes his way to the golden elevators where he spins on his heel and gives a infinitesimal smirk before the doors close. He’s a smug bastard, and he knows how to get what he wants. This is his theme:

The last song is a piece of music, and it happens to be one of my very favorites. It’s not got lyrics, and it’s more of a philosophical look at a theme song for a character. This is Frankie’s theme song:

This song is the end for Frankie. I don’t want to go too much deeper into it because that’s hella spoilers, but there is a very specific reason this song is the end song. It represents what could have been, what should have been, and what will never be. (I know, I grossed myself out a bit with that, too, but it’s the truth.)

And so, I leave you with the hope that your own writing is going well. That you don’t smudge your pages too much, that your computer battery life lasts long enough for you to finish your thought, and that the songs you use for inspiration give life to the words you choose.

Until next time, friends. (I’ll have finished the first book by next post)

Salisbury.Fake Life, writing

From My Journal – Language Update

Hey, there friends! Happy New Year! I’m behind my own arbitrary posting schedule already, but that’s because I gave myself the deadline of January 31st to finish the first book of my series. I also decided that I am not writing with the expectation of becoming a best seller, but more for myself because I love telling this story so much. And that is pretty much where I find myself this evening as I scurry around for a post.

I’m doing a few challenges this January that I’ll talk about in February, but one of the things I’ve challenged myself for the entire year of 2022 is to read more. As with many writers, I find when I read more, I write more. And better. Obviously not on this blog because of the run ons, the inconsistent punctuation, etc, etc. The beauty of this blog is again, I’m writing for myself. I was going to start this year with a book dump of some books I recently finished reading, but I decided to go for a journal update. The last spreads I have to get done before I start the dictionary for the language I’m creating are the plot outlines of each book.

So, the photo for today is a look at the beginning of the dictionary for Moartean. I got the A section for English done last week, and that felt pretty cool. My strategy is to go through a “learner’s” dictionary and pick words that I think the Moarteans would use. The biggest thing for me is trying to figure out which ones could be used multiple ways. Moarteans are interesting people in that they are simple when it comes to words, but complicated when it comes to expressing themselves. Some words can be used interchangeably, while others are kind of “what is this person trying to say to me?” It’s an fascinating thing where I look at words like, “alert,’ and “alarm.” They mean similar things, but have different applications that require context. So, do I make them interchangeable? Or do I apply context to them?

I know it’s extra to create a language. I know not many people would want to do such a thing. But it makes too much sense to me, and incorporating some of it into each book, with the third book having the most in it, feels ridiculously satisfying. I created a prophecy using the language and reading it out loud makes the nerdy part of my brain tingle in a way that it rarely does unless I’ve spent an entire day writing or working on writing things.

I know I post a lot of things motivating people to believe in their goodness and their worth, and that will still be a thing, but this year I’m going to try and incorporate more of what I love into this blog. It’s still a lifestyle blog, but writing is what makes me feel the most real. I know that sounds so pretentious and cliche, but I don’t do a lot of appreciation of myself. Seeing the world I’ve created in my head over the last decade come to life on the page is a feeling I don’t think I have the words to give you. If I could pass the brightness to you, so you could get a glimpse of effulgence I feel after wearing my neck out from being hunched over a notebook for a day, I would give it to you. I would love to share that joy with you.

And that’s a small look into my last few weeks, creativity wise. I hope your year has started well, and I hope you are being kind to yourself because you deserve kindness. I’ll see you soon with a look at some of the books I finished already this month.

Until next time, friends.

Salisbury.Fake writing

If the Trees

Note: This is a short piece I wrote for a contest last month. It does contain strong language and drug references (marijuana).

Malcolm saw the caravan first. I know he debated even radioing the rest of us, but he probably figured I’d make his life more miserable if he didn’t. The caravan was parked where Solomon said he’d leave it when he told us last night. I rode up on my motorbike and sat staring at it for a few minutes. Waiting for the others. Wondering why I didn’t just go in and get it over with.

I heard Malcolm’s ugly voice calling out from behind the silver bullet of a trailer. He hollered about how the door was locked. His irritated banging had me off my bike and running across the abandoned lot before I knew what I was doing. His gray caterpillars for eyebrows shot to what was left of his hairline as I skidded around the bumper.

“Oh, didn’t know you heard the call out, Sida.” He bowed and backed away. “Ladies first.”

