For the week.

As a part of my promotion for the release of Dorus, I thought I’d invite anyone and everyone to jump into my stories. The shape that’s traditionally taken is this softer approach.

For the dozens of people who read this newsletter, maybe it’s a way to convince some of the people around you to jump into my tall tales as well!

That’s also an invitation for you few who have yet to catch up on the story thus far. What I mean by that is Dorus will throw us back into the Epic of Maneus. The same map and the same world, this time we’re seeing the first glimpses of the primordial evil that resurfaces to correct the divine mistake that defines original sin.

But before we dive into all of that, how about an irrelevant tangent that’s been on my mind?

Performative Pilcrows

There are a lot of written conventions I was unaware of before getting into more formal publishing. Some of these were easy to learn along the way, some were hard lessons I needed to fight to understand.

All of them were arbitrary and disconnected from their own history.

Now, I’ve never been a particularly strong reader. I’m slow with words and need to consider intention. That translates into both a cowardice and a self-aware ignorance. Even the slowest to reach a conclusion eventually does so given enough time for consideration.

There is no room for error in the modern era of commercialized success, however. Those who know not deliver their message in brightly lit neon signs that signal a lack of education — a symbol in passionate flames that tells everyone who needs to know that you do not belong.

As I’ve come to learn the ropes and cut my teeth, there are a few of these rules I’ve actively chosen to ignore. The worst offender, to my limited lewd knowledge, is my insistence on the use of “alright” over “all right.”

Any self respecting editor or publisher would not be caught dead using such a clear signifier of common speech.

Oh, but there are many more!

Each with increasing layers of absurdity.

One of my favorites being the standards for indentations. The almighty paragraph and its vague insistence upon the separation of inherited ideas. Only, it’s never as simple as that. The way we leave those few extra paces is a relic of a forgotten character, the pilcrow.

The ¶ symbol that some may recognize from that one time they enabled an odd feature in their word processor. This was a medieval convention that marked an ambiguous separation between thoughts on the written page.

After the invention of the printed press, it was customary to leave a blank space in books and documents and all matter of written material. The idea being someone else could come in and stamp the pilcrow grapheme onto every section that needed it.

However, mass production enabled by Gutenberg’s machine meant production soon far outpaced the required manual labor. As such, they just left the space without the stamp, creating the paragraph indent we know to this day.

Ever Each

Peeling back one layer, more are revealed. A surprisingly dense etymology I recently stumbled upon is the one for the incredibly common word, every.

As we go back in time, the fact that this is actually a contraction becomes more obvious. We see it in Chaucer with his spelling, everich, from which it’s certainly easier to see the combination of ever and each.

For this ye knowen also wel as I,
Whoso shal telle a tale after a man,
He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan
Everich a word, if it be in his charge,
Al speke he never so rudeliche or large,
Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe,
Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe.

Oh, but we can go much further into the past!

For this was already a contraction of the Old English with ǣfre ǣġhwelċ, but it doesn’t end there. These seemingly singular words are they themselves also thought to be ancient literary inventions. Although it gets rather confusing, the puzzle ends up looking something like the following:

So maybe I shouldn’t feel so guilty about using alright.

And if you wanted to read Red Marigold Dressed all at once, I put it up on a new page to make it easier to do so.

I was also recently on The Book Besties Club and had a fun time talking with Charlotte about my books. It’s about an hour long and is available wherever you listen to your podcasts.

Otherwise, it’s now time to fully shift gears and get ready for the release of Dorus. The manuscript is all but finalized and the cover is ready to go, but I’m waiting on the ISBN to arrive and a few last minute checks before I hit the publish button.

Reading Order

As a prequel to a prequel, there are obvious questions around which book should be read when. For me, I don’t think it should matter and hopefully I’ve cobbled everything together in a way where that remains true.

That is to say, I believe Maneus, Rhean, and Dorus can each be read as standalone stories perfectly fine. They are told in different styles and have vastly different things to say, with their own narrative arcs that find a (cathartic) conclusion without relying on cliffhangers.

There is certainly room to say that the overarching battle of good versus evil is enhanced in one direction or the other, but I’m still not convinced it can or even should have a huge impact on the overall individualized experience.

The familiar (and unfamiliar) names matter less than the unique way we explore the map and the characters therein.

Bored and Excited

Taking the mood down a notch, some of the steps leading up to having a new book out in the world have become routine. This will be the 8th book I’ve released since stating this substack.

I never imagined the force behind a silly little thing like buildspace would motivate me quite as much as it did.

The way Besnowed was really more of a side project and how that turned into experimental sales, rising into an entire skillset around writing, editing, formatting, and marketing.

With that theoretical success came many more painful lessons in material failures. All the effort put into becoming an author has meant next to nothing in terms of a potential career that can support my life.

That leaves this moment between the end and a new beginning falling into a familiar bittersweet flavor of future regrets.

Not for having the courage to express my heart, but for lacking the ability to realize more.

I won’t wallow in that pit of despair, but it is important to bring up the reality of it all as I march forward in time.

Here’s to another attempt!

Cheers,
JMB

As a demon reborn, I transformed Moni Natal into a hell of my own making. The village burned and the defenses faltered.

My crew grew stronger as the living fell in battle.

The men defending the Masarsk Shipping Company couldn’t comprehend that power. They saw madness on my scars.

I kept on searching through the flames.

The ghosts were finding peace in that place beyond life. They would almost thank me as they drifted away on a newly christened vessel.

I offered them a route past the gravity hole and they chuckled at the bearing. We all knew where they were really heading.

A bargained deal that only ever ended with eternal damnation.

I had found the island on a forbidden map and claimed my victory in blood. A worthy sacrifice for my unholy cause. A lesson those poor souls needed to learn as the sun fell in the sky and the nightmares came to claim me.

The last to fall was none other than the coward himself.

“Zerah Koj!” The one-armed Pergi Raha found me in the burning rubble. “I know why they call you the Salamander!”

I needed to sharpen my blade.

“It was me!” Pergi shouted, looking the Salamander right in the eye. “I called it in! Do you know the price on your head?”

“I would be more surprised if it wasn’t you, coward.” I pulled out my blade and raised it above my head.

“I was a part of the crew who conquered your shitty little village!”

I sliced Pergi’s head clean off before he could say another word. I had long since grown tired of his crooked tongue. His spirit found no rest in death. I watched as his soul refused to admit defeat. He would linger as embers until a new colony settled, paid in full under a new name.

A gift for the investors who would pick up the tab and the trash.

We were a crew of one when I was done.

I danced in that despair and smiled against the setting sun. Those moments before my candle’s light flickered out, I could almost smell the marigold flowers again. The familiar feeling of a home I once knew.

“Why do they call you the Salamander?”

She asked.

My flesh burned in response.

“I am owned by no man. I am owed by no man.” I felt the fabric of that red dress. Across infinite possibilities, my arm reached for hers.

We were meant to share a life together, but I would settle for death. I pulled her close and the warmth of our bodies together was everything I ever wanted.

All those in my way were contrived distractions for that final moment together.

I leaned down and our lips met as the flames formed walls all around us. A kiss to connect our souls beyond the barrier between our worlds. The oranges and reds swirling into a more familiar pattern as I fully remembered our love.

We were in a field of marigold flowers.

I watched her dance in that dress.

“Are you finally coming home?”

Kesuma was so beautiful. I can’t believe I lost her that day.

Erased from existence.

My legacy is as ash.

Dancing Flowers

I hope you enjoyed this foray into a new format. Letting my writing speak for itself is not something I usually do here. The newsletter/blog format puts pressure on me to (over)explain everything I’m doing.

If, however, the weekly format felt somewhat annoying, I’ve put the whole story together in one place to make it easier to read through the whole thing:

Otherwise, Dorus is almost ready to push to publish, and I’ll be excited to share more in the coming weeks as everything ramps up for the launch!

Until next time,

JMB

Mar Português

Ó mar salgado, quanto do teu sal
São lágrimas de Portugal!
Por te cruzarmos, quantas mães choraram,
Quantos filhos em vão rezaram!
Quantas noivas ficaram por casar
Para que fosses nosso, ó mar!

Valeu a pena? Tudo vale a pena
Se a alma não é pequena.
Quem quer passar além do Bojador
Tem que passar além da dor.
Deus ao mar o perigo e o abismo deu,
Mas nele é que espelhou o céu.

Portuguese Sea

Oh salty sea, how much of your salt
Are tears of Portugal!
To cross you, how many mother's cried,
How many sons prayed in vain!
How many wives never married
For you to be ours, oh sea!

