Category Archives: Writing

Dichotomy Conundrum

Friends, From My Brain to Yours, Thinks I Like, This Just In!, Writing, ,

I attended a writer’s workshop this weekend and I was asked to review aspects about the characters I like best and what about them appeals to me. The workshop director put it much more eloquently giving us a list of concepts to consider when deciding what fictional person appeals to us most. Allow me to publish that list here:

From the GreenStudy Writer’s Workshop:

What kind of arcs appeal to you?

Think about your favorite characters?

Why do you think that appeals to you?

How does it reflect your values?

Because this practice is a time-sensitive exercise, we have between five and ten minutes to answer what turned out to be a fairly philosophical and self-revelatory question for me. I could try to trim and polish my deduction into an erudite, well crafted blog post. But, I like the immediacy of having a thought and putting it out into the world. (I blame social media.) Also, my NaNoWriMo Novel awaits some attention. So, instead, here is my raw, unfiltered assessment of what I look for in a character/arc and why it appeals:

MY DICHOTOMOUS REVELATION

I like happily ever after stories. Where good triumphs over evil. But I also like more nuanced characters—ones who can laugh at their own failures but also learn from their strengths/faults. Characters who are underdogs—but not necessarily bullied or too weird/outside the mainstream. Because I am weird and always have been to most people. I think these characters appeal because I would like to be more brave. I would like to be better—without having to do the hard work to make it happen. I wish I would do the challenging thing and stand up for my beliefs. To confront others when I believe they are in the wrong. But, I am too much a people pleaser and I avoid conflict by nature. I have loved legal dramas as a way to step-by-step prove who is the bad guy and, by default, who is the good guy. But my inner cynic says, ‘there are no real good guys’ and ‘even if there are, they are corruptible or fallible or mortal and the bad guys win in reality more often than the good guys do!  

I would like reality to be as happy as the endings I read. But I am disappointed by a doubt of most stories that end that way. I am conflicted by the pat, too-easy answer. And yet, I crave it. I probably should just come to terms with this dichotomy before my literary aspirations throttle me. Or prove me right and eventually I become an irresolute cynic with no hope for humanity.

So, there you have it. I am at heart–split in two. I am a hopeful cynic; I am a discouraged dreamer. I want better things I don’t believe will ever happen or that I deserve. This extends to my writing. When I write, I do it with the hope that it is better than I think it is, and not nearly as bad as it likely really is to anyone with talent and taste.

And yet…I like what I write. Perhaps that is the core of a writer. We have to have faith in our vision–or that vision gets squashed before it can blossom.

So, if you too have an imaginary world you would like to see come true (e.g. when the world around you feels like it has fallen into a dystopian hellscape) then join me in a writer’s workshop–where we gnash furiously over our feelings; cutting our literary teeth on a digital landscape that spans continents if not dimensions.* There is a joy in sharing a work in progress with fellow writers who can sympathize and help you expand your imaginary world–as well as sharpen your story telling skills in a safe space.

[*Please note, that Michelle at the GreenStudy has absolutely nothing to do with my insistence on massacring metaphors. In fact, she has thoroughly and gently explained to me that just because I enjoy a certain amount of bludgeoned similes and truly love mangling overused analogies doesn’t mean anyone else does!]

So, know this, if you insist on keeping your writing full of flaws, untouched, unvarnished, and unread–then this might not be the right place for you! Over the many sessions I have attended, I have learned to love my writing and even embrace–gasp–editing while working on my stories. I’ve learned that I can write an outline before I begin to put that story down on digital paper–so to speak. I also appreciate the polish gently provided by having outside expertise–and a core of beta readers–willing to review my work and help by nudging me away from my admittedly bad purple prose habits and giving me directions toward brighter, better writing.

And, lastly, I truly enjoy meeting and talking with other writers at my level. All writers have to start somewhere; it helps when you can share your doubts and struggles with someone who knows what it feels like. I love the friendships I’ve formed almost as much as the imaginary worlds I people with heroes and villains who just need to find their happy endings–or overdue justice served cold, hard, and epically karmic! Just the way it should be in a perfect world.

Check out The Green Study where workshops help writers make the world a better place–at least, on paper.

Another Woman’s Life

Click Bait, Family, From My Brain to Yours, Photographic Memories, Writing, , , , , ,

I like to go to secondhand stores–places like Goodwill, Mel Trotters, Changing Thymes–this gives me a chance to browse other people’s discarded treasures.

I sometimes post my finds to Facebook–things I find especially funny or ugly or both. But I recently went to a Goodwill depot to dumpster dive and I found something I have never seen before–another woman’s life up for sale. As I write this, I am uncertain of how much I will be allowed to tell you. So, this may turn out to be a bit like the hugely disappointing reveal of Al Capone’s Vault by Geraldo Rivera–a whole lot of nothing wrapped with a pretty bow.