I shoved him away, my blood boiling. “Hoping I didn’t want to see?”

“Can you even get in?” He hitched his sweatpants higher and retied the drawstring. “Bastard locked it before he went all vagabond-y.”

“Will you shut up?” I rubbed my forehead, my eyes squeezed tight. Headache percolating behind them. “Go wait for the others.”

Malcolm scrubbed his hand over his two week stubbly beard. “You aren’t the only one who’ll miss him.”

I gave him a small grimace meant to be a smile as I dug into the pocket of my jeans. “You just hope he left behind his weed. Please, Mal? Let me have a moment.”

He waved and grunted as he returned to where he’d parked his truck. I pressed my palm to the door, the metal cool even though the sun had been out that day. The first time I went into the caravan was the day Solomon joined the crew. He met us at a rest stop out in Ohio and had no kind words when Malcolm assigned me to be his navigator. He’d tolerated me and let me know it. Guys like Solomon didn’t need to be told where to go. They went and the world followed.

I unclenched my fist and slid the key into the lock. He gave it to me three years ago. We’d stopped at one of the campgrounds for a week, watching everyone else at another crew’s fire. Solomon hated the noise, and I did too, but never said so.

He had a softer voice than people expected. His gruff exterior always scared kids and made their parents raise their eyebrows. Old enough to be my father, and I still looked about forty years younger than him. We sat at our caravan—his caravan—listening to the laughter take over our friends. My friends.

“Two years, yeah? That’s how long you been my navigator?”

I dragged my eyes away from Malcolm flirting with the matriarch of the other group. “Yeah, two years.”

He rubbed his chin and nodded, not looking at me. “You like it, Sida?”

Something about how he said my name made the rest of the world go quiet. I nodded, unable to take my eyes off of him. “I love it.”

That was the end of the conversation, but before I headed to my tent, he pressed a key to my palm and told me to hold on to it. The same key I now had waiting to turn. I didn’t want to see inside. Not without him. It wouldn’t be right.

Gritting my teeth, I swung open the door and let it close quietly behind me. I hated it immediately. The caravan smelled like his cigarillos. I laughed and sank against the counter of the kitchenette.

“Damn it, Solomon,” I said, lightly tapping my forehead on the cabinet above the practically useless sink. I’d broken the faucet once trying to make him dinner. He fixed it, but it never worked right in the winter.

“Focus.” I didn’t have long before Malcolm would figure out I had the key.

I knew where to find what I needed to. Solomon told me two nights ago. He’d asked me to stay the night. I should have known. He never let me stay. Said it would ruin my reputation, even though they already thought we were together. Said he didn’t want the others to talk about me like they knew me. They did know me, I protested, and he told me the only knew a speck of who I was. It made me laugh and I lit one of his cigarillos for him.

“And you know me so much better, is that it?” I propped my feet on the dashboard. “My own momma ain’t know me, man. What makes you think you do?”

He didn’t answer, just took a long drag. “I got money. Not much, but enough. The others don’t know about it. In case something happens, I want you to have it.”

“You planning on me needing it?”

“It’s just in case,” he said, snapping a little. He rubbed his bald head and sighed. “I want you to stay tonight, Sida.”

The sound of tires on gravel ripped me back. I cleared my throat and went to the front. The passenger seat. Where I usually planted myself for hours at a time. We didn’t talk much at all those first few months. He’d mostly argue with me on directions and be mad when I was right.

I swiped at my eyes and opened the glove box. “You absolute bastard,” I muttered as I pulled out a small box.

It wasn’t very wide, but it was long and deep. Everyone else knew this box as his stash. His weed sat in neat bags balled up in the far corner. There were food vouchers in a bundle held together by a rubber band.

A folded piece of notebook paper waited on top of it all. I sighed, more of a groan, and opened it. “Fucking asshole.”

Sida, this won’t be long. I said what I needed to already. I hope you’ll indulge in the weed at least once, but if not I’m sure Malcolm will take care of it. You know how to find the rest. Take any books you want. Burn the rest of it down. –Solomon

I laughed and got up, still holding the box. Standing took too much effort and I sank down against the cupboards and hugged my knees as sobs took over. As quietly as I could, I cried for Solomon. Something he’d have hated.