Is it worth it? Everything is worth it
If your soul is not small.
Those who want to go beyond the Cape
Must go beyond the pain.
God to the sea, danger and the abyss he gave,
But in it mirrors the sky.

— Fernando Pessoa

There were no more signs. Just another nightmare. Night after night. Day after day. Pergi tried to tell me that my screaming from the quarters scared the crew, so I killed a few more of them.

Ten was more than enough anyway.

The tide rose into a swell that consumed the continent. With the dead in our wake, the Holy Faith rode those waters onto the shores of Moni Natal. For every soldier I lost, we would kill one hundred more. Victory in our grasp when the rivers were stained red.

If it wasn’t Kesuma and her dance, that was what I saw.

And on one of those mornings after I screamed all night long, we heard something new.

I knew the sound.

We all knew what it was.

The birds. Some kind of land. We would arrive and the port was ours for the taking.

“Pergi!” I shouted from my quarters. We needed to whip up the crew to storm the town.

“How are ten of you going to take down a Musarsk Shipping Company stronghold?” The ghost of Modro was much more confident than the living man. Something about no longer needing to breathe seemed to have calmed his nerves.

“You don’t think the captain steered the Holy Faith wrong?” Usul was quick with a joke. His wit sharpened in death.

“No, but can we trust Pergi to have done anything right?” Modro smirked and the three of us shared a laugh.

Pergi stepped past the missing door. His eyes darting around the floor of the room. It made him uncomfortable when I spoke to the ghosts of his friends.

“Captain…” He didn’t dare raise his head.

“Get the men ready for the raid.” I looked out the window and saw Moni Natal. A small island that looked barely fortified. They thought themselves protected by contracts.

Idiots.

“Yes, sir.”

Pergi scurried away and I laughed at another of Usul’s comments from beyond the grave. I can no longer remember what he said, but I wanted the survivors to see how much it amused me.

It wouldn’t be long before the demon took full control. The one they called the Salamander was where I found the strength.

We were still ten remaining.

I managed to control myself.

We needed a body count at least ten times that.

The Salamander convinced my crew to take the spoils of victory as its own prize.

Whatever foolish nonsense worked as a convincing spell.

Then the series of events that led to the razing of that village were simple. All it needed was an initial spark. When we were close enough to wash ashore, I gave them the cue.

Or maybe it was the Salamander.

It’s hard to tell past the veil.

One of us set the Holy Faith on fire and shot five bullets into the air. Pergi’s cowardice led the charge. He instantly lost an arm, but the others continued marching forward.

There were short silences at the beginning of each bar. Those were then followed by a simple off beat rhythm. Everything was stained in blood.

A red tide following a harvest moon with desert dust sweeping in from the horizon.

The depths below tried to hide our fate, but the boat sang our demise. Shipwrecked in a pile of salted flesh, I worried when Pergi tried to map out our progress. He wasn’t as good at it as Usul.

Nine nights on the water and no land in sight.

It felt like a trap because it was one.

“Been crying into the ocean longer than the boats have been crossing!” I could hear his ghost speak to me. I heard all of them. They would whisper into my ear until I set them free.

“Which boats?” I spoke to him freely. It added to the fear in the remaining sailors’ bones. They sounded an alarm and sang my name. And these were the ones who called me mad?

Perhaps they were right, but I was far from the only one.

“Fuck if I know!” Usul always made me laugh though. I appreciated his humor on those days when all hope was lost.

“What do you think he’d say?” I pointed my gun at Pergi’s head. “Does he even remember your name, Usul?”

The look in that slime’s eyes. He didn’t know what to do, his head turning on its neck to follow a conversation he couldn’t hear.

“That backstabbing bastard doesn’t know his head from his ass!” Usul got me to laugh again and the sound made Pergi piss himself on the deck.

I shot him in the leg and told him to clean it up.

“Careful of infection!” I nodded at Modro who joined in the cleanup. Those still loyal were making the best of the time. I shared the orders with them and we made our own route in kind.

The port on that island was ours for the taking. Kesuma offered a fair price on behalf of the Musarsk Shipping Company, but why take a bargain when I could have the whole market?

The glaring issue was our predicament in the gravity hole. We were circling and it didn’t make any sense. Pergi was a shit navigator and there were no landmarks to speak of. The wind was blowing every which way and there were no birds in the sky.

It was impossible to tell how to set a proper course.

The radio only picked up static.

“Anything else we can do?” Modro trembled when he spoke to me. He was a bad replacement for Usul.

All I could do was pray. The stars would be a guide if only I avoided sleeping. But the nightmares always came to claim me.

I could never focus.

Not when I knew she was waiting.

Kesuma dancing along the waves. Her red dress was a sign, blood spilled in the water to track a new path. She could show me the way to that Moni Natal.

Even without her voice on the radio, I heard the siren’s song crystal clear.

I chased her as the Salamander from the day she first fell. Her shrieking call in the dead of night made it hard to follow every echo.

The ghosts were crowding the helm.

I needed to let them go.

I needed to sharpen my blade.

We were a crew of only fifteen left.

“Yes?” A voice crackled through the static. Pergi opened the door with one of the keys on a chain he wore around his neck. His hand was shaking. I’d just shot three more of his crewmates dead.

We were a crew of fifty strong.

“Past here you’ll find the radio.” His voice was soft and he choked on his words. “I-I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

He’d kept the room hidden. His kind of slime is always looking for underhanded power.

“Round up three more.” I watched his eyes lose their focus. He was so afraid of the fire in mine.

“B-but, captain!” That was the only time he tried to defy me. I knocked him down with the blunt of my blade and stepped hard on his head. “Y-yes. Right away, captain.”

I tore down the door with my leftover rage and let it fall on Pergi. He would need to claw himself up to fulfill my command.

The task at hand never needed him anyway.

“Is this the captain of the Holy Faith?”

Her voice boomed from the old machine. It sounded so official. Artificially important and out of scope for a warship. Someone must have sold us out.

“Aye. Captain Zerah at your service.”

“Zerah the Salamander?” The voice coughed then cleared her throat, sounding more human. I didn’t know if that was a part of the programming or just a reaction to my reputation.

“Aye. Zerah the Salamander has commandeered your vessel.”

“You have stolen Musarsk property. Comply with the contract or find your life forfeit under our internal policies.” She found new composure as the situation settled. A Musarsk representative would be used to negotiating with pirates.

“What’ll you have of me?” My voice was calm. I didn’t fear retribution. I was curious and I knew who she was.

Kesuma Koj.

My beautiful love.

“Set a course for Moni Natal. Avoid any contact and you’ll be paid more than double the value on the black market.” She made the deal instantly appealing.

“Well, it seems like you know how to get things done.” I paused as I thought about where the company wanted us to go. “What’s your name?”

I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway. The living world does not enjoy knowledge sourced from the damned.

“You can call me Kesuma.”

“Kesuma…” I repeated the name under my breath. The communication cut out after that. I found some peace with the bodies Pergi offered as sacrifice, but I started seeing her in my dreams again.

I needed to sharpen my blade.

When I welcomed the dark into my mind, all I saw was Kesuma Koj dancing as flames across the rooftops. A strong desire painted in marigold flowers. The familiar scent of home let me know none of it was real.

I loved her all the same.

The way the thin fabric draped down her shoulder and kissed her neck. The colors flowed with her steps and made peace with her time.

My life was lost on that day so long ago.

When the ocean died and the Salamander crawled onto the shore.

I started hearing her voice crackling over the radio in those distant dreams. She sounded exactly like I remembered. A perfect harmony for an impossible melody.

And as the Holy Faith crossed the gravity hole, those visions turned darker. It was a shared nightmare for all the unlucky survivors left aboard.

The poor sods.

I would execute them on a whim when emotions ran too high. They thought me their equal, but I will never die.

The demon in me replaced the human soul on the day everything else burned. When Kesuma finally fell and her dance stopped.

Her body on the ground in a bed of burnt petals.

I still remember the smell.

None of those men were loyal to anything like we were to each other. It turned out Pergi and Usul weren’t quite as close as I had thought either.

We were a crew of thirty strong.

@matriarchmothraWhy do birds suddenly appear?

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The Holy Faith was an old vessel, but she knew the ocean well. By the time that mattered we were already caught in the gravity hole. I learned the history after I took the boat as my own. I killed that wretch with little protest from his men.

They were conscripts who suffered or cowards who deserted. None were the type for organized mutiny. I was the strongest arm of lawless rule.

