Hi!

I’m actually in a block right now but I have questions

if you’ve read my works, what type of writer do I seem like?

idk why something is ringing depressed writer in my head

And do you feel idea of stories should be made here?

like “oh I saw this butterfly today & it reminded me of summer” & you share it for 24 hours because it’s pretty

“Eight billion people in this world,” I said to the asshole pointing the gun in my face, “and you picked me to fuck with?” I shook my head as I stared down the gun barrel. “You made a really bad choice.”

This part of the story is one hundred percent true. Yes I, Ledlevee, Mike Monroe, the real life person writing this, beat the shit out of two guys who tried to rob me at gunpoint. They fucked with the wrong person on the wrong night. So this first entry is the true part. Everything after this entry is going to be what could have happened the next day and every day going forward if I’d done things just a little differently after this night. But back to the story. And let me rewind a bit now that I’ve got the first sentence hook out of the way.

I’ve had five really bad years. Like legendarily tragically all-time bad years. My dad died. My wife of eleven years told me she was gay and wanted a divorce. I moved out and was forced to pay for both households since she refuses to get a job, and all that with four kids. My mom has dementia and has been steadily getting worse and I was the person who had to help take care of her, call her every night to remind her to take her meds, to do mundane things most of us take for granted. And that’s on top of taking care of four kids and paying for two households. I never have any money because of this shitty situation. I started messing up at work because of the psychological toll of all of this. I have therapists, psychiatrists, more meds than you can shake a stick at. I’m bipolar. And I have PTSD. Plus I’ve been dealing with Crohn’s Disease most of my life. I’m not saying all this because I want a fucking pity party. I’m just giving some context.

But of all the shit, the one thing that stung the most, the thing that hurt more than anything ever has my entire life, was when the woman I love stabbed me through the heart. Metaphorically of course. We haven’t gotten to the violent vigilante part yet. Let’s call her Mary Jane. Because every super hero needs to have his Mary Jane.

So Mary Jane showed up right after my separation from my wife, though I’d known her most of my life. She helped me through one of the hardest things I’d ever been through which was the separation and pending divorce. She was really there for me. And as the couple of years or so went on, we grew closer and closer and started going on trips together and spending more time together. I started to realize how much we had in common. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, I fell in love with her.

Things got physical very briefly. And right before she took me on this wonderful birthday trip, she told me an ex had emailed her. She laughed it off and said the only reason she’d ever dated him was she didn’t want to end up falling in love with some ex convict. Made sense I guess. She’d convinced me that this guy was totally wrong for her and she had no interest in him whatsoever. And then she takes me on this wonderful all expenses paid trip and we have sex. And on the way back she was talking about introducing me to her sister and I’m like “Hmm, maybe this could end up being something.” A week later she emails me and tells me she’s getting back with her ex; you know, the one she supposedly didn’t give a fuck about. So you can guess how that made a guy who already has major self esteem issues feel.

Anyway, five months later things hadn’t gotten any better. I’d been fighting suicidal thoughts for months. I really didn’t give a fuck anymore. So I went to this sound bath and acupuncture therapy I’ve been going to. And afterwards, I was hanging out with my friend. We’ll call him John since I probably shouldn’t use real names in this thing. He says “Hey buddy. Sorry I have to go to work now, but you should go treat yourself. Do something nice for yourself.”

So I’m like, “Okay. It’s a nice night. I’ll go for a walk.”

I drove home and started walking up Harford Road. I’ll use real place names to help things seem more real. This all takes place in Baltimore, by the way. So here I am walking up Harford Road, and on my way back, this eighteen or twenty year old kid comes walking up next to me, dressed in all black. And he says “Give me your bread, dog.”

And I’m like, “My bread?”

“Yeah, your bread.”

Then I notice there’s another guy walking behind me who says, “Give it to him!”

I say, “Why don’t you go to the fucking grocery and get your own fucking bread.”

He says, “Give me your money.”

I say. “I don’t have any money.”

He says, “Yes you do.” I really didn’t, but I wouldn’t have given it to him if I did.

I smile while I’m walking. “Go fuck yourself.”

So these assholes jump me and start punching me in the head and face. I should mention I don’t feel pain and it takes a shit ton to knock me out. So their punches didn’t even hurt, though they did knock my glasses off and it was hard for me to see after that. But I started punching back. I should also mention that I’m strong as shit and I’ve been taking karate. It’s one of the things that’s been helping me survive the past few years. I was using it to get out my frustrations. I never thought it would literally save my life.

