- Published on
To be a romantic novel that never wants to end…
A lament to the death of my romantic youth. Why don’t I love Off Campus and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before? I used to dream in romance, the reluctant frumpy maiden plucked from obscurity by a prince in disguise. I was Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping, desperate to be part of the world of the man she secretly admires, only to find love not with him though through him. I was the spirited heroine of Shania Twain’s, “no one needs to know’ secretly plotting my dream life with a tall, dark and handsome man. I was half the lyric to the tune; you and I collide. Elizabeth Bennett slowly realizing Mr. Darcy is her intended.
The magic died somewhere at the intersection of middle age and reality. Not a delicate unraveling, but the veil of night revealing the ugliness of day, a reflection that shattered the looking glass of youth. No magic potion, no yarns of spells to spin. No true love’s kiss. Reality was a steel man, maladaptively ruthless in its hindrances. I still remember when thirty was old. The fields have grown over and thirty is the past, a wilderness of buried moments and missed opportunities. No Eli Merritt to marry or Devon Lecusken to ride off with.
The ugly duckling never became the swan and the meet-cute never materialized on the street of serendipity. Love was a melody never composed, not even a bad note on my guitar to draw lovelorn tears. Hope became a headache, and dreams cardiac arrests.
The stories became torture.
It wasn’t that Cupid missed me. He just never showed up, not even to punish me for hubris, for daring to think I was the subject of love’s fancy. He was a racist zombie in the Kay & Peele sketch. For all was fair for fair maidens and not for thee; Lucy, a black star in a night sky. A maid whom there was none to praise and very few to love.
And yet there is yearning, a strong desire that lingers between North and South. Look back. Look back, it pleads like John Thornton, appealing to my sensibility.
Don’t look back in anger makes sense.
A lament to the death of my romantic youth. Why don’t I love Off Campus and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before? I used to dream in romance, the reluctant frumpy maiden plucked from obscurity by a prince in disguise. I was Sandra Bullock in While You Were Sleeping, desperate to be part of the world of the man she secretly admires, only to find love not with him though through him. I was the spirited heroine of Shania Twain’s, “no one needs to know’ secretly plotting my dream life with a tall, dark and handsome man. I was half the lyric to the tune; you and I collide. Elizabeth Bennett slowly realizing Mr. Darcy is her intended.
The magic died somewhere at the intersection of middle age and reality. Not a delicate unraveling, but the veil of night revealing the ugliness of day, a reflection that shattered the looking glass of youth. No magic potion, no yarns of spells to spin. No true love’s kiss. Reality was a steel man, maladaptively ruthless in its hindrances. I still remember when thirty was old. The fields have grown over and thirty is the past, a wilderness of buried moments and missed opportunities. No Eli Merritt to marry or Devon Lecusken to ride off with.
The ugly duckling never became the swan and the meet-cute never materialized on the street of serendipity. Love was a melody never composed, not even a bad note on my guitar to draw lovelorn tears. Hope became a headache, and dreams cardiac arrests.
The stories became torture.
It wasn’t that Cupid missed me. He just never showed up, not even to punish me for hubris, for daring to think I was the subject of love’s fancy. He was a racist zombie in the Kay & Peele sketch. For all was fair for fair maidens and not for thee; Lucy, a black star in a night sky. A maid whom there was none to praise and very few to love.
And yet there is yearning, a strong desire that lingers between North and South. Look back. Look back, it pleads like John Thornton, appealing to my sensibility.
Don’t look back in anger makes sense.
- Published on
So I must confess. I am not happy with the title, 'The Civilization.'
The original title of the novel was "The Civilization of Light & Dark."
For the life of me, I cannot recall how I chose the title. I do recall there being a previous title, 'The Land of the Gods.' It sounded too much like a 'real-world spiritual place,' and many such places in the real world used that title.
I do believe it came from Ancient Egypt, what they called the land of Punt.
Many times over, beta readers and editors suggested a change of title. I tried a few. "Dark Was the Night" was a working title for a while. It sounded too horror-coded. See similar problems with The Absence of Light and The Forsaken Lands.
I ended up using "Civilization" as a working title. I expected my publisher to force me to change the title.
They never did.