“I’m the only one left who knew the original crew!” Pergi Raha was quickest to gain favor. He stepped over the dead captain’s corpse and kneeled in front of my still raised arm. He was the kind of useful slime needed to run a ship of that size. “They had some trouble making it this far. On the losing side of Unification it seems. The Holy Faith drifted up from Antarctica, past Thule and the Cape. I only met her when the winds started blowing north!”

We were a crew of nearly one hundred men.

I looked him over without saying a word. Everyone on deck was silent. They were lost souls swimming to their fated end.

“Pergi Raha at your service, sir.” He stood up with his eyes lowered. He didn’t look nearly as tired as he should. He lived a better life than the others. Yet his clothes were all the dirtier. The scent of salt mixing poorly with the sweat on his skin. “You are… you are him?”

“Who do you think I am?” I lowered my arm and holstered the weapon. The blood from the shore was dripping down my other leg. I needed to sharpen my blade.

“The Salamander?” Pergi looked up. His eyes were almost yellow he was so scared. “Am I wrong?”

“Clean up this mess and let’s get going.” I turned around and he began barking orders. The crew was nothing more than abandoned boys who would listen to anyone who claimed the role of captain. The divide between our peoples meant less for anyone risking heritage for heresy.

That was partially the demon’s fault. Thus, it was partially my fault too.

The nightmares soon followed.

I never escaped them.

I thought we would avoid contact on the open sea.

I was, unfortunately, only mostly correct.

“You wouldn’t know a lehenga from a third leg!” Pergi elected an elite few to join him at his table close to my quarters. He grew confident with the scraps of power I let him pick at.

Usul Bari was the loudest of that bunch. His voice was harsh, but everyone on the ship was a part of the same rough bunch. Castaways and castouts who had nowhere else to call home.

The Holy Faith shone as a beacon for us ghosts. Comradery was the only option.

“I don’t care if it’s jhumar or aksak, you won’t dance! No sea legs and you’re appealing to a coward’s pedantry!” Usul felt comfortable enough to play past the pretension. That or he no longer cared if he lived or died. Either way, it was ample entertainment as we drifted through the lows.

I set us on that new course the moment I was in full control.

You could feel every wave as those conversations waxed and waned. A breath in and the bow fell. Breathing out with the rising aft. Twists and turns heard in every nail and creaking in an echo of loose planks.

A waltz in three parts with every lurch forward. Five feet or two inches more, I prayed every night that my men saw no reason before the gin ran dry.

“Who names a fucking island after a holiday?” The table welcomed another voice at an empty seat. Modro Drani wasn’t as loud as Usul, but he shared that ease in conversation. They would work each other up into a frenzy, openly asking questions while others hid in the shadows.

“Ask Zerah the Salamander!” Pergi looked around nervously when he tried to keep up with their confidence.

“I won’t bother the captain. I mean, I know it’s something. Not Bhadu… Oh, what about that Frithlic feeling?” Usul was the hero of those three. His tongue felt no fear against any God or the Seven Saints. He spoke his mind and let it sting where it lied.

“What?” Pergi would nervously answer if the curses went too far.

“Just some religion in Antarctica. Popsicles have nothing else to look forward to down there.” Usul would invite Modro to join him in a round of loud laughter. Pergi didn’t know if he should utter a sound at all. He turned his neck to look for me. He wasn’t aware of my full story, and yet he was rightfully afraid to offend.

They were mixing up the information. That was all the better for me and mine.

I left it vague to keep them in the dark.

I just never thought that would lead to us being stuck in the hole.

I found my way after the Musarsk Shipping Company murdered my family and destroyed my home. There was nowhere else to go as the rest of the village burned. Erased from the map. What little remained was covered in scars. A crushing defeat under marching orders.

I did what needed to be done.

Survive.

Earth is uneven at the best of times. There was a path through the sea. Some official noise spewed from the mouth on one of their traitorous soldiers. I stabbed him with no hesitation. Many soon followed.

His kind paid mine no mercy.

I repaid the courtesy.

My name grew into a mythos for those on that coast. Islands and treasures meant nothing to me. That was why they failed to capture Zerah the Salamander.

Until the day I heard something new.

“The gravity anomaly is just a calculation error!” My latest victim shouted at me as his blood pooled in the wet sand. High tide. I would commandeer his captain’s boat and command the crew. “Something about the surface! That’s all it is!”

“What’s hiding in the shadows?” I raised my blade. I needed to sharpen it.

“What?” His voice was raspy as life left his veins. “You can’t see anything out there! You’ll never even notice…”

“And yet you cite the differences in what is observed and what is theorized?” I raised my other hand and looked down the barrel. Traitors are of little use. I shot him dead and left him where he lay.

Against the rocks where his body would be surely swept away by waves.

The way the water reached his neck reminded me I needed to get moving or I’d miss the right winds and weather.

The arriving storm and its anticipation creates that space for relative comfort, or so the saying feels like it says.

I find myself in that space while I work on and wait for Dorus to be ready.

A surreal atmosphere with time itself slowing down as the wall of what’s about to happen approaches, getting closer and closer with each passing day.

Some of this exaggeration is surely little more than the lazy warmth of summer finally showing signs of the far edge of the season, but I like to think there’s more to the magic than the mechanical ticking of a well constructed clock.

Whatever the case may be, the waters of my imagination are a little still as the current of another new book picks up and rushes away.

Long & Short

In less poetic waxing, I have a bit too much on my plate as I focus on the ramp-up to releasing Dorus. In fact, I feel like I’ve probably mentioned it too many times these past few weeks.

I only say it yet again to let you know that I’ll be trimming down some of the content here on Nightly Noise. To make up for that, I want to share a longer short story over the coming weeks.

I originally wrote it sometime last year, and I’d describe it as a cross between a pirate and a ghost story.

The inspiration came from two unexpected and specific sources.

The first was something I happened to hear while mindlessly scrolling and putting off work:

I enjoyed the song, but I was particularly curious about the sample used throughout. The rapping is obviously in English, but I didn’t know the other language, other than recognizing it was probably South Asian.

After a little research, I learned the sample is from a song written by Ratan Kahar, a Padma Shri, a recipient of one of India’s highest civilian honors (something like the equivalent of the Presidential Medal of Honor in the US).

The original folk version is titled বড় লোকের বেটি (Boro Loker Beti Lo, Daughter of a Rich Man).

In the modern remix, these famous lines are repeated as a catchy hook.

Ratan Kahar’s original lyrics tell a more complete story that captures rural life and family ties. I read it as a poetic reflection of how simple, everyday matters define the truest moments of our mortal souls.

Dramatized emotions as universal as any of the love stories penned by the Bard himself.

Although, maybe the specific descriptions are a little less international and not everyone has such a strong connection to a genda phool, but I believe the overarching feeling of anticipation and preparation as an aspect of love is certainly common to us all.

However, I think it’s fair to say Ratan Kahar wields what are very familiar sentiments to those who speak the Bangla language, fully expressing the beauty of his local life in the old song. As a foreigner and very much an outsider, I found it has a charming quality on its own that’s easy to appreciate:

The other source of inspiration for this new short story came from learning about the Indian Ocean Geoid Low. This is much less a cultural and much more a scientific discovery, but gravity affects us at different rates depending on where we are on the surface of the Earth.

Apparently, there is a “gravity hole” in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The term itself is fantastic enough, but what it means is there is a spot where the fundamental force is mysteriously less powerful than anywhere else on the planet — and significantly so!

To this day, as far as I can tell, we don’t seem to really know why. Now, rather than getting bogged down in a potential hypothesis or questionable explanations for an anomaly I don’t even understand, I’ll simply say that I loved the way the physics was pulling me in.

A combination of mystical, magical, and marvelous that has the makings of a fantastic adventure across the Indian Ocean.

I would even argue it’s practically begging for a story to be told!

And so I brought a new world to life in my own way.

That’s what I’ll be sharing over the next few weeks, but first the short introduction to set the mood and end this week’s newsletter:

Red Marigold Dressed

I have no doubt that I will be remembered as evil incarnate. Those who defend me would be wrong to do so. I make no attempt to rectify my reputation.

What follows on these pages is a retelling of my inexact revenge. I make no claims to be of good or noble stock. As I already said, I never had any intention of upholding such an honor.

On the day I made my final decision, I knew all that mattered was the water and the waves.

A dance with death in that red marigold dress.

Yours forever,

Zerah the Salamander

“I am owned by no man. I am owed by no man.”