Two nights ago he asked me to stay. Every other night, we’d separate to sleep. I’d head to my tent, wishing I could slip under his sheets and lay beside him. Just be next to him. He brought me into the caravan long after everyone else had gone to sleep. I didn’t know what to expect, really. But he held me. That was it. He held me as we talked even more. It was all I’d ever wanted, and being close to him, pressing my face into his shirt, feeling his chest rumble as he spoke in the too early hours of the morning—I’d never known anything like it.

He’d despised me for so long, hating that I was beside him everywhere. It was the rule of the crew, though, that everyone went in pairs and there was a navigator. Eventually after several long months, he didn’t tell me to shut up and we talked. About books. Stories he wanted to tell but never had the right person around to hear them. He’d been divorced since the nineties. After his only novel sold, he quit the life he knew and began his roadtrip, a circuit around the country, weaving through the states on his way from coast to coast. He found us through a bulletin board posting at a rest stop near Chesapeake. Met us in Ohio. He liked Malcolm. At first.

I pushed myself up and began to dump out the box. On the bottom was a tiny button. Pressing it opened the lower half. Ten thousand dollars. I stuffed the cash into my jacket pockets and laid everything else on the counter.

Two nights ago. Solomon took me to his bed and ruined anyone else’s chances of me falling in love with them. He stroked my hair, listening to the night sounds around us, the dimness giving him eerie shadows on his face.

“I’m leaving the group,” he said into my hair.

“Why?” I tried to sit, but he held me still. “Solomon, I don’t–”

He rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head. “It’s time. I’m going to hike for a while. Live off the land. Become the land.”

“But won’t you—won’t you be lonely?”

His smile surprised me. He reached over and trailed his fingertips along my arm. “I don’t think so.”

A lump almost choked me and I faced away from him. The bliss turned to ash in my gut and I wanted to leave. He rose to his elbow and pulled me back. Cupped my face so he could study me. Learn every bit of my face and burn it into his brain forever.

“I love you, unearthly thing. That’s why I won’t be lonely.” The kiss he gave me felt like goodbye.

Malcolm slammed open the door as I was putting the books I wanted into a small box. “You’ve had quite a few moments. Where is it?”

I passed him the weed and food vouchers. “Here, you prick.”

“Did he off himself?”

I went to the door and took a last deep inhale, patting the pocket I’d tucked one of his cigarillos into. “You should get what you want. I’m burning it.”

“But we can use it, Sida.” He gestured to the rest of the caravan. “Cleaned up a bit, we could do so much with–”

“Five minutes and it’s on fire.”

Leaving him to paw through the contents, I took my box to my bike. The others had arrived. Malcolm’s wife patted my arm as I passed her. She winked and fixed her face into a serious mask, calling the others over.

No one wanted to go in. The crew just stood around waiting for her say-so. Eventually, they’d have to go in. Such was the nature of nomads. Take what’s useful, leave the rest. Magda gave a nod and they descended on the caravan. I turned away, unwilling to watch the desecration. My gaze landed on the box of books. Sniffling a little, I picked up the top one. Solomon insisted it was the best book of all time. I told him it wasn’t as good as some of the others he had in his collection. He didn’t talk to me the rest of that day.

I flipped open the cover and watched a photograph fall out. Crouching, I picked it up, not ready to see what I already knew was there. The moment I’d taken it lived forever in the back of my mind.

A year ago. Even though I never said so, Solomon knew I loved him. I think that’s why he never let me stay with him whenever we stopped. He thought he wasn’t enough for me. I didn’t know how to say he was, so I slept by myself in my tent, popped up next to his caravan.

I’d found an old Polaroid camera at a thrift store. It was only a few bucks, and I traded some of my food vouchers to Magda for use of her debit card to order film. I wasted most of the film. Taking photos of everyone. Solomon refused to be photographed. But as we entered our campground that night, I told him it wasn’t for anyone else, just for me. He’d given me some serious side eye as he stubbed out his cigarillo.

“Fine, but you have to be in it, too.”

I agreed and situated us so we’d both be in frame. Began the countdown.

“Look at me, Sida.”

It was the best picture I’ve ever taken. Both of us were lit by the last golden rays of the setting sun. He had a ghost of a smile while I beamed at him. He’d taken the photo from me and shook it before sticking it to the dashboard. Said it was for the both of us.

As I straightened, I saw he’d written on the back of it.