Does 'The Civilization' make sense? It still sounded horror-coded. Granted there are horrors in the story, the title left much to be desired.
What does the title mean? is a question I got a few times. It's hard to explain. What is civilization? A stable or organized society, distinguished by advanced architecture, systems, and practices.
What am I trying to say with the title?
The long-form works better, I would say.
The Civilization of Light & Dark means only that a society is torn between light and dark forces, good and evil, survival and annihilation, and knowledge and wilderness.
I continue to call the novel The Civilization of Light & Dark.
The original title of the novel was "The Civilization of Light & Dark."
For the life of me, I cannot recall how I chose the title. I do recall there being a previous title, 'The Land of the Gods.' It sounded too much like a 'real-world spiritual place,' and many such places in the real world used that title.
I do believe it came from Ancient Egypt, what they called the land of Punt.
Many times over, beta readers and editors suggested a change of title. I tried a few. "Dark Was the Night" was a working title for a while. It sounded too horror-coded. See similar problems with The Absence of Light and The Forsaken Lands.
I ended up using "Civilization" as a working title. I expected my publisher to force me to change the title.
They never did.
Does 'The Civilization' make sense? It still sounded horror-coded. Granted there are horrors in the story, the title left much to be desired.
What does the title mean? is a question I got a few times. It's hard to explain. What is civilization? A stable or organized society, distinguished by advanced architecture, systems, and practices.
What am I trying to say with the title?
The long-form works better, I would say.
The Civilization of Light & Dark means only that a society is torn between light and dark forces, good and evil, survival and annihilation, and knowledge and wilderness.
I continue to call the novel The Civilization of Light & Dark.
- Published on
All of My Yesterdays
Memories of things,
We can only lose.
Memories of people
Always fuse
Memories of light,
Memories of night,
Of days spent dreaming,
Of nightmares dreaded,
And bad paths treaded,
And today
We are alive.
What does it mean?
I think so I am.
I feel because I breathe.
My footprints in the sand
Time tramples on,
And I am forgotten.
Stripped of the flesh,
Bones from Atoms,
Interred and forgotten,
Laughter,
Tears and farts,
And sickness of heart
Today
In your eyes
I am singing, dancing,
Soon to be sleeping
Where I dream
False realities,
Of a wishful mind,
A tenant renting time,
In debt to death
Forever,
A sobering word
For the unknown,
The nonexistent
That drifts from me,
Threatens
Everything I am
Folded, wrapped tight,
Bits and bytes
Saved and kept
Photographs on mantelpieces,
Trinkets and lottery bets,
Captured motions,
Of reflexes--smile,
Moments beguile.
Forever and always
Today and tomorrow,
And yesterdays
Memories of things,
We can only lose.
Memories of people
Always fuse
Memories of light,
Memories of night,
Of days spent dreaming,
Of nightmares dreaded,
And bad paths treaded,
And today
We are alive.
What does it mean?
I think so I am.
I feel because I breathe.
My footprints in the sand
Time tramples on,
And I am forgotten.
Stripped of the flesh,
Bones from Atoms,
Interred and forgotten,
Laughter,
Tears and farts,
And sickness of heart
Today
In your eyes
I am singing, dancing,
Soon to be sleeping
Where I dream
False realities,
Of a wishful mind,
A tenant renting time,
In debt to death
Forever,
A sobering word
For the unknown,
The nonexistent
That drifts from me,
Threatens
Everything I am
Folded, wrapped tight,
Bits and bytes
Saved and kept
Photographs on mantelpieces,
Trinkets and lottery bets,
Captured motions,
Of reflexes--smile,
Moments beguile.
Forever and always
Today and tomorrow,
And yesterdays
- Published on
This may change. Just an excerpt from book 2 of The Civilization (2024)
““You know you’re not really here, right?”
Kadsa turned her eyes from the twin suns dipping behind the rolling hills of Mehronur’s meadow. Why would he say that? She sat right next to him.
"I am right here.”
Khansu squinted, boyishly beautiful against the setting suns. His small, full lips pouted. “You are beside me, but you’re not really here, Kadsa. We’re not together.”
Kadsa met his eyes, unease brewing. He waited for her to understand what he had told her. She glanced at his left hand, coiled into a fist on the grass. She should take it in hers, show him he was wrong. They were here together. Maybe, she thought instead, lean into him, put her head on his shoulders, and snuggle against him. Kadsa reached for his warm hands. His gentle smile revealed neat and even teeth.