It was a rough few days for us in France, but there is a certain unique feeling of relief once we’re on the other side.

There was a good amount of humor around it across the pond, with Americans a little confused why no one in (Northern) Europe has air conditioning!

This somehow turned into a heated debate, but as far as I can tell the only real reason is there’s not a huge demand. It’s usually only hot for a few days, although these “exceptional” years seem to be more and more common.

Rather than raising the temperature again into another argument, I’m more looking to clean off the sweat and move forward.

And the real task at hand for me is the continuation of editing Dorus.

As a quick reminder, feel free to send me a message if you would like to read through the current draft to help find any errors or other oddities that need to be changed!

Finding A Soundtrack

Diving into the cooler details, I wanted to talk about a very important aspect of writing and editing, at least for me.

Picking and choosing the right music!

I can be very particular about what song or style fits a certain scene. To the detriment of my own progress, I’ll waste too much time scrolling and searching until I have the right mood in my ears.

What that really means varies greatly from book to book. One story may demand a fast paced rock anthem and another may require a calm droning sensation.

I also differentiate a kind of overall soundtrack that is useful to capture the feeling of the characters and their lives and a “secondary soundtrack” that is more utilitarian. That second one is what ends up playing the biggest role when putting my head down to really get to work.

A playlist that has my body disappear as my mind writes words on the page.

This is often an evolving playlist that I update as time goes on or as needed to ensure I progress at a decent pace.

For Dorus, there are a few prime examples I could share, but rather than digging through the shelves, I wanted to highlight a very recent youtube video that’s entered into the rotation.

I’ve found myself using it to focus as I sift through the finer details of the latest draft.

The “video” doesn’t move at all. It’s just an image of an imagined elf. The music is rather unassuming soft piano pieces, but I’ve had it on repeat for days.

For me at this moment in time, it has this perfect balance of something I can vaguely ignore while being emotional enough to engage my ears.

While I do think the music itself is lovely, the reason I’m sharing it goes beyond the static image and dancing keys. After having listened to the whole thing many times, I scrolled down to see what kind of comments could possibly have been left by internet passersby.

And I was awestruck by a comment left by a random Spanish speaking stranger.

This vulnerable honesty is rarely so humbly shared.

Whether it resonates or even makes any sense is less important than the act of having it been written out.

The bravery of risking misunderstandings in a quiet voice comes with the reward of finally being heard. The loneliness we feel in those long years drifting through an uncaring void often leave us numb to all sensation.

And it is shocking how something so subtle can trigger the realization. The dark thoughts, the raging passion, the unending love, all of these expressions of emotions have a home as they are.

And that’s enough.

There is no need to create a grotesque mockery of oneself in the form of a false idol that is captured in a mirrored image of beauty. Dorian Grey or Narcissus, pick your poison in any era, but the warning’s all the same.

Although I’m mixing nihilism with the mythos of narcissism (or eventually hedonism) at this point.

But I’m not someone who thinks we should ever give into that logical inevitability.

In fact, I have a public plea for hope that explains much of how I view the insanity that is caring about anything at all.

Capturing Soul

Exposing emotions to the harshest elements of the world is almost always a life changing experience.

That is a decent way to describe what it really means to express the essence of a person. The inaccessible aspect of our thoughts where a nagging sensation or an undeniable compulsion to do and be certain things shouts and screams.

There’s an honesty in what that represents and it’s easy for every living person to differentiate those who actually meet the muse from those who are just pretending.

There’s more that goes into playing an emotional song than simply knowing the right notes.

It’s impossible to fully share either pain or pleasure within the bounds of the dictionary. The heart goes beyond what’s said in words and breathes life into the endless expanse of what’s left unsaid.

Seeking ways to connect with others despite that paradox (or perhaps because of it) and finding a truer and deeper understanding is where stories are born.

And that’s what writing really is for me.

A way to know thyself and the human soul.

The means by which I’ve learned to express the deepest emotions.

The question of how we feel anything at all has answers in the adventures across narratives found everywhere on Earth.

One American poet who mastered the task in his unique style is Tupac Shakur. What would otherwise be forgotten lines in a lost notebook live on as a strong message for hope.

I read these words as ones that reveal the importance of never giving up on your own chance to prosper and blossom.

We are all seeking answers that are found in flowers attempting to sprout. The harsh elements of a given situation do not need to be the final verdict. There is beauty waiting on colorful petals, and it would be a shame if it were never shared with others.

Processed Letters

While not as heavy and definitely less impactful, I thought it appropriate to end this week’s newsletter with a little reminder of my own hand-written nonsense.

That is to say, I’ve sent out a new bit of snail mail for those who are subscribed on StampFans. I’m experimenting with reusing the base template I already had, but I’m not sure I like doing that.

I’ll see how it turns out and how it feels, but regardless of what I do next, I do think I should try taking more risks on odd ideas in this specific medium.

Maybe even jumping into a completely new style as a way to really practice putting the pen onto paper — or the screen.

Otherwise, until next time,

—JMB

Mine seems to be heading into yet another intense heatwave. Europe’s going to be hit hard and it’ll be a rough few days if not week.

Where I am, things were already so bad the local block party was cancelled!

So, I’ll be trying to keep cool and hopefully distracting myself with more editing as people look over Dorus.

Mirrored Hemisphere

With the worst of summer hanging heavy in the air, I find myself attempting to escape into my colder stories.

Whether that’s Besnowed in Antarctica or Significatorius in the southern tip of South America, both come with the added benefit of crossing the equator into the opposite season.

And as luck would have it, someone recently sent me a photo of Significatorius in the real life setting where the story takes place!

While slightly less relevant to this exact location, the entire Antarctic Collective was included. I was also sent a pretty cool photo of Besnowed looking out at the same area!

And of course, there’s already an actual copy of the book in Antarctica, so this is just a proper pilgrimage “across the strait” for my words and stories.

Maybe it’s the ocean on my mind after seeing that water, but I was reminded that I have another piece of flash fiction I originally intended to share while I ramped up to finishing that coherent draft of Dorus.

Since my thoughts are well scattered with the higher temperatures, I suppose I won’t question the idea and I’ll just round out this rambling with exactly that short piece of writing.

Squirming Squid

The ocean and her currents are always signaling a sea change. The salt gives the soup a nice flavor. There’s peace in the pressure and comfort in the crumbs. Swimming through life trapped within a cell for a pod.

Until one day the rain soaked up the land. Floods into a moving van and a budget bus down the coast. Last minute preparations as the entire city was put on hold. Luck in the stars or stubbornness in the woods.

What matters now is an address for the final year. Abroad in an exotic land, learning how to integrate with a foreign culture. New customs and a new system. Swimming with different species of fish in this high school collection.

The ripples in the water make a splash on the scene. Frozen into icicles or flowing through the marsh. The impact of disturbing yet common words. An impression of an ambiance as the hours drag into the quarters.

Variables between known knowables and simply not caring. The folly of days long past. Fresh meat among men.

Squids were never meant to live on land anyway. The kind of love it’s hard to look at and a home that’s never quite there.

A symbol of beauty in the eyes of the bland. An icon of inspiration for the few experienced in fishing. Catching attention. Appreciation from those who need to be caught.

Living larger than the tides with a new migration north. The damage is done but life somehow goes on.

The rare combination of a creative drive and an instinct for determination. Questioning the job without a distaste for the work.

A lack of inhibition or passion beyond repair, those muscles are where life’s greatest glory cultivates and grows. Long-lasting survival with more meaning in the waves beneath the water.

Struggles untold or silent wisdom. The tentacles holding that knowledge point in different directions.

Only a squirming squid has the wit to follow every arm.

If only I knew better to follow in their wake.

Hello Heat

It’s too hot for me to say or think much else, so I’m off to try to survive the rest of the week.

Hopefully it’s cooler wherever you are.

Or at least you have air conditioning!

Otherwise, until next time,

—JMB

Well, even if you don’t, I’m happy to also announce that I’ve finished the second round of edits for Dorus.

Going from the roughest of drafts to something more coherent is always rather difficult. This is the moment where I finally start to share what I’ve written after removing entire sections and chapters.

There’s a lot of excitement though.

The next series of revisions will take into consideration other eyes, comments, and suggestions.

And for a taste of what’s to come, here’s what Dorus will be doing for the dedication:

This is a runic poem that essentially is an ancient version of the alphabet song. When English still used runes, every letter came with a few lines to help memorize its symbolic meaning.

