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 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 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 writing

The Girl Who Said Goodbye

This week we’re doing something a bit scary for me. I don’t often share my writing publicly because it’s often something I consider too personal. Good approach if I want to get published one day, huh? Anyway, this is a piece I’ve worked on off and on for a little while. It’s about death and the afterlife, so if that is something you find troublesome, please skip this post. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy it.

A dry hacking sound tore through the house. From under the covers on a crumbling bed, a papery hand reached for the glass on the table, fingers trembling on its smooth, cool surface. Empty. Frederic knew it was, but with everything, he’d forgotten. He coughed again. A fit overtook him and if he could have crawled to the bathroom to spit the blood, he would have. Sunken with age, his chest heaved as he tried to get a full breath of air. The coughing died to a steady wheeze with each shallow pass.

Something clattered on the stairs. Fear froze his stomach. He cried out, a pathetic, weak sound, and covered his face.

Someone burst into the room, shattering the warped wood of the frame. A woman with matted and tangled black hair staggered in. Paler than a sun bleached mouse skull. Her coat, an army green thing, shredded to her elbows with strips of mangy fabric dangling as she searched the room. She dug into the pocket of her khaki colored trousers, a small notebook in her hand. She flipped through it as she studied the room, nodding to herself. Her eyes landed on the lump on the bed.

At first, Frederic thought she was there to rob him. She certainly looked the part. No shoes. Tear stains left salt crusted trails down her cheeks through the dried muck smeared on her skin. He watched her as closely as his tired eyes would let him. A quiet beep made her check her wrist. She looked at him, her eyes suddenly clear, a bright green piercing him with kindness. She smiled and the fear left him.

“Will you open the curtains?” Frederic gestured to the window. His voice cracked like dry leaves on a sidewalk. “The curtains.”

She shook her head. When she spoke in English, his shoulders seemed to sink into the mattress further. Her eyes closed and she tipped her head back, as though trying to remember.

“Je suis desole,” she said, her accent marring the fluidity of his language.

He nodded and pointed, the weight of his arm almost crushing his chest. “Please.”

She went to the window and waved at the heavy fabric. “Oui?”

He nodded once more. She pulled one side over, and then the other. A sigh deflated him.

“It has been three days since I’ve seen them, the stars.” He tucked his hand under his cheek and smiled, his watery blue eyes bright. Tears slipped over his nose, but he didn’t bother to wipe them. “I have not seen–“

She sat on the bed by his knees as he wept what was left of his tears. The sound of his dying filled the silence. No death rattle, simply weary breathing. The woman remained on the edge of the bed for a while after he inhaled one last time.

She wasn’t ready for the next part. She never was. With a shuddering sigh, she shook herself from her head to her toes and cracked her knuckles. The soul was in there, waiting. She could feel it radiating from just below his ribs. Not quite the stomach, but just above it.

“Let’s get you home,” she whispered and stroked his cheek.

Her body trembled as she looked into the ceiling, her eyes going completely white. Offering a quick word of what could have been a prayer, her form shifted into an ethereal translucence, making her look almost dead herself. She plunged her fist into his chest. If she’d been solid, she’d have snapped his ribs. But she didn’t need a body for this.

One more deep breath and a hard yank. She held his soul, its tendrils spilling over the palm of her hand, trying to fill the body below once more. She gently folded it together and eased it into her satchel. She touched his forehead, a sad smile on her cheeks. His eyes remained open. He’d been without the stars long enough.

—

The woman, Gabriel, clambered down the stairs, her form solid again. She made sure to leave the door open, something she always did for those like Frederic. Pausing, she looked back up at the bedroom window. She blew him a kiss as she backed out of the front gate, past the delphinium and hyacinths, the tall wild grass choking the fence. She sent one more kiss his way, and waited, her hand at her throat, as though she could stop the weeping behind her teeth. She wiped her nose on her dirty sleeve and stepped off the curb in front of the bus speeding toward the city.

It caught her as it always did and she swung herself up onto the roof. Flattening against the cold metal, she let herself become translucent once more, part of the heat emanating from the warm bus inside. A shimmer passing by. She held her satchel closer, remembering the man she held. Hoping they’d find him soon.

Fifteen minutes later, she let herself slip from the rooftop and land on her feet beside a bus stop. She plopped herself down on the bench and sighed as she rubbed her eyes. Getting back to the underworld wasn’t the difficult part, but she always hated the sensation of leaving behind part of herself every time. A few deep breaths later, she clenched her fists and gave over to the pull all souls feel from the beyond.

It dropped her at the entrance, similar to the way grand hotels looked from the inside, the afterlife’s way of giving the departed a peaceful sendoff. She pushed open the door and stepped onto the street. The hazy gray light bounced off of empty, dilapidated buildings. Her feet knew the way, and she let herself get lost in her thoughts as she made her way to her final destination.

She loved them, those creatures she carried. They represented the good of the world she’d left behind all those years ago. Her task to give the souls their last bit of love before they rejoined the stars in the underworld sky made it less challenging. Often she’d be whisked from place to place, though. Too many died alone, and she couldn’t let that happen.

But she found them. All the same. She found them at each and every bedside, each broken bridge, the crumbled stairs in buildings long abandoned. They wandered without someone to hold them in, those souls, never straying too far, however, from their bodies. Just in case.

Gabriel knew she had the job no one else wanted. It was most difficult on a day with suicides, car accidents, and stillborns. But she treasured those souls a little more. Carried them in special paper she’d designed from the sea kelp to keep them from getting crushed by the others in her bag. Some of the gatherers didn’t like souls. Found them too alien. Smoke monsters, she’d heard them called. But there was nothing monstrous about them.

They all mattered. Every single one of them. Who else would show them a final act of kindness before they left? Certainly, she was lonely. No one talked to her much after they learned how long she’d been assigned to this task, how she asked to be left on it. The veterans accused her of enjoying the death. The loss of life.

It was quite the contrary, of course. Gabriel felt the life in each soul she emancipated from its husk. The joy. The sorrow. The anguish, the moments of love—all of it. Purer than the way a baby smiled at her mother for the first time.

The smell of salt made her lift her head. She turned down a side street and kept going even past the brick wall blocking off what lay beyond it. Special privilege for gatherers and all. She pushed through a heavy gate, the rusted hinge finally cracking off—salt water made short work of that. No one came here. Not anymore. The monocrhome waves of the TV static left bitter aftertastes in their mouths.

She sat slowly at the edge of the water, a grimace smudging her face as she scooted closer to the sea. It hurled itself at her.

It knew of her prize.

“I know, I know,” she said, petting it like a cat. She opened her satchel and pulled out the soul. Shaped like a dome, it wobbled in her palms, going dull in the black and white of the shore. All souls did. She blew on it a little, the tendrils floating when she stopped.

The sea waited. She lowered her cupped hands into it. As soon as Frederic’s soul touched the static, millions of others lit up the sea all the way to the horizon. A low hum resonated in her chest as he drifted away, the water like seltzer on her toes. She smiled.

If your bones be heavy things,
lay yourself down at my feet.
I will bring you safely home,
wherever it may be.