Kadsa breathed again. He teased her. “Sure, I am not really here,” she said, winking at him. “I’m nowhere.”
“I am serious, Kadsa,” he said, squinting at the suns. “When they dip below the horizon, you’ll leave and so will I.”
Kadsa glanced towards the twin suns, partly buried already. There was some mythos about gods locked in a duel, or lovers trapped in an eternal dance, bound to each other by destiny. “If I am not here, why does this feel real?” Kadsa squeezed his hand, forcing his crimped fingers apart. “You feel real to me, Khansu. We’re here together.”
“You’re dreaming that you’re here and I am invading your dreams. It’s not real.”
“I want it to be real,” she said, yearning. “I want to be here with you.”
“You can be here with me,” he said, braiding their fingers. “You should come back to Mehronur. Come back to me. I need you.”
Khansu's face blended into the suns’ faded gleam, his words and every inch of him drifting out of reach, from her touch, her eyes.
Kadsa jolted from sleep. Her alarm clock chimed with a critter jingle she no longer cared for and had only selected because it reminded her of sleeping under the stars. She slammed her hand over the stop button, silencing the sound.
Then she sat upright in the tiny bedroom, the sound of screeching cars and voices outside the apartment, smacked in the middle of what her mother called, the mid-town, cozy, busy, and connected.
She hated it.
But she smiled. Today was the beginning of the rest of her life.
Today was the day she returned to Marut.
Kadsa turned her eyes from the twin suns dipping behind the rolling hills of Mehronur’s meadow. Why would he say that? She sat right next to him.
"I am right here.”
Khansu squinted, boyishly beautiful against the setting suns. His small, full lips pouted. “You are beside me, but you’re not really here, Kadsa. We’re not together.”
Kadsa met his eyes, unease brewing. He waited for her to understand what he had told her. She glanced at his left hand, coiled into a fist on the grass. She should take it in hers, show him he was wrong. They were here together. Maybe, she thought instead, lean into him, put her head on his shoulders, and snuggle against him. Kadsa reached for his warm hands. His gentle smile revealed neat and even teeth.
Kadsa breathed again. He teased her. “Sure, I am not really here,” she said, winking at him. “I’m nowhere.”
“I am serious, Kadsa,” he said, squinting at the suns. “When they dip below the horizon, you’ll leave and so will I.”
Kadsa glanced towards the twin suns, partly buried already. There was some mythos about gods locked in a duel, or lovers trapped in an eternal dance, bound to each other by destiny. “If I am not here, why does this feel real?” Kadsa squeezed his hand, forcing his crimped fingers apart. “You feel real to me, Khansu. We’re here together.”
“You’re dreaming that you’re here and I am invading your dreams. It’s not real.”
“I want it to be real,” she said, yearning. “I want to be here with you.”
“You can be here with me,” he said, braiding their fingers. “You should come back to Mehronur. Come back to me. I need you.”
Khansu's face blended into the suns’ faded gleam, his words and every inch of him drifting out of reach, from her touch, her eyes.
Kadsa jolted from sleep. Her alarm clock chimed with a critter jingle she no longer cared for and had only selected because it reminded her of sleeping under the stars. She slammed her hand over the stop button, silencing the sound.
Then she sat upright in the tiny bedroom, the sound of screeching cars and voices outside the apartment, smacked in the middle of what her mother called, the mid-town, cozy, busy, and connected.
She hated it.
But she smiled. Today was the beginning of the rest of her life.
Today was the day she returned to Marut.
- Published on
I am editing my Priestess novel. The story takes place in Edinburgh, but much of the lore is Irish from the Ulster Cycle. As much as it works, it is not the same. So, I'm reading Scottish lore proper. It doesn't have the same rich characters (the Dagda? Hello!), but I live with the horror or some Hibernian chastising me about confusing Scots and Irish lore (yes, I can explain a million times that I understand the differences or inject the kingdom of Dál Riata, and say I simply prefer the Irish lore, but wouldn't it make sense to simply show that in the work?
Ultimately, it's about respect, for the lore, the people, and the author.