Anyway, I started punching back, and though their punches didn’t hurt me, mine definitely hurt them. I was taking out years of pent up rage on their unsuspecting assess. I went all Darth Vader on them. The guy in front of me realized they weren’t gonna take me out like that so he took a few steps back and drew the gun. The guy behind me was still behind me.

And that’s when I said, “Eight billion people in this world and you picked me to fuck with? You made a really bad choice.”

The guy behind me said, “He’s gonna kill you.”

I said “Great! Put me out of my misery.”

I remember the guy with the gun laughing. He must have thought that was hilarious. “Come on mother fucker,” I said. “Kill me. Put me out of my misery. Do it. Just make sure you don’t miss and turn me into a brain damaged vegetable or something.”

Then this car pulled up. Apparently we were blocking the intersection. I tried to wave at them but they just sat there. So the guy with the gun moved out of the way and they drove past like nothing was happening. I tried to flag down other cars that were driving by. It was almost comical at this point.

The guy with the gun said “Ain’t nobody helping you.”

I smiled and said, “I’m not the one who needs help. You are.”

At this point I figured he’d have shot me by now if he was gonna do it. And I was super pissed that he was too much of a pussy to pull the trigger. So I decided to take out all of my rage and frustration on these two assholes.

I knocked the guy’s gun away with a left handed middle inside block. Then I gave him a heavy hook to the jaw with my right hand. I back kicked the guy behind me and hit his crotch. I turned and took a few steps back, making sure I had them both in front of me, and I stepped closer to the guy with the gun to take away his range advantage.

Now a normal human would have probably ran at this point, but I was having too much fun. They weren’t apparently, because they looked at each other and ran across the street and into some dark trees.

While they were running I yelled “You fuckers are lucky you knocked my glasses off or you’d both be bleeding in the street right now!” Then I picked up my glasses and put them back on.

Walking home, I felt like a badass. I had a shit eating grin on my face. Two guys tried to rob me at gunpoint and I beat the crap out of them. But then I remembered my four kids. I can’t leave them alone with their mom. I have to be there for them. I can’t be doing stuff like that anymore. I have to be more careful.

That’s what my real life self said. But from here on, I’m going to turn this thing fictional. But based on reality. This is the story of what may have happened if I’d decided to become a real life superhero.

My friend Brittany Bridges is in a really tight spot, with the pressure on her mounting daily. Actually, the term ”tight spot” does not even do her situation justice. Brittany is in a damned bind, is where she is. You see, Brittany is into her third trimester and is terrified that her baby might come out with suspiciously light skin. The question of, “How light will its skin be?” haunts her, yet it is the one question she has about the baby she‘s carrying that her obstetrician could obviously never answer, even if she could gather the courage to ask it. But Brittany, a strong woman mind you, is plenty concerned with that question, as this is also the one question her husband Burns, a dark-skinned man, will likely find extremely important here in about five weeks or so, should “his” baby come out overly pale.

Understand, Brittany’s baby is not “a mistake” in the normal sense of the word, though that’s what she wants to call it. She and Burns had been trying for a while. Having long since foregone birth control the pregnancy could not, in any attempt at good faith, be termed an “accident.” Yet Brittany’s situation could certainly be considered “accidental” per se, as it was possibly the inadvertant result of a worse than questionable decision followed up by a steamy series of intensional, inappropriate, and ill-timed actions; “ill-timed” I say, because Brittany was perfectly aware when the inappropriate behavior was taking place that her ovular timing was right; her body was primed for conception, it was in essence her time to shine. She knew this for a fact because that very same obstetrician had told her so. In that context, the baby she carried could hardly be labeled a mistake, could it? So, perhaps her lack of judgement in a weak moment could be designated an accident, but should it be? No, I don’t think so. Mistake is the right word, but is it really a mistake when she would probably do it again? No again. It can only really be called what it is, poor judgement, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be the one to tell Brittany that. She is still my friend, after all.

If you don’t mind my labeling her situation as tragic (even though it produced a life, which is the very antithesis of tragic), then this whole tragedy began innocently enough several years ago, stemming indirectly out of Brittany’s love for music. She’d met Burns in college, where he was, even at that young of an age, already a popular hip-hop DJ on campus, famous on the frat party circuit. After graduating Burns followed his passion for music to Nashville, where his fresh ideas for turning good music into great music carried him quickly up the music industry ladder. And while Burns had followed his passion for music to Nashville, Brittany had followed a desire for Burns to Nashville, and therein lay the problem. Hers was a desire for Burns… not a passion.

Tyler Redding, on the other hand, had passions of his own. The music Tyler created would be as good if Burns, or any other producer for that matter, never touched it. Tyler Redding was a talented young man on the fast track to neon stardom, and was ready for all the perks that stardom entailed. He was not about to let anyone slow him down. Tyler Redding was in hot pursuit of “the life”.

There it is then, in a nutshell. My friend Brittany found herself irremediably pulled towards two musical men for entirely different reasons. Burns had given her a comfortable life of reliability, society, and love, while Tyler left her weak-kneed, as emotionally confused as a little girl every time she heard him sing. One had something she needed, the other something she craved. And worse, Brittany had allowed both men to love her within the allotted time frame... so that there was no way around the cold, hard truth of it. My friend Brittany, normally a smart and sensible woman, had allowed indiscretion to lead her into a sure enough bind.

Being a music producer, and with a wife who was not shy to complain about Burn’s already long work days, bringing the musicians home became the natural progression for him. The struggling artists didn’t care where they played for him so long as their songs were heard. And it was no great imposition for Brittany, either. In fact she welcomed it, as the young songsters offered her mind some stimulation after her long, boring days alone in their big, Sylvan Park home. Brittany also found that she had her own gift for softening the blow at the end of an evening, consoling the less talented artists through their “end of dreams” with a divine empathy which she truly felt, and which meant something to them coming from one who so obviously had her shit together. Most of those who came to play for Burns were struggling and hungry, their savings gone. Some were barely making it on the bar scene, awaiting a bigger break that rarely arrived. No matter their situation though, if they were good enough Burns would help them, if not bringing them in to his own label then getting them inside another door where he thought their sound might better fit. For her part, Brittany wined and dined them all, making them welcome and comfortable, cheering their successes, or grieving alongside their failures, the perfect queenly wife for her kingly husband... right up until Tyler.

Burns had called home ahead that night, as he always did. “I’m bringing company for dinner... no, just one, a singer/ songwriter named Tyler Redding.”

It was her first time hearing the name, and seemed inconsequential at the time, but Brittany had done this often enough to know the drill. On this Autumn night she’d brought in barbecue and its “fixin’s”; slaw, beans, a light Pinot, a fire in the pit, soft lights on the patio, though nothing over-the-top. Comfortable was her goal, though elegance was her nature. I can’t know it for fact, but I would assume that she dressed herself up a little on this night, knowing that Burns would not change out of his suit once home. The Brittany Burns I know was never one to appear lesser than, not even to her husband.

At first glance Tyler Redding seemed no different than any who followed Burns home, his hungry good-looks a match for the others, and promising some talent. Comfortable in his scuffed boots, blue-jeans, and a bicep revealing plain white t-shirt, Tyler had “the look” from the ground up; tall, thin, with an angular yet youthful jawline which smiled often, shining through the darker shadows created by his Stetson’s wide brim until Brittany was forced to tip her head to try to make out what the youngster actually looked like up under there. She suspected that she would be pleased if she could see. The curiosity of it pushed her closer to him in her attempts, though he seemed non-plussed by that, willing to play her game, tipping his head down when she got too close, keeping his eyes frustratingly hidden from her, but not his speaking voice, which while soft also remained so rich in tone that it produced a longing in her to hear it sing from their very introduction. Brittany found it amusing how his uncased Fender was always close to his hand, even through dinner, as if he was afraid to let it out of sight, similarly to a child‘s worn blanket. She even teased him by mentioning the “security blanket” analogy, but he only smiled that same smile with his hat brim tilted down in front to hide his face whilst drawling out a sing-songy “yes mam” to her in that honey-rich baritone that straight-up tickled her insides in such an exciting way. Since college she’d had zero interest in any man other than Burns, but what is a girl to do once she finds herself enmeshed in curio?

The patio was dark when “showtime” finally arrived, though the dim string lights above offered a pleasant halo around the flickering orange warmth of the fire-pit. Burns uncorked their third and last bottle and had hardly found his seat as Tyler’s quickly and expertly tuned guitar readily matched the fireplace’s warmth with it’s volume, the delicate plucks of each string singing out it’s own lonely, distinct tone while simultaneously bending and wailing their sad lives away in perfectly chorded harmonies whose resplendence completely captured their tiny, two person audience in a mere handful of progressions.

Brittany unconsciously rubbed at her bare arms when it began, surprised at the emergence of chill-bumps on such an agreeable night, the melancholy of the hypnotic notes pulling her into the young man’s era-less vibe… and then, God bless him, the boy began to sing.

From the first lyrical word it was obvious to her that what she was seeing and hearing was different than any who had passed through before, that it was much, much better. Burns was very good at his work. He had a knack for spotting talent. He had discovered, and been the first to record, several artists who were now radio staples in differing genres, but this time Brittany sensed that her husband had outdone himself. This time Burns had a legitimate star on his hands, a star so bright that, such as it was with the three wise of men of Christmas fame, this one‘s star begged following.

For at the same time that the guitar cried oh-so silkily, numbing her emotionally, Tyler Redding’s voice reached overtop its drones like a steady hand to lead her into some unchartered place that only he knew, lending a weakened Brittany to snatch at that hand hook, line and sinker; her curiosity piqued by some wondrous sense of the magical, because that was the bait, the piper’s magic in Tyler’s pluckings’, tones, and lyrics; an enchantment which drew her out of her emotional hiding place, pulling her towards him and away from everything else until she found herself tensed on the edge of her seat, her body leaned in for Tyler and away from Burns… and she didn’t even care, for in the orange half-light of the crackling fire-pit, and under the reassuring glow of the string lights, as the final resonances echoed away his tenebrous hat-brim finally lifted, presenting his eyes to hers, revealing to her a desire in them that matched perfectly with her own. Not so very long ago Brittany had willingly promised herself to Burns, and to Burns only… but here in this young and handsome crooner my lovely and talented friend had met her match.

Now, I hope I have not misconstrued my friend to you. Brittany is nothing if not a good woman, a heretofore honest woman. I had always thought of her as the very best of women in fact; smart, feminine, caring.… everything a woman should be. And even as she first confided to me this situation that she’d gotten herself into I could feel the pain she‘d caused herself in deceiving the man she loved, for she does love Burns. That much is obvious. And believe it or not, Britt is not the cheating kind. Hell, I’d taken my own shot with her (to no avail), and had settled, albeit unwillingly, into the dreaded “friend zone” with her, as she is not the sort a man easily dismisses. No, I am certain that Brittany loves Burns… but neither could she help herself with Tyler. She was not alone in that helplessness either. The Nashville “Woo-Hoo” girls are already lining themselves up in their short-shorts and pink cattle boots along the sidewalks outside the Broadway bars when his name is displayed on the marquee, the sunburnt girls vying with one another for a peek at those shadowed eyes lost beneath his wide hat’s brim. No, Tyler’s star is shooting, and even as she did it Brittany knew that she could never, that she would never, belong to Tyler Redding. But even knowing all of that the poor woman still could not help herself.

Isn’t it crazy how twisted up a girl can become on a road as black and white as Music Row?

But then, who am I to judge? I suppose none of us is immune to the magic of music, though I still can’t help feeling for my friend.

And I’ll just hope (for her sake, of course) that Beyoncé doesn’t come singing around me…

Ok, so recently I told one of my friends that I meditate every night. They opened up their eyes like hot air balloons and jumped up and down in excitement. "Wait, you meditate? How did I not know this? That is amazing!" They said, and immediately, I regretted mentioning anything. I don't meditate because I want people to think I'm cool. It isn't something I do to achieve my best life style or be "at peace with myself." Its something I do because I have no other choice. This is my way of stopping myself from obsessing over murdering some one as I go to bed. I learned breathing exercises so I could calm down at school instead of breaking down. I did all this because I have to. I did all this because I wanted a life that wasn't me convincing myself I still deserved to live. I do these things because they have proven to be the most effective measure against every horror the world has to offer. Reducing it to anything except that is just cruel. I didn't do it to please you. I didn't even do it to please myself. I did it because it brought me some peace. I did it because after years of drugs nothing seemed to work. I did it because there was no end to the madness in my head. I did it because I had no where else to turn. I do it still because it keeps me sane. I do it still because it taught me to focus my attention on a sound so annoying I can barely think. It taught me to make that sound my entire reality. The whirring of a machine becomes the vast intricacies of the cosmos. The ticking of a clock becomes the fabric of time, set in motion by mortal hands. Then, before I know it my head isn't spinning. My thoughts, if not whole, are just a little bit clearer than when I left and the everything makes sense. For one fucking second it makes sense.

The voices in my head keep talking. The conversations among my peers keep going. I look up and I am among yet distant. I am not outcast and yet I will never be a part of the group. I'm different. I spent years learning breathing techniques so I could survive a single day at school, only to go to bed at night and do everything I can to learn something more, something permanent. At the same time, I know I could never be happy with ordinary. No matter how many years I spend learning to fit in I will still be me. And, that will never be enough, not even for me. So I keep going, hoping that one day I will be ok with not being perfect, but simply existing and knowing, that that is enough.

I just use whatever comes to mind and feels right. I tend to follow my instinct for most things. And sometimes, the name I choose can become symbolic in itself later on. I once gave a character the middle name Hyacinth, finding out later that the meaning humans have given to the flower resonate with him quite well. I once named a character Emily and had the man she thought was her runaway, biological father call her by the full thing, "Emilia", because it was he that gave it to her before he left. I named two characters Adam and Steve because hey, gay. Devon and Trevor cos it sounded like it rhymed. Elozonam because I wanted to find an Igbo name without "chi" or "chukwu" meaning God in them, seeing as I'm not a Christian and neither was he. His name means "don't forget me". I'm rather fond of how pretty it is. Elozonam. I'm planning on a character nicknamed Lucifer for funzies, his real name Lucian or something, though he may never see the light of day. Many of my creations haven't, honestly. There's a girl called Nebula cos her mother loved the cosmos and quite a few with names that begin with Z because it's my favourite letter. Any character I have with a name that starts that way is almost certainly a self-insert.

I have many names for myself, too. Zee, Zedd, Icarus, Rainbow. A few other, less used Z-starting names. It's fun. Names are important. We use them over and over again. If I'm gonna make a character I'll love enough to flesh them out, I definitely need a name that melds with my mind to go with it.

And that's that.

I love looking for names, but pick ones as quickly as possible. Researching is fun and I get distracted. Also, I’m pretty geeky, like researching, and get distracted easily. But I guess how to apply which naming method to which story and the process speeds me up a little or shows new ways to find names. Being dyslexic, I have a lot of trouble with names and languages, but, unfortunately, enjoy working with them.

Every so often, I find a name that looks nice as a sequence of letters, then spend a long time learning to pronounce it. Or I try to write down a name that sounds nice in my head and can’t.

Some names fit characters well immediately. The characters need a name, but I don’t always have an opinion about whether or not the names fit. Theoretically, I might not develop the character enough or he might not show up enough to determine the suitability. On the other hand, the reader might have his own opinion about what name would suit a character in the situation. Some names probably grate against a reader who knows more about the character's situation than me.

Though I can overthink names, sometimes persnicketiness matters. And I can’t predict when to be picky. I think more about whether the names generally coordinate with the story. Most people don’t choose their own names, so I think about demographics, family customs, and naming conventions. When I’m familiar with a naming system, picking out names speeds up, so sometimes I spend a while developing the system. Reading about naming conventions in general helps me conlang names and it’s interesting. Symbolism and meaning matters to some characters’ backgrounds. A character’s name might sound better with her born surname better than her married name. A character might be opinionated in the story about which name to use when and why, though that can be shown instead of told.

In most stories written over the past year, I use lists of the most common names for a specific time or place, like from the Social Security website or genealogy sites. Plenty of baby-naming sites list the name’s popularity, usually into the 1800s. Finding a name’s popularity earlier is difficult. Most names in Wolftown came from the Social Security first name lists and a list of Wisconsin surnames, and I spend minimal time choosing them and really only pay attention to the balance of Germanic names and non-Germanic names.

Quite a few sites list thousands of names, even from archaeological finds. Linguists don’t necessarily know how to pronounce the names, so I fill in missing sounds from Anglicized words. English probably corrupted the pronunciation and I made it worse, but the words are writeable and readable in English. When naming characters from unfamiliar times, places, or social groups, I compare multiple name lists carefully. I might be looking at the wrong thing, the names might vary significantly depending on social or historical factors I don’t know, the compilers could have miscategorized them, and the lists may have other problems I can’t recognize.

Also, I have a list of interesting names, which I tend to save for characters predicted to be important. Reading name lists, and paying attention to credits and acknowledgments probably feeds the names into my brain.

I change names while writing (even in the same paragraph) and double-check the consistency while editing. I know the characters’ identities, and since nobody reads the early drafts, confusion about little details matters much less than the storytelling. Also, multiple characters might be combined into one, and it’s possible to waste time thinking about their names and other details. (Sometimes, figuring out details helps me combine characters. I guess which while writing.)

If stopping to name interferes with a writing flow, I’ll call the character, “the [noun]”, with the noun being the role, the relationship to a character, or another distinguishing word. Some never need a name or they are better known by the description.

Changing or finishing a name might be at the last minute, thanks to search-and-replace. Sometimes I have trouble keeping track of the names; I accidentally gave a Wolftown character two different names and had to correct it after publishing. I'm guessing that making a list of characters and aliases would prevent it.

For a minor character, a member of a large cast, or another if the name seems unimportant, I basically scribble a name tag and slap it on him. Occasionally the character becomes important and has to put up with a random name that stuck. If the