* * * * *

Continue reading Another Woman’s Life →

Wordless

Poetry?, Rambling Rose, Thinks I Like, Writing, , 
WORDLESS
by Kiri L. K. Salazar

The words hewn from my mind are forced into uncomfortable arrangements. 
Sentences with broken backs and incomplete endings. 
Things that dangle. 
A worrisome focus on grammar and clean lines—syllabication truncated to succinctness. 
When all I want to do is run through words like a child through a field of flowers. 

Wild and untethered, 
I would pluck the verbs that please me best and make of them a bouquet.  Smell the deep earthiness of adjectives that bite the tongue when you speak them. 
Crush the scented mint between lips full of prose.
Using adverbs sparingly so as not to overpower the taste. 
       Slowly. 
               Surely. 
                      And with great pleasure. 
 Carefully measuring synonyms by the spoonful.
 
But harnessing words is tricky business. 
Bringing them through the slip stream of consciousness and pinning them to the page is not unlike stabbing a butterfly after the ether withers them. 
Do they become inert things no longer filled with life?
Pretty facsimiles of something that once breathed?

If words are not my playthings, then what toys do I have left?
How to describe what lurks in the folds of my mind? 
If I cannot use them with abandon, are they orphaned? 
Are they lost forever in a void of never-has-been-ness? 
A not-being that sucks my soul into a black abyss. 

Am I then become wordless?

Autism in the Trenches

Art, ArtPrize2021, Welcome To Autismland: Population YOU!, Writing, , , , , , 
AUTISM IN THE TRENCHES
BY KIRI L. K. SALAZAR

There is a foe, I cannot see
Wired with hair-trigger senses.
Conflict borne in infancy
     Camouflaged in normalcy
My heart is sore, my soul fatigued
Fighting Autism in the trenches.

My Janus child walks a line between his world and mine
I cannot cross his no-man’s land, the battle never ceases.
Nor can he find his way to me
Along a treacherous path 
Where every wrong step may carve him to pieces.

Some days, the screaming never seems to end.
Severed nerves send SOSes.
Signals get crossed, get lost in transmission
It might be joy, but why take chances?

The silence is worse.
Laying traps of false expectation.
A minefield of hope and regret
With a route that daily changes.

I have waged war against tics and compulsions
Aiming for inclusion.
Making I.E.Ps into I.E.D.s
Is not an error in transcription
But a battle plan with no excuses.

I am tired of this war.
I am raw.  I am defeated.
I have forgotten, 
Who am I really fighting for?
If the one I love is the one who is bleeding?
I cannot fight it any more.

In the Land of Normal, Autism is the enemy.
There are no victors and no survivors.
Unless I surrender completely to the pain of what is
and make peace with what will never be.

Instead of making war on his differences,
I will raise the white flag
And embrace those moments of calm.
For, if all I know is war, how can I ever come home?

__________________________________________________________________________

The artwork entitled Autism in the Trenches which is based on the above poem was installed for public consumption at ArtPrize 2021. It has now come home and has been installed on the only wall big enough to support it.

The Note Among the Pickles

Writing

I wrote this short story for the NYC Midnight Writing contest. Sadly, it did not win. But, hopefully, you will enjoy it despite it’s humble beginnings.

* * * * *

Continue reading The Note Among the Pickles →

The Death of Sleep and Falling Pickles

Crisis DuJour, Writing, , , , ,

There is a freight train shrieking in my bedroom. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense when I am thrust awake by the most horrible noise at an ungodly hour.

QWERNK… QWERNK… QWERNK… QWERNK…QWERNK…QWERNK…QWERNK

Continue reading The Death of Sleep and Falling Pickles →

When You’ve Got that Sinking Feeling…

Challenge Accepted, Family Ties, Isolation Recreation, The Joys of Home Ownership, Writing, , , ,

I think my sink had a heart attack this week. I could be wrong, but the thousands of hours of medical dramas I’ve watched suggests otherwise. You be the judge.

***

Continue reading When You’ve Got that Sinking Feeling… →

IT’S ALIVE!!!!

From My Brain to Yours, Highly Flammable, Terrifying Transitions, Thinks I Like, Writing, ,

I’ve been living an absolute nightmare. For TWO WHOLE DAYS!!!

But finally, after a weekend of anxiety-drenched trauma, I am back to tell the tale. It’s mercifully short, but not, I think, an insignificant one to any who has experienced the horror. Mary Shelley only dreamt of such nightmares as this!

Continue reading IT’S ALIVE!!!! →

Walking Buck Creek Trail

Art, Family, Isolation Recreation, Poetry in Motion, Thinks I Like, Writing, , ,

There was no plan before we left.

We just took off together—as if lured by sirens singing.

Beneath the stars, you steered me to the places that you love,

made mysterious by the flare of rockets red glaring.

Through the cemetery and down the hill

To where the waters waited,

And the path was still and free of people.

We walked along Buck Creek Trail that Fourth of July.

Chasing fireworks just out of reach.

The flash bang of concussions meeting us in the dark.

As slick, silent waters slid past a fallen tree.