Ultimately, it's about respect, for the lore, the people, and the author.
- Published on
New plan ... humility.
Not as foreboding as it should sound, but the excitement for spring has always coupled with a dread of summer, because warm breeze brings realization of failed resolutions ... things promised, none delivered.
Though I do have a way of juicing on self-motivation, believing wholeheartedly that the goddess of fortune will pluck me from the crowd of the discontent, and keep luck tucked away in my pocket, the longer the wait the more languishing I do. So, in the event that luck is a turncoat with a knife, and the wound in my back is fatal, I would like to say, I tried.
That said. I have completed the sequels (two) to The Civilization [of light & Dark] and am playing with the titles: The Gate at Dusk, and Broken Realms. The former is mystical and the latter is on the metaphorical nose. I arrived at the former because of an obsession with Pink Floyd's The Piper at the Gate of Dawn, title taken from chapter 7 of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole and Toad help their friend, Otter find his lost son, which leads to catching a glimpse of Pan while he ushers in the dawn. The eponymous piper being Pan, the ancient pagan god of pastures, rustic (country) music, shepherds and the wild. Pan lives in Arkadia (Arcadia) aka a pastoral paradise (a real place in Greece that has been mythologized)
What does this have to do with my title?
Mole and Toad caught a glimpse behind the curtain of the natural world when they spotted Pan. Ancient peoples created intricate mystery rituals to tap into the wonders of the natural world. If the other side of dawn is daylight and pastures, then the other side of dusk is darkness and what W. H. Auden described as an 'artificial wilderness and a sky like lead.'
The Civilizations series plays with the mysteries of existence and wonder. Like human life, Maruti life is fragile, existing tenuously between here and there, adhering to rules that no one understands but everyone follows. But who are these gods? Books 2 and 3 are all about unraveling the mysteries of Marut and all roads lead to the Gate at Dusk.
Toad, Mole and company might not have breached the boundaries between the material world and the world of gods intentionally, but my characters are all about the journeys of self-discovery, with prophecies hanging over their heads and all. But, as always, these violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. The title of book 3, Broken Realms is, well, self-explanatory.
So, these elementary things got me through the hiemal days. And what will get me through the vernal days?
Not as foreboding as it should sound, but the excitement for spring has always coupled with a dread of summer, because warm breeze brings realization of failed resolutions ... things promised, none delivered.
Though I do have a way of juicing on self-motivation, believing wholeheartedly that the goddess of fortune will pluck me from the crowd of the discontent, and keep luck tucked away in my pocket, the longer the wait the more languishing I do. So, in the event that luck is a turncoat with a knife, and the wound in my back is fatal, I would like to say, I tried.
That said. I have completed the sequels (two) to The Civilization [of light & Dark] and am playing with the titles: The Gate at Dusk, and Broken Realms. The former is mystical and the latter is on the metaphorical nose. I arrived at the former because of an obsession with Pink Floyd's The Piper at the Gate of Dawn, title taken from chapter 7 of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole and Toad help their friend, Otter find his lost son, which leads to catching a glimpse of Pan while he ushers in the dawn. The eponymous piper being Pan, the ancient pagan god of pastures, rustic (country) music, shepherds and the wild. Pan lives in Arkadia (Arcadia) aka a pastoral paradise (a real place in Greece that has been mythologized)
What does this have to do with my title?
Mole and Toad caught a glimpse behind the curtain of the natural world when they spotted Pan. Ancient peoples created intricate mystery rituals to tap into the wonders of the natural world. If the other side of dawn is daylight and pastures, then the other side of dusk is darkness and what W. H. Auden described as an 'artificial wilderness and a sky like lead.'
The Civilizations series plays with the mysteries of existence and wonder. Like human life, Maruti life is fragile, existing tenuously between here and there, adhering to rules that no one understands but everyone follows. But who are these gods? Books 2 and 3 are all about unraveling the mysteries of Marut and all roads lead to the Gate at Dusk.
Toad, Mole and company might not have breached the boundaries between the material world and the world of gods intentionally, but my characters are all about the journeys of self-discovery, with prophecies hanging over their heads and all. But, as always, these violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. The title of book 3, Broken Realms is, well, self-explanatory.