The one I’m including in Dorus is for ᚹ — or Wynn, for the appropriately analphabetic when it comes to extinct forms of writing.

Now, it’s important to note that while I have a completed version of the book, there are a lot of things likely to change before I actually push to publish. The rawness of these earliest examples includes all the errors I could never find.

Having said that, I think I’ve settled on a satisfying opening for the prelude. And I guess I’ll share that as an enticing appetizer:

Of the myths and legends that shaped the land, none are longer lasting than the forgotten hand. A first mover obscured in constant flux, shadows and shades all misbegot.

The chaos as dust,

Those birds as lust,

Every life as fragile as the final gust.

So, if you’d like to look over all I’ve written, let me know and I’ll invite you to the google doc!

Birthday Surprises

As cosmic coincidences go, I’m quite enjoying this one. Finishing up a decent draft of a new book just in time for a celebration!

I’ve never been one to ask for much of anything specific, but if you feel like indulging my impulses, well I can think of nothing better than reading my books.

For those who already explored my worlds, I would infinitely appreciate a review on either Amazon or Goodreads. Although all I really hope for is that I provided an entertaining moment for you and yours as you make your way through your day.

At best, I would love to hear how you convinced others around you to check me out.

But that’s a wish well past the moon!

If I were to make a suggestion as everything ramps up for the release of Dorus, it may be beneficial to explore the world in which the story takes place.

That is to say, there’s no escaping how this is a prequel to a prequel.

The “map” I originally sketched was meant to explain just how far away Lithan was from the corner store his father owned and operated. That insignificant point of interest has grown into epic proportions way beyond the initial three generations.

And the framework set in place in that tome of a novel came to be defined by the book that became Maneus.

☕️ Coffee, conversations, and chaos

Available on Amazon

However, the character who is Dorus was only introduced in the book Rhean. Even if I never originally intended to dive back into my own universe, it was an enriching experience to further develop the world and its mythos.

From the start, the challenge in writing a prequel, at least in my eyes, is having something that makes sense without the plot being contrived. What that means to me is ensuring all the pieces of the puzzle fit into place without any obvious retcons or explanations that contradict everything that has “already happened.”

From readers’ reactions, it seems Rhean is written in a way that does just that. To the point where I’m surprised to see people say it makes sense to read Rhean before Maneus!

🗡️ Reforging a broken blade

Available on Amazon

I am indeed very curious to see if Dorus will lead to a situation where the “preferred reading order” is from the earliest prequel moving forward.

Essentially creating a situation where the story is most satisfying when read in reverse chronological order from when I wrote them.

That, to me, would be one of the greatest signs of success!

And if you want to test that theory or prove me wrong otherwise, well it’s best to make sure you’re caught up with the story so far.

Or perhaps you’ll find inspiration in the other direction once you’ve read Dorus.

“Can I suggest one thing?”

Since I’m deep into talking about my new book, I thought it would be fun to share some of my thoughts around the role of sound and music.

A lot of the research I did for Dorus involved medieval and earlier literature. One of the most striking differences between how stories were experienced 1,000 years ago compared to today, is the role of the bard.

We used to be an audience who listened to a spectacle.

The idea of privately and silently enjoying a book was almost unheard of, especially for those outside of the elite upper class.

Rather than strictly adhere to outdated standards of epic poetry, I believe there’s a path to deeper appreciation via modern contextualization. This is something I feel very strongly about and write about all too often.

In less academic symbolism and more pragmatic background-soundtrackism, one of my biggest struggles while writing Dorus was finding an appropriate playlist.

I am overly picky when it comes to these things.

My sense of self requires the correct sound for a given scene. If you could monitor my process, you’d see me become enraged as I was disappointed with a piece of music that didn’t quite match the emotion I was looking for.

One of the greatest breakthroughs I had was when I was wasting time scrolling. A short video algorithmically catered to my interests.

I was instantly awestruck. The music itself was one thing. Clearly, I was looking for cello suites and I’ll admit I was tired of Bach.

The intense sound combined with the lesson in emphatic expression, well that matched exactly what I needed to hear.

It was Benjamin Zander and his perfect encapsulation of what it means to feel an emotion that is impossible to express in words. We who are otherwise well-meaning are far too often pressured to limit ourselves into a role that is “too comfortable.”

Something that is easy to digest and understand but is bland if not completely meaningless.

The uncomfortable bitterness that is a strong emotion means more when the audience believes you yourself feel it!

That is the exact conclusion I came to as a writer.

And if you’d like to listen to the full song, well here it is:

Magnum Opus

A close friend of mine once explained away the eccentricities of Maneus as an exploration of my fundamental self-expression. He called the book my magnum opus, meaning that it was something I should do regardless of whether or not there was a clear target audience.

That was earlier in my author journey when I was still attempting to legitimize a career via literary agents. I’ve since learned a lot about the industry and what it means to build commercial success.

One conclusion I’ve come to is that it’s far better to be a good salesman and a bad writer than the other way around.

However, discovering Frieren and the massive success she has seen around a slower story built with intentionality reinforced my intuition. I may not have those who appreciate my style everywhere, but there are certainly many people out there who want to examine the mundane through a unique lens.

There is something universal in how the everyday truly defines who we really are.

From birthday celebrations to inconsequential bank holiday libations, we are who we are because of the limited time we share together.

Or something like that.

Otherwise, until next time,

—JMB

We’ll get back to that in a minute, but first I’m happy to say that after 90,000 words a coherent draft of Dorus is done!

I still want to go through and edit quite a bit, but I finally put all the pieces together and the full book is (mostly) there.

What is the story though?

A part of the next steps is me figuring out how to properly talk about what I wrote, but the broad strokes are that Dorus takes place 500 years before Rhean.

As the character Dorus Chatahyuk is someone we meet very early in Rhean, that may seem odd since he is not a god nor is he a gardener-sage.

For those caught up, there is a sinister explanation, but one I won’t jump into right now.

Instead, I want to evoke my initial question. Do you like having an actual image to draw on when it comes to picturing characters or do you prefer to have it all in your head?

I’m somewhat limited in my capacity to create images as very much a writer and not a visual artist.

But the questions around images and imagination aren’t simply a matter of having the talent or not. The easiest example in my mind is the uncomfortable way movie adaptations end up becoming the new covers (and overall image) of popular books!

Why am I talking about this?

Well, an author friend of mine who specializes in fantasy children’s books, , recently brought my character to life!

This is Dorus Chatahyuk as we meet him in Rhean, which should give some clues as to how it might not be so strange that he is indeed unusually long-lived.

But enough about that, let’s get back to the content I thought I needed to share to buy more time until I could announce this draft of Dorus.

Although to be fair, it will likely still be a few weeks until I’m really ready to put my story out there publicly.

One way or another, I guess this is the transition into a piece of flash fiction.

Playfully Hateful

Every night the same group meets around the fire. Ashes to cigarettes and cakes thrown at the ceiling. Defiance for the kindness shared between an absent administration. Comrades in laziness as the sun sets and swords are drawn.

Topics bounce around the embers. An orange glow in the oasis. Adulthood innocence yet to face its own maturity. Nurtured tranquility in the removal of expectations and perfection in the awkward expressions.

The game breaks all the rules. Comfort in the unnerved mind. The wrong gesture or the right comment is all it takes. The dark path lights up and the descent down cracked cement begins.

Twigs snatch and patches of dirt sway beneath the trampling feet and flailing arms. Hot pursuit down the familiar disaster. Playing. Chasing. Hunting. Killing.

A game for chickens in the yard.

Who dares make the first blow?

Barreling down the sights of a shotgun decision in the dread of a knight. Holding back and ready to pounce. Cry out in a pleated plea. Show them a smile next to the sharpened tools.

A step too far follows a short grasp onto handrail guards. A flight of stairs and a well manicured lawn in the dark. Surrounded on all sides. The dead weight of a sorted soul floats down the uneven angles and rough textures.

Outnumbered and outmanned. Two hands for each limb and a roll of duct tape for the body. Round and round the firepit in a fit of laughter. The victim knows their role in the punishment and the captors know the pain. The power. The law. The sin.

Everyone raises their arms to pound another round of cheers on the worldly table. Wrapped in silver. Spoils of gold. Empty pockets for the victors as the board tallies up the score.

If only it were meant for someone else. All in a moment of fun or a lifetime of hate. The violence of a guilty act shared with a haunting smile.

Withering on the floor as the shadows return home with their prey. Boisterous praise echoes across the abyss. Dragging and washing the corpse at the limits of tomorrow.