Fireflies flickered, semaphore signals, beneath a gibbous moon.

When I was younger, I thought it was called a ‘Gibbon’ moon.

I couldn’t help but wonder…

Do monkeys dance bathed by lunar luminescence thinking it is day?

Or does the Man in the Moon wear a simian grin?

My, how that mischievous moon loomed large.

A low-hanging pendulum ticking in the tree tops.

Playing peek-a-boo behind Earth’s shadow

While the jealous sun searched for its hidden lover.

And as we walked through the humid musk

Of night smells and sulfur from plentiful explosions.

Every inhalation left an acrid taste upon the tongue.

Around each curve we anticipated the next cascade to come.

But we never quite caught the pattern of their detonation.

Overhead, we spied

…A glimpse.

…A spark.

A flickering emanation—a sky lantern floating.

The softness of a scene unmarred until…

…BANG!

Followed by an emptiness–ears still ringing.

Eyes straining for a light in the dark.

Then the skies rained down with jeweled profusions.

The distant constellations twinkling in the smokey aftermath.

When the pyrotechnics paused

We waited…wondering…

“Was that it? The last one?”

But no.

A serpentine hiss trailed an invisible propulsion

Launching upward, arcing toward the vault of heaven.

Earthbound, we held our breath in anticipation…

Will it wax with radiance, or fizzle, wither, and die?

Or will it flower, hanging time itself upon a belt of sky?

Silver sparks streak, descend.

Causing seizures of joy in small children.

Cascades of tinsel dripped down from a dark blue heaven.

You laughed and pulled me forward through the night

Following an ever-moving horizon.

You never caught them—the manmade stars you chased.

But then, that was never your goal.

You wandered the night in search of adventure.

Lured by a golden monkey moon winking down at us,

As if imparting a cosmic joke before we departed.

Back through the cemetery we went

Where the little chapel hides in hedgerows

Sparklers briefly crowning the trees in red, white, and blue tiaras.

And there was no tomorrow yet to fear.

There was only the night and the steps we took beneath a silvery moon.

While the fire flies danced to a tune only they could hear…

…in the dark

…on the path

…along Buck Creek Trail.

Walking Buck Creek Trail

From My Brain to Yours, Isolation Recreation, Photographic Memories, Poetry?, Thinks I Like, Welcome To Autismland: Population YOU!, Writing, , , , , , ,

A Remembrance—by K. L. K. Salazar

There was no plan before we left.

We just took off together—as if lured by sirens singing.

Beneath the stars, you steered me to the places that you love,

Made mysterious by the flare of rockets red glaring.

Through the cemetery and down the hill

To where the waters waited,

And the path was still and free of people.

We walked along Buck Creek Trail that Fourth of July.

Chasing fireworks just out of reach.

The flash bang of concussions meeting us in the dusk.

As slick, silent waters slid past a fallen tree.

Fireflies flickered, semaphore signals, beneath a gibbous moon.

When I was younger, I thought it was called a ‘Gibbon’ moon.

I couldn’t help but wonder…

Do monkeys dance bathed by moonlight thinking it is day?

Or does the Man in the Moon really wear a simian grin?

And how that mischievous moon loomed large.

A low-hanging pendulum ticking in the tree tops.

Playing peek-a-boo behind Earth’s shadow

While the jealous sun searched for its lover.

And then, we saw it

…A glimpse.

…A spark.

A sky lantern floating in the dark.

A flickering emanation

The softness of a scene unmarred until…

***BANG***

Followed by an emptiness–ears ringing

Eyes straining for illumination.

Then the skies rained down in jeweled profusions

Firecracker constellations.

And as we walked through the humid musk

Of night smells and sulfur from plentiful explosions.

Every inhalation left an acrid taste upon the tongue.

Around each curve we anticipated the next cascade to come.

But we never quite caught the pattern of their detonation.

When the pyrotechnics paused

We waited…wondering…

“Was that it? The last one?”

But no.

A serpentine hiss trailed an invisible propulsion

Launching upward, arcing toward the vault of heaven.

Earthbound, we held our breath in anticipation…

Will it wither, fizzle, die?

Or will it flower, hanging time itself upon a belt of sky?

Silver streaks descend

Causing seizures of joy in small children.

Cascades of tinsel dripping down

From a dark blue heaven.

You laughed and pulled me forward through the night

Following an ever-moving horizon.

You never caught them–the man-made stars you chased.

But then, that was never your goal.

You wandered the night in search of adventure.

Tempted by the golden monkey moon winking down

As if sharing a cosmic joke before we departed.

Back through the cemetery we went

Where the little chapel hides in hedgerows

Sparklers briefly crowning trees with red, white, and blue tiaras.

And there was no tomorrow yet to fear.

There was only the night and the steps we took

While the fire flies danced to a tune only they could hear…

…in the dark

…on the path

…along Buck Creek Trail.

**********

Buck Creek Trail - 4th of july
The author’s son, recording fireworks with his iPad along the titular trail.