I hoped you’d take this one. I know I’ve made you mad. Probably think I’m an ass. But the beautiful thing about all of this, the whole last six years of my life, I wasn’t even looking when I found you.

I tucked the photo back into the book and turned to see Magda watching. She tilted her head and came to stand beside me. Passed me her pack of cigarettes and cleared her throat.

“I’ll give them five more minutes, and then I’ll let you light it up.” Her cheek twitched as she saw Malcolm wave from the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry, Sida. You can meet us in Topeka if you want to take some time to find him.”

“It’s fine,” I said as I lit a cigarette. I held the smoke too long, but forced myself to push it out in a long, slow breath. “If the trees are his home, the road is mine.”

Salisbury.Fake Life, Uncategorized, writing

Poem I Wrote for a Boy, But Now Give to a Man

I never told you,
but when the sky is blue–
the kind you find on marshmallows
in Lucky Charms–
I have to take a picture with my eyes
and imagine you can see me.

You know,
I never said this when you were here,
but you made life breathable again.
It’s gotten hard to breathe
and I don’t know what to do.

I read recently that nostalgia lies to us about the people who’ve died. How we spend so much time remembering the good about them, and not really thinking about all the ways they’re awful. And it made me wonder, well what’s wrong with that? Why do I need to remember the ways a person hurt me when I want to be happy with the memories of them that bring me joy? I’m not offering them sainthoods in their next life, I’m offering myself respite from the grief of loss.

I’m fine, really. This week’s post is a poem I wrote back in 2013 and it was originally for my friend Robbie, but as I read it, I thought of Henry. It’s almost unfair how much of my creative processes get devoted to him, but if he’s been the reason I still write, or paint, or give light to the world, I don’t think that’s wrong.

Salisbury.Fake writing

From My Journal: Character Sketch

Serena Shorn

  • Naturally brunette, dyes her hair platinum blonde
  • 5’6”
  • Blue eyes
  • 132 lbs, very fit and toned
  • Usually wears “preppy” clothes, pastel colors (rose colors make her very happy)
  • Loves high heels

Serena is Zelda’s oldest daughter, and Frankie’s half-sister. She’s a tragic character. She has spent most of her life trying to be something everyone wants. She has no idea who she is. Feels inadequate next to Frankie. Even though she got married to Logan (will be posted another time), she sees how her sister is successful with her job, her house, etc. Frankie is happy even though she has less than Serena in terms of material possessions. Serena’s discomfort with how little she likes herself is something she doesn’t talk about because she sees it as weakness. She believes she should be silent about her struggles so no one knows she feels so aggressively to herself.

Her relationship with Logan is difficult. He’s verbally and psychologically abusive. She does her things to keep some form of control over her life, but comes off as high strung, high maintenance. Again, though, it’s her way of maintaining how people see her. If she is the one with the attention, controlling what people see, she makes sure no one can tell she’s lonely. She overheard the wives of the country club calling her a trophy and she cried for a long time about it.

Serena and Zelda have a rough relationship, too. Serena thinks her mother only cares about Frankie. This isn’t true, but the “evidence” she uses to prove it usually ends up being things she’s blown out of proportion or twisted out of context. She tries to bend events so they fit her narrative, and when they don’t, those events are like they didn’t exist to begin with. She doesn’t have any true friends. There is one wife at the club who feels sorry for her and tries to help her, but she takes her kindness as judgment, so she pushes her away.

Serena doesn’t want to believe Logan would ever be anything other than loyal. If she ever suspected the opposite, she worked harder to be what he thinks she wants. She suffers quietly for what she believes is love. When she is murdered, she dies knowing Frankie is on her way to help her, that even after all the years of fighting, the verbal abuse she threw at her sister, Frankie still loves her and is coming to save her.

It is truly a massive loss for Frankie, one she attempts to avoid dwelling upon. While she still has her mother, until the end of Fulcrum, she loses the chance to rebuild her relationship with her sister, a loss that begins Frankie’s emotional growth.

Salisbury.Fake writing

From My Journal: Character Sketch

Zelda Frankovitch

  • Born in Lexington, but parents moved to Lowell when she was five
  • black hair to her waist, curly
  • brown eyes
  • 5’7”
  • 141 lbs
  • glides when she walks
  • angles instead of curves, sharp features, but still soft

Zelda is a sunrise. She is vibrant and brings a room together simply by being in it. She is Frankie and Serena’s mother. She loved Milton Fogg at one point, but he erased her memories of him. He claimed for her safety, but it was really so he didn’t have to be a father or husband. This removal leaves scar tissue which Dr. Rodrigo Ark then removes at the end of Fulcrum. Zelda is killed in front of Frankie.