Celebrations among friends and a return to how things once were.

Unthinkable evil in the spirit of another light’s delight.

A few more cigarettes to thaw out the soul.

Mind’s Eye

If I had my way, I’d end these newsletters without a conclusion.

The last thought to tie things together is, for me, an annoying step where I have to ruin the magic and connect the dots. There’s certainly a balance to be found between fully spelling it out and leaving your audience in the dark.

Ambiguity can be fun, but it’s also often frustrating.

Or in a pithy way to wrap these words around themselves, images help but they’ll never trump imagination.

But if that extra effort bridges the gap while keeping my style intact, well I think it’s worth it.

Otherwise, until next time,

—JMB

A massive heat wave hit Paris last week and it’s only just now beginning to really cool down.

As such, my motivation is a little low as I make sure the oven of my apartment welcomes as much cold air as possible before it gets hot again.

But to keep up my writing here with a little cheer — or at least some fun along the way — I thought I’d share something I wrote a while ago.

An old passage I wrote that I suddenly feel like it shouldn’t be wasting its life under a pile of papers.

Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll actually put together Nightly Noise Vol. 2.

Virtually Flawed

Pale flakes. Broken books. Unworded resolutions and all is forgiven.

This life of ours and its few twists and turns leave a trail. Molten sludge rolling down the landfill. What little remains of the melted soul is left up to a bet between chance and fate. An odd dance among the comets in the skies. Tales lost to history’s demise.

On one of the more solidified yearnings all that persists is a stale wall and a dark desk. Years spent learning from that past with the number two and an early morning encounter filled with deeper desire. Everything needed for a dialogue among friends.

Aid in the hands of the absolved or the sins hidden in the dirt. Actions meant for a single intention, seeping into the walls and scouring the scalps of younger men.

Are you not gracious for the hate I share?

Stale bites of a weak voice held up against a prefabricated image of what is right. Justice in the rift between our worlds. The difficulty in finding a true fight no longer matters when the almighty recorded what was once thought to be nothing but the aftertaste.

Misguided advice as the numbers drift farther and farther apart. Holiness held on high and loathsome fear sinking to the depths below. More than misfired, a shot to the heart and a strike at the cœur. Those who wanted nothing but the good hour are doomed to the real emotions of an act.

Are you so incapable of even an ounce of empathy?

The gravity of a twitch. Unreserved pursuits weighing heavy on the arms. A cache of anger leaving no room for regret. Traveling light and making sure the rations last. Eruptions flaring up as the clock measures the temperature of the room.

Even as the heat radiates through the stains in the carpet and up the legs of the chair, it’s hard to paint a vivid smile. Protection from the elements is not the ultimate goal of a personal calendar. Floating into the last few months with the lightness of an afternoon’s cloud.

I know what I said cannot be forgiven.

The flawed human figure decides who was right and who was wrong. Blood leaking out into an infected wound spanning both eyes. Demolished dorms and weakened friendships in the name of a virtuous call. An alluring well against the infinity waiting on the other side.

An ignorant ear to the ground for what was meant to be heard.

Listen carefully for the reassuring laws and psalms.

All is forgiven.

Lost Mnemonics

For some concluding context, I took this text from an original collection I planned to submit to various publications in an attempt to build a public portfolio.

Clearly, that didn’t work out as I wanted.

And what better time to share it than now!

Otherwise, with the start of a new month, it’s also a good time to remind everyone of my StampFans project: Monthly Moss.

My silly little thing where I send out an actual physical letter. If you’d like to receive that in your mail, well be sure to sign up!

Until next time,

—JMB

There’s a lot of talk about what it means to meet specific expectations or follow a plan to its end. Most of this falls under the broad scope of a noble idea, but when it comes to writing sometimes it’s easy to get lost in the weeds rather than plant any trees.

Or perhaps I’m just feeling a little extra scatter brained today. An excuse or not, I’m taking it easier to let my more active thoughts focus on the task of editing.

A way to let the impersonal and personal shift in meaning and intention. Hopefully enough to remove myself from any accusations. The kind of disclaimer at the beginning of a book meant to remove any legal liability.

Ah, the fear of being seen as I work to express myself.

Ouroboros or not, the kind of esteem that eats itself alive as anxiety.

In clearer terms, this week will mostly be another piece of flash fiction!

Released Tension

Vacations are meant to be the one time of the year when you can relax, so why does it always leave me feeling so stressed?

The kind of question James often asked himself right before everyone piled into the car. The reservations, the flight, the overnight delight, it all added up to a lot of stress.

“Get in the car already!” He shouted out the open window, resisting the temptation to start honking the horn. They weren’t really late either, but all the built up tension involved with so many moving parts got to him. The way everything needed to go just right for anything to make sense at all.

What should have been an all inclusive excursion risked ending up as a chaotic week of constant vigilance. A job in and of itself even with the drinks flowing freely. Not to mention how thoughts of what needed to be done back home always entered his mind before the car even left the garage.

“Come on! The lines at the airport are long! We need to get there early!” That and other such bullshit was the run-of-the-mill lying he spoke out loud to hide the fear he hid in himself. It’d be wrong to say James meant to put this pressure on his family, but it would be equally false to claim his stubborn attitude didn’t sour the experience from the start. “And they’ll be waiting for us!”

The door to the garage swung open and an avalanche of suitcases fell through. On the other side was a young boy flanked by his two sisters, each with their own excessive amounts of toys and playthings tucked into their arms.

“Everyone’s used the bathroom?” Julie shouted from past the front hall. She was doing her last minute check-up to make sure nothing important or unimportant was forgotten in any of the messy rooms their children claimed to regularly clean.

“Um…” One of the girls spoke up and the expression of James’ face signaled the end of an uneasy truce. “I need to use the bathroom…!”

Her voice squeaked out the excuse and she dropped her handful of plastic memories right on the floor. A doll rolling over the spilled suitcases and bouncing under the car.

“Jesus Christ…” James sighed and cursed under his breath a few more times as he unbuckled his seatbelt to step out of the car. He didn’t like it, but he also wasn’t going to let a toy be the end of any lingering possibilities for real relaxation. “Every fucking time…”

And as he reached for the doll lodged under the back of the front-right tire, his mind was busied with the task at hand. Annoyed and aggravated, but very much distracted. When James lifted his head again, everyone was peacefully waiting in the car, holding in their laughter.

Oh, how the tables had turned.

James himself let out an honest smile. The first he was able to muster since before any plans were even mentioned of a trip. He let out another sigh and finally found a way to let it all go, driving the hour long trip to the airport in a newfound relative peace.

What remained was opening up to exploring the possibility of all that was waiting on the other side. The memories Julie had of waterfalls and beaches and how the children knew nothing of either.

“Wow!” The little boy bounced in his seat as an airplane roared above the car. “Flying is so cool!”

James wondered why he had let the bad mood build so high in his mind. The way it was all released with little rhyme or reason only added to the humor of it all.

Not letting the stress sabotage everything. And, at least for a little while, seeing the real benefit of a family vacation.

More Writing

Other than these little stories, I’m still working through the Dorus edits. There is certainly more to be said about how that process has gone, but I want to wait until I’m closer to the end.

Rather than a mix of jumbled thoughts, I think I’ll eventually share a completed idea of how I put it all together and solved the equation of my own missing pieces.

Otherwise, until next time,

—JMB

There is a lot of excitement rolling around my head as I work through what I wrote for Dorus.

It can be funny questioning your own thoughts, but for me that’s a part of the process. Early on, some ideas maybe didn’t pan out the way I thought they would.

Repeated sections where I clearly lacked the confidence to commit to a specific direction for the overall plot.

The spelling errors and questionable grammar are the least of my concerns as I clean everything up.

Tick Tock Tick

With limited time and a lot of my energy being used up in editing, I’m keeping things short this week.

I still wanted to share something new, so I thought I’d let my fingers find their way around the keyboard in that dance they like to do.

In other words, a short story or a bit of unbalanced prose as a more unfiltered creative outburst.

Spilling cups of coffee

Thoughts race faster with the caffeine dancing through the veins. The morning after or the night before, it’s a rough start either way.

The writer’s block trapped in a cell as scribbles in ink slip down worn walls. Broken trust in another attempt at honesty are the words to the prayer painted black in sin.

“No sugar.”

The hours wait for the hands of the clock to catch up. Deadlines and spaced repetitions mixing memories with expectations. A search for truth in the depth of desire as the page is filled yet again.