So, these elementary things got me through the hiemal days. And what will get me through the vernal days?
- Published on
These violent delights do have violent ends, and in their triumph die like fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume.
And so begins my first venture into in-person book promotion.
All the hopes of a doe-eyed dreamer.
Come see the pretty books and buy the pretty books. You must love me. Grandeur of thoughts.
Most people who come out to social or community events are elders and parents with young kids, and many of these people know each other, and are there to socialize.
So, I sat there waiting for the moment the cool kids notice me. All the cool kids are teenagers who are volunteers. I'm terrified of them, but eventually handed out business cards with bated breath.
In the end, I was a voyeur to the delight of others, watching the joy of others talk about their work and hoping someone would notice me.
I didn't sell that day. I have more days. More disappointment or new triumphs?
February is the shortest month. Promises to keep and miles to go before I weep.
- Published on
It's been long. A long, cold January. There are issues. I am working through them.
I have plans, also.
- Finish the sequels to The Civilization
- Finish my last and lingering contemporary novel
- Finish other unfinished manuscripts
- Visit book fairs.
Wishing everyone a postive start to the new year!
- Published on
I know the song lyric is 'wake me up when September ends,' and maybe 'nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain' is a better lyric, but either way, the post is dreary.
People are leaving Twitter (yes, I'm deadnaming it). By people, I mean the privileged--middle class, affluent, elitist-orgs, celebrities who are tired of ... being challenged about their dogma? Peasants talking back to them? Elon Musk acting like a rabid fanboy?
It's not clear.Twitter has swung from heavy left-centric to shifting right-centric. Neither option is good.
Bluesky or Threads are all the rage (for now). My old ass tried the former, found it dull and hostile, and now I'm trying Threads after accidentally finding myself on there. In an ideal world, the introvert in me wouldn't be on social media. But the hussle as a small-time author with a small publisher means the job is never done.
That's not the point of this post. I don't like November. The first week of the month should've been the greatest moment and yet the sulk has kicked in--the book release of The Civilization versus the anniversary of my mom's death, a fender bender, the scale, and the cold. There's a delicate unravel as the dark days are here--no more Halloween/pumpkin pie season.
Nothing lasts forever, even cold, November rain. But do wake me when it ends.
People are leaving Twitter (yes, I'm deadnaming it). By people, I mean the privileged--middle class, affluent, elitist-orgs, celebrities who are tired of ... being challenged about their dogma? Peasants talking back to them? Elon Musk acting like a rabid fanboy?
It's not clear.Twitter has swung from heavy left-centric to shifting right-centric. Neither option is good.
Bluesky or Threads are all the rage (for now). My old ass tried the former, found it dull and hostile, and now I'm trying Threads after accidentally finding myself on there. In an ideal world, the introvert in me wouldn't be on social media. But the hussle as a small-time author with a small publisher means the job is never done.
That's not the point of this post. I don't like November. The first week of the month should've been the greatest moment and yet the sulk has kicked in--the book release of The Civilization versus the anniversary of my mom's death, a fender bender, the scale, and the cold. There's a delicate unravel as the dark days are here--no more Halloween/pumpkin pie season.
Nothing lasts forever, even cold, November rain. But do wake me when it ends.
- Published on
Okay, I may have said in the past that I wouldn't go too Tolkien in my world-building, but after running through an old manuscript I decided to polish, I realized I had placed enough foreign words in it to warrant a dictionary, and so I spent the last hours building a dictionary, and creating a proper language for the story.
Creating a language, like other aspects of worldbuilding is very fun. I didn't want to make up words from scratch, so I resorted to using translations of certain words, in particular verbs, from my favorite language sources, which include: Swahilli, Arabic, Hausa, Xhosa, Yoruba and Egyptian. I must say, it was fun to mix and match, and to create words, and parts of speech, and quite frankly, it works well in the story.
I didn't want my heroine, K to know the language of the kingdom by magic. There had to be a language barrier, and she has to learn the language, so that was that. I had the kingdom's people speak to her using the raw script (which the reader doesn't understand, unless he/she consults the glossary) and she relies on visual cues and gestures to understand Marut's people. The only word she understands is saa, because it's used in frequent references to her.