She is an only child. Instead of this spoiling her, she learns independence fairly quickly. This is what her first husband, Ed Shorn, admired about her. Until he thought she should spend less time on her career and more time being a wife. When Zelda instead turns her focus further on work, Ed begins a relationship with the nanny. While this hurts her, by this time, there is no love left for Ed. She lives for taking care of Serena after she fires the nanny. Still manages to make partner at her law firm.

When Ed dies, she moves on with Milton. By the time Frankie is born, however, Zelda is alone to raise her two girls. She doesn’t actively search for dates. She spends less time worrying what others think once she understands the basics of how people work.

Zelda is gracious and graceful. She is often found in long, flowing dresses. She loves gardening and food preservation. She wears a ring on her left middle finger, but is unsure why. It’s her wedding ring from Milton. She was deeply in love with him. She would have been devastated by his loss. Part of the depth of her love for Milton comes from the arrangement of the Thrice Unbound. With how she felt about him, the lingering love kept her from finding someone else.

She loves her children, but her relationship with Serena is not what she wants it to be. Frankie is her favorite by no reason other than she spends more time with her. She’s worried about her because of how little emotion she exhibits. She thinks there is something wrong, but can’t say anything because they don’t have serious conversations anymore after Frankie leaves home. Serena gives Zelda grief over her lifestyle–alone, in a big house, no desire to be anything other than what she is. Zelda sees a lot of herself in Frankie, while Serena is very much like Ed.

Zelda is driven. She throws herself into each project she’s assigned at work. She has a determination to prove she has what it takes. Her biggest fear is letting her daughters down. She doesn’t believe in God. She likes candied pecans. Her favorite color is dark green. Her favorite board game is Clue. She puts her keys in a bowl by the door. Frankie made it in elementary school, but lost interest halfway through, so it’s more of a plate than a bowl, and only painted in blobs and splotches.

Salisbury.Fake Life, writing

Indivisible

When I was in elementary school, every morning Mr. H would come over the PA system, blasting “My Girl” before delivering the morning announcements. After the announcements were done, a student would lead the school in the Pledge of Allegiance. This practice happened every morning of my school life from elementary until my senior year when we were given the option of not rising or reciting. As a tired senior, I was grateful for the option of staying seated, and I never really considered the significance of what we spoke each morning for so many years. The practice continued, of course, and as I sat there, I started to think about the words. The original words are as follows:

“I pledge allegiance to my flag and the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

The addition of the phrases “of the United States of America,” and “under God,” weren’t added until much later. I’m not debating the addition of these words today, but what I am drawn to is the significance of the word “indivisible.” It’s not even a joke anymore how clearly split down the center my country is. The memes hide the excruciating sadness at such a fragile thread of balance left. There are two major camps, something that always amazes me how people can be lumped into one specific group when the issues are so diverse. To me, this is not what the founders of our country had in mind when they began the bells of revolution just 245 years ago. In my short span of life, that feels like an age has passed. And with the rush of technology and information, it certainly can be described as such.

In one of my favorite underrated musicals, 1776, there’s a powerful scene where they’re preparing to vote on the resolution for revolution (essentially). The vote has been stalled because the south wants the clause about slavery being abolished removed, and the north doesn’t want to take it out. Here’s a quote from that scene:

Benjamin Franklin: “John, I beg you consider what you’re doing.”
John Adams: “Mark me, Franklin, we give in on this issue, posterity will never forgive us.”
Benjamin Franklin: “That’s probably true, but we won’t hear a thing, we’ll be long gone. Besides, what will posterity think we were, demi-gods? We’re men, no more, no less, trying to get a nation started against greater odds than a more generous god would have allowed. First things first, John. Independence. America. If we don’t secure that, what difference will the rest make?”

I bring this scene up not because I want to prove that slavery was kept to appease the south, but more because I reached an understanding high school me didn’t see. The founders weren’t more than men brought together to build something new, something completely unheard of, and we’ve raised them to the level Franklin mentions. I’m not naive enough to believe that those men were infallible, that they were the brilliant beings we tout them to be, but I respect what they were trying to do. Franklin’s comment about how if they didn’t secure independence, there’d be nothing to fight for, that fits the part of me that wants to fight for the world.