“The story tells itself!”

The writer says with a smile. A dirty counter or a messy desk, the space between those moments mark the definitions of the frame. From inciting incident to the last drop of blood, the end is sealed in a new blend.

Roasted fresh to keep the day moving forward, the flavor of the drink is what keeps the routine coming back.

Until it’s time to share what has become.

“So…” Hidden in the questions and fearful in the answers. “What do you think?”

Satisfaction in a breath.

Disdain in a look.

Confusion in a word.

The tiniest of suggestions move the needle wildly. Whether it’s hope or a distraction, what is written is what is done.

And more thoughts race to tell another story.

Back To Work

Well, I hope that was as fun for you to read as it was for me to write!

No matter the case, it’s now time for me to get back to editing. The long work of reading over every line I ever wrote for the third and fourth time.

Until next time,

—JMB

This otherwise simple question was one that raised quite the debate among my family growing up. The two schools of thought were to either strictly follow the recipe or to guesstimate and just kind of approximate everything, substituting when necessary and tossing spices in with no real methodology.

Now, for anyone who really likes to make food, both seem a little off.

Strictly following a recipe is absurd because your ingredients will always have slightly different flavor profiles.

Adding substitutes without checking how it affects the flavor is equally silly.

What I believe is the more genuine approach is tasting along the way to make sure you’re cooking something that tastes how you want it to taste.

I believe this to be generally true for all forms of art and expression.

“I don’t know how”

If you’ll allow an extension of this metaphor, there’s a story about the great guitarist Paco de Lucia that was often repeated among my high school friends. How he himself talked about becoming a master musician, but didn’t understand how to improvise.

One of the first times he explored that side of self-expression was when he went on tour with Al Di Meola and John McLaughlin. He openly talked about how uncomfortable he was with “just playing.”

Removing the usual structure that had molded him into a master was unsettling.

A feeling I think is shared by quite a few classically trained musicians. The jump from prestigious sheet music to a discordant jazz chord can be jarring. Learning to listen and adapt rather than strictly following the recipe.

Treating a Treatise

Now, in my explorations into medieval literature, I stumbled upon what is considered to be the first English language instruction manual, A Treatise on the Astrolabe. The full text is a long lecture written by Geoffrey Chaucer on how to use, unsurprisingly, an astrolabe.

If you are unfamiliar with this ancient instrument, well you could actually learn all about it in his writing today! To keep it simple, an astrolabe is a very versatile tool used to facilitate navigation by the stars.

Otherwise, the writing is indeed very dry and simply explains how to use it and how to apply that knowledge practically.

It’s also remarkably understandable, considering the 14th century origins.

I particularly enjoyed this bit in the introduction, where Chaucer explains some of his motivations behind putting together an instruction manual for a child to learn how to use this piece of equipment:

Now wol I prey meekly every discret persone that redeth or hereth this litel tretis, to have my rewde endyting for excused, and my superfluite of wordes, for two causes. The firste cause is, for that curious endyting and hard sentence is ful hevy atones for swich a child to lerne. And the seconde cause is this, that sothly me semeth betre to wryten un-to a child twyes a good sentence, than he for-gete in ones.

Now will I humbly ask every single person who reads or hears this little treatise, to excuse my crude and rude editing and composition, and my superfluous use of words, for two reasons. The first reason is, that curious and complex editing and writing and difficult sentences and meanings presented at once is full heavy and burdensome for such a child to learn. And the second reason is this, that it truly seems better to me to write to a child a good sentence and meaning and definition twice, than he forgets it all at once.

NB I prefer leaning into doublets to highlight slight shifts in the way words are used to help highlight cognates in Middle English. I find that better preserves the original while viscerally contrasting our modern style.

The crux of the long list of instructions is that an astrolabe is a precise tool that requires specific understanding. In other words, it won’t work if you don’t follow the recipe.

Outlining the End

I believe some of the differences I’m circling around come down to how one defines science and art. Breaking down emotions into specific formulas may work in general, but it misses the point of the paradox that is the human condition.

We are not always reasonable actors. I would posit we are rarely so. Any attempt to make a plea to that more sophisticated reasoning falls into the realm of manipulation and rhetoric rather than self-expression.

I’ll leave that there because I don’t want to dive into a value judgment of what that all really means. However, I thought it would be worth concluding the thought differently with another personal reflection relying on ancient perspectives.

Socrates famously never wrote anything down. In fact, he was against the very idea of learning from books. He thought relying on records diminished the effect of dialectical learning.

That is to say, he valued the entire process of a dialog more than memorizing the conclusion. However, it’s important to understand some of the context within which he lived. Ancient Greece still had a thriving oral tradition. Memories and stories passed down in the form of epics, most famously Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey.

The irony is that we only know about Socrates and his philosophy today because Plato wrote about him.

And a remarkable aspect of Plato’s writing is how he thrived in narrative descriptions, but struggled with more academic instructions. This is almost comically juxtaposed with how he downplayed the role of art and expression as something approaching a vice:

τοῦτο, ἦ δ᾽ ὅς, ἔμοιγε δοκεῖ μετριώτατ᾽ ἂν προσαγορεύεσθαι,
μιμητὴς οὗ ἐκεῖνοι δημιουργοί.
εἶεν, ἦν δ᾽ ἐγώ: τὸν τοῦ τρίτου ἄρα γεννήματος ἀπὸ τῆς φύσεως μιμητὴν καλεῖς;

And the tragic poet is an imitator, and therefore, like all other imitators,
he is thrice removed from the king and from the truth?

— The Republic, Book X (597e)

And when we move forward one more generation to Aristotle, we meet the master of modern science and the precursor to nearly all instruction manuals. Contrasting with Plato, Aristotle’s much more dry style documented the importance of art and expression!

On a personal level, I sometimes describe myself as having “Plato’s curse.” A mismatch between my skill set and where I place the highest values. That is to say, words and stories come easy to me, but I’m vaguely drawn to philosophy. Recently, I opened up to an old friend about this idea and his response has stuck with me:

I’m not so arrogant as to truly see my books as influential as one of the greatest thinkers in human history, but I do appreciate the sentiment.

These are just some of the thoughts swirling in my mind as I finish the first rough draft of Dorus.

I have the full arc written and prepared, but there are holes in the story I need to repair — not to mention the countless errors or simply poorly worded sections.

However, I do believe the bulk of the creative work is now done and I hope it is satisfying to read when I’m finally ready to share what it has become.

Even if I needed to taste the dish along the way and didn’t follow any recipe.

Until next time,

—JMB

My account was compromised and all my subscribers were deleted and then thousands of spam accounts were added.

Luckily, I caught it before any actual spam was sent out.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s in my triple checks to ensure everything is now super secure.

A sobering moment for me to attempt building out my legitimate audience on Substack again. And with that, I’m doing something I rarely ever do and actively asking you to subscribe:

But dealing with a security breach is always a bit of a bitter pill to swallow.

There’s quite the vulnerable feeling that comes with falling victim to a hack or a scam. No one to really blame but yourself, it feels particularly difficult to move on with that new fear in the back of your head.

A nagging sensation that it will happen again.

A threat that activates a fight or flight response.

And I find myself just wanting to figure out how to go back in time to rectify the initial error.

Vile Sophistication

Now, to tell the full story, this is an ongoing battle with a stupid mistake I made. After accepting the security breach I welcomed unto myself, I’ve rather annoyingly learned a painful lesson in the evolution of modern cyberattacks.

I didn’t want to speak too publicly about all this. One part to avoid tipping off any other potential threats, but also because I’m quite embarrassed.

But with Substack being hit, I thought I should share some thoughts about the state of my life online.

Namely, the old way of the internet is dead and has become a vulnerable weakness. Hackers and other malicious actors are currently light years ahead of security measures. The cutting edge of attacks insert themselves into your operating system’s kernel (the lowest level possible, in the marrow of a computer’s bones essentially) and can even bypass 2FA (Two Factor Authentication).

These attacks are sophisticated and big tech companies seem powerless to stop them. To make matters worse, the communities I grew up with are at risk because of the inherent trust built up between anonymous users. Foolish and idealistic in nature, people like me are uniquely primed to be exploited by social engineering that mimics certain expected behaviors.

I believe this to be a sign of a shift in the ever-evolving way we interact with technology. To put it bluntly, how I and many millennials use the internet is outdated.

The world we once knew is gone.

And reality has a rather ruthless approach to getting things done.

As far as technical details go, the nature of the attack is known as an infostealer or a session stealer.