To help with the language's script, I relied on my Jamaican background for inspiration. In Jamaica, people often use phrases such as "unu" (you people or all of you) and "A fi me" (It's for me). The letter "A" replaces the infinitive verb (To be) as well as gerunds (-ing). So, for example: "A-whey unu a-go?" (To where are you going)?'
Here are some Maruti script phrases using the verb "To be." I use dashes and apostrophes to conjugate/ add clarity or show ownership, similarly as English.
The verb "To be" (A-na) in M. script
"Na" (from the verb 'to be'), when used without the 'A'
When placed in the middle of a sentence. E..g. (smu na igaa - she is walking).
Na'a means "mine" as in (O'na-a - It is mine). May also be written: O-na'a.
When placed at the end of a sentence. E.g. (Kyu a-so na - The object belongs to me)
When speaking of one's self: e.g. A-na (I am). A-na Kadsa (I am Kadsa).
When placed before personal name/object. E.g. A-wsa (my daughter)
The letter "O" means "thing" or "it" (subject) and must link to the predicate, in particular, the verb, to have meaning. This is not so with the synonym "kyu (object). An opostrophe between the same vowel "aa" or "oo," changes the meaning, unless the word is a gerund (-ing), in which case, there's no apostrophe. In the example: igaa (walking) from a-iga (to walk).
An "O" attached to another O" by an apostrope (o'o) negates a sentence. E.g. O'o na'a (It's not mine). When the negative "o'o" is paired with the word it/thing (O), only "o'o" is used (same example above). The "o'o" is pronounced "ooh" in contrast to the "O'na-a" where it's pronounced "Oh." Articles (the/a) are naturally implied and therefore don't exist in the Maruti script.
Just some examples. The CiviliZation (2024) is now available where books are sold.
cKm2024 all rights reserved.
Creating a language, like other aspects of worldbuilding is very fun. I didn't want to make up words from scratch, so I resorted to using translations of certain words, in particular verbs, from my favorite language sources, which include: Swahilli, Arabic, Hausa, Xhosa, Yoruba and Egyptian. I must say, it was fun to mix and match, and to create words, and parts of speech, and quite frankly, it works well in the story.
I didn't want my heroine, K to know the language of the kingdom by magic. There had to be a language barrier, and she has to learn the language, so that was that. I had the kingdom's people speak to her using the raw script (which the reader doesn't understand, unless he/she consults the glossary) and she relies on visual cues and gestures to understand Marut's people. The only word she understands is saa, because it's used in frequent references to her.
To help with the language's script, I relied on my Jamaican background for inspiration. In Jamaica, people often use phrases such as "unu" (you people or all of you) and "A fi me" (It's for me). The letter "A" replaces the infinitive verb (To be) as well as gerunds (-ing). So, for example: "A-whey unu a-go?" (To where are you going)?'
Here are some Maruti script phrases using the verb "To be." I use dashes and apostrophes to conjugate/ add clarity or show ownership, similarly as English.
The verb "To be" (A-na) in M. script
"Na" (from the verb 'to be'), when used without the 'A'
When placed in the middle of a sentence. E..g. (smu na igaa - she is walking).
Na'a means "mine" as in (O'na-a - It is mine). May also be written: O-na'a.
When placed at the end of a sentence. E.g. (Kyu a-so na - The object belongs to me)
When speaking of one's self: e.g. A-na (I am). A-na Kadsa (I am Kadsa).
When placed before personal name/object. E.g. A-wsa (my daughter)
The letter "O" means "thing" or "it" (subject) and must link to the predicate, in particular, the verb, to have meaning. This is not so with the synonym "kyu (object). An opostrophe between the same vowel "aa" or "oo," changes the meaning, unless the word is a gerund (-ing), in which case, there's no apostrophe. In the example: igaa (walking) from a-iga (to walk).
An "O" attached to another O" by an apostrope (o'o) negates a sentence. E.g. O'o na'a (It's not mine). When the negative "o'o" is paired with the word it/thing (O), only "o'o" is used (same example above). The "o'o" is pronounced "ooh" in contrast to the "O'na-a" where it's pronounced "Oh." Articles (the/a) are naturally implied and therefore don't exist in the Maruti script.
Just some examples. The CiviliZation (2024) is now available where books are sold.
cKm2024 all rights reserved.