I don’t have a very loud voice on the internet, but I am doing my research to see what I can to help end the division. In my immediate surroundings, anyway. History cleaned the books up too well, and the issues plaguing us now are because we are too fragile to see what was done to build the country we currently call home. Land was stolen, backs were broken, blood was spilt, lives were lost to provide what we have today. Trying to shove that under the proverbial carpet is irresponsible and incorrect. Lying to ourselves about our past is only hurting us and our future. We cannot grow if we refuse to accept what we’ve done.

There’s one more quote I have from 1776 that remains to this day what I try to live my life by. Abigail Adams, in the musical, is trying to remind her husband of why he’s fighting for this whole thing, and she quotes something he said to her once, and that is:

“There are two creatures of value on the face of this earth: those with a commitment and those who require the commitment of others.”

This quote stokes the fire I have for lifting others up, for trying to help the world be a better place for everyone. Again, I’m not so foolish to believe it can be done quickly, but I’m firmly rooted in my belief that it can be done. I take those words to mean I require commitment of others–to do the best they can. To learn, to grow, to work toward being better. To treating others better. But not to do more than they are able. Minds can be changed. It takes monumental effort, but it can be done. We don’t yell or shout down violence on those who yell back at us. No, we take this to the quieter ones. The ones who see both sides. We talk, and we listen, and we then take what we learn back to whatever side we’re on, and we educate. We share what we learn, and we then build each other up.

It’s my fervent hope. I want accountability from those who need to own up to the reality of what our history was, and I want to see us grow together.

Salisbury.Fake Weekly Update, writing

It’s All In How You Say It

Hey, how ya doin’? I hope you’re doing well. This blog is a sort of update on my writing projects. Not only am I reworking the first book of my trilogy, I’ve made some progress on my worldbuilding journal. I finished the setting discussion for Lazarus, including the history of Moarteans. It was a lot of insight into a world I neglected during my first few go arounds on this story. Discovering an entire culture has been so satisfying. The rise and fall of leaders, the growth and stagnation of policy, the wealth of “art” history. I say “art” because the Moartean way is more scientific, and more visceral. They aren’t a romantic bunch of people (in terms of love or historical era), so they tend to dwell on the pain and suffering aspect of life a lot more than the people of Fulcrum (our world).

As I was developing this background, I was thinking about how there’s this phrase that they use as a kind of blessing, “nantu sonsprek moartea-hi,” (the strength of the dead goes with you), and it struck me that this was a small insight into their language. They came up with a new language as a way to be above humanity and it slowly spread to the mega cities. Some humans of Lazarus can speak Moartean, but mostly it’s just used between the Moarteans.

Which brings me to my coolest thing I’ve done so far creatively. I am creating the Moartean language. Actually creating their language with real words and grammatical rules and there will be poetry, scientific literature, regular literature (all of that will be alluded to, because I’m not that cool yet). I’d kicked the idea around in my head for a while because I liked that they had a different way of speaking. It elevated them above the humans and then it became their way of surviving. Which is hella vague, I know, but the book explains more.

The words have a sound that’s got a combination of several of the Romance Languages, Russian, and Japanese/South Asian. The reason for this? It sounds good. The word for star is gakima (the plural being gakimai) pronounced “guh-KEE-muh” or “guh-KEE-muh-ee” and the word for everything is winexi, which is pronounced “wee-NEY-zhee.” There doesn’t appear to be a pattern to the words or anything so far, but I feel that’s accurate for the Moarteans in their earlier arrogance. They wouldn’t want the humans to learn their words.

So that’s where I’m at currently. Still working on the actual story, yes, but my side projects are keeping it all fresh in my head. I know my approach to writing isn’t necessarily what will work for others, but I enjoy sharing the process and the side bits to hopefully help others in their work.

Until next time, friends.

Salisbury.Fake writing

Brought To You By Powdermilk Biscuits

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” they say,
their hands poised to slap me.
I know they think I’ll fight back,
but I won’t.
I gave up years ago
when my father left us
for the theatre
(I think that’s what we called it)
and I let the fight in me
go with him
because he’d need it
to get me to love him again.

Disclaimer: this is not about my actual father