The hacker can spoof or clone your active browser and apps, bypassing any need to login or verify your identity. A known exploit for well over a year with little action taken on the part of those responsible for secure connections.

To keep it simple, the solution is to wipe and reformat your hard drive and reset all your passwords from a separate device. All of which I did. Indeed, I went the extra mile and left Windows entirely, installing Linux and being quite happy with the result.

However, what I’m seeing this morning shows some of the edge cases I missed. Since I didn’t have a password for Substack (I just logged in with my google account), changing all my passwords did not do anything for active sessions.

This is where we hit another annoying wall when dealing with this kind of attack. Google has no “terminate all active sessions” button and you are expected to do it individually, manually, as best you can remember.

That means logging in to each account and finding the “reset password” button, wherever it may be hidden.

Creating a new password here has effectively done that now though, so I should be in the clear.

The nature of modern technology makes it difficult to be 100% sure.

But I have done what I can and am bringing my strongest fighting spirit. An incredible way to start a new week!

Monday, Monday

So, in the spirit of Mondays and miscalculations, I’ll lighten the mood and let you know I originally wanted to spend this morning talking about how I’m approaching the end of the first rough draft for Dorus.

My new story has taken on an epic shape, but one I’m quite satisfied with. An exploration of stunted growth leaning into the darkness around my evil villain in the name of Dwolmarik.

I’ll leave any plot details there for now.

The better use of my difficult emotions is channeling this uncomfortable situation into my writing. The way time is my enemy and we are all victims to the indifference of the eternal universe.

Or maybe I’m just embodying the spirit of Garfield.

No matter what the case may be, I hope to have everything settled sooner rather than later.

And I hope those of you who are still here enjoy my words and stories.

Until next time,

—JMB

The sound of a memory can ring loud, but the way it meets our ears often depends on the mood, the crowd, and most importantly the reflection of its forgotten shadows.

In my exploration of my own invented world, I realized I haven’t shared one of the first iterations of the corner store where cheap cups of coffee rest between strangers and friends. That oddness to Book I and its claustrophobic atmosphere is one of the defining features of Maneus.

Although to be fair, I did once write about some of the backstory. The broad lines from an audio drama concept, to finding motivation after my eldest sister read an early draft of the script and encouraged me to develop it further.

There is, of course, more to the story.

But before I dive into that, I think it’d be appropriate to dig up the pilot that is roughly what became Chapter 1. The acting certainly doesn’t match the passion, but it’s still a lot of fun to see the traces of what Maneus would become.

So, take a seat and step into the dirty corner store:

The original idea was to have 10 episodes each 10 minutes long. A test of a format along with a creative challenge. Working with friends from around the world, I needed something that was possible to record without a centralized studio.

Eventually, I had dreams to expand this into multiple series, but as I’ve said probably too many times, it all fell apart. Life gets in the way of itself and we lose sense of the things we once wanted to do.

Fortunately or not, my foray into writing books allowed me to pick up those loose embers and at least attempt to light a new fire.

Ambitious Editing

However, an even earlier inciting incident occurred with a fully realized Comatose Podcast project. For those who used to listen to my show, that pilot is clearly something I was working on with the same people I recorded weekly episodes.

Now, the format of Comatose was also a little outside the norm. Three, often disjointed, segments introduced by narration and floating between different music. The enormous effort I put into organizing it all, finding guests, and constantly searching for new songs was never really rewarded.

Regardless of the lack of any compensation in either exposure or salary, there were a few creative experiments I attempted while running Comatose though. From long form interviews to repurposing famous speeches, I was equal parts motivated by keeping the show alive as I was exploring new ways to express myself.

An example of an experiment that stands out in my memory was our first “Christmas special.” I gathered a few people and asked if they would want to try doing a more cohesive narrative, keeping the three segment format but shaping the episode around Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

So, we did just that!

Unfortunately, the final result is lost to time. Or rather, behind an old paywalled soundcloud account that would require several layers of remembered passwords, and then paying to unlock it.

Maybe a project to look into when it’s a more appropriate season!

That was one of the earliest pushes I had toward longer narration though.

Lending Ears

The question at the start of this newsletter was more than just a stylistic doublet. The difference between listening to something and hearing something is semantically important.

I once attended an entire linguistics lecture covering these differences. How one is about actively paying attention and the other a more simple passive recognition of sound occurring.

Playing with these meanings that we often intuit rather than stop to understand is a big part of the beginning of Maneus.

So, I thought this would be a nice conclusion to this week’s thought, with an invitation to read the full story if you’re so inspired.

☕️ Maneus — Coffee, conversations, and chaos

Do you have any regrets?

Or perhaps I’m only stating my wish to have you listen to my words.

Until next time,

—JMB

There’s a lot that’s hidden between the lines when it comes to what we share about ourselves. Some of that is strategic in how we handle awkward situations. The result, though, is a tendency toward the bland in an effort to become nothing at all.

A fear of what the proverbial other might think as an excuse to deny oneself of enjoyment and pleasure. These are the necessary restrictions built into a social contract, but it can feel like a bit of a raw deal.

This push and pull that defines our everyday personal existential crisis is at the core of Dorus at a mythic scale.

That fear of being seen.

Of being judged.

Judgment

Being a prequel to a prequel, the fate of the protagonist must be predetermined. The narrative playing field cannot rely on any plot twist or in the revelation of a yet unknown conspiracy.

Or it can, but I feel like that would be incredibly contrived.

Instead, I chose to make Dorus an exploration of my world and a few of its unknown parts. Whether it’s a fuller history or a more filled-out map, all that is secondary set dressing to what really matters.

The weight of what I hope to capture is well presented in a powerful spoiler-filled scene from Final Fantasy XIV:

Now, in the story I’m writing everything is centered on Dwolmarik’s entrance into the ultimate war of good and evil that continues through Rhean and Maneus.

Dorus, the character, has always had a strangeness to his appearance. Described as a short and flamboyant man, his very existence is a manifestation of stunted growth. A child who was dared to touch a big blue door and reaped the rewards in a devil’s debt.

That makes Dorus someone whose judgment has already passed. The old god Dwolmarik will not humor human emotions after his betrayal from a long, long time ago.

A god’s downfall leading to a rather childish, emotional reaction. But an almighty deity is forever bound by his own infallible judgment.

Forgiveness

For mere mortals, I find this plays out more in hiding who we really are. The fear of any retribution is enough to make people act accordingly. Ringing the bell feeds Pavlov’s dog, even when the food’s long been gone.

For a corrupt soul, this easily leads to madness. A confusion of what is and what ought to be, with the latter being the voiced opinion on every matter and the former being the silent action of every prayer.

And whether it be man or god, what a conscious being often really searches for is forgiveness. An excuse to let go of all the pent up rage and bottled emotions. Absolution of sins committed, even if they’re only in the mind!

And perhaps a path to healing the flesh of its rotten state. A diseased flow of blood dammed by wounds, poor health, or just medication.

Spiraling out of control in search of a guiding star. Wishing for an answer to finally reveal itself and then finding nothing but darkness inside.

Where this painful feedback loop is absent is in innocence.

Where we find innocence tends to be in an idealized childhood.

So, Dorus is a mortal with the appearance of a child. A gift bestowed upon him through a curse — a pact with Dwolmarik and his scheme for revenge.

In other words, Dwolmarik cannot forgive humanity because he has already passed judgment. Dorus, as a reflection of human innocence, only seeks forgiveness, but is forever caught in between.

Honest Courage

There is an irony in a deity being susceptible to the woes of emotional outbursts and relishing in the chaos. Dwolmarik is a mythic example of improperly processing jealousy and other negative thoughts.

And in our human history, there are no shortage of similar stories. The one that jumps to my mind is in the Book of Job.

The way Job has his faith tested as a bit of a bet between the divine council seems particularly cruel in an almost human way, if you’ll excuse my quasi-blasphemous phrasing.

While the story now ends with a reward for what was lost, that doesn’t change the fact that there was a high price for such frivolous questioning.

But the moral is more about the honest courage it takes to be human. We will never understand everything and we should never expect anything for submitting to divine will. The nature of the universe is inherently beyond our comprehension.

Or so I interpret the story.

That makes Dorus something of an unwilling corollary to Job. Someone who is marked by a god without his knowing.

How this ultimately plays out is where a moral distinct from the ending exists. A way to create a compelling narrative without worrying whether or not the future is already known.

At least, that’s more or less, what I’ve been working on.

Until next time,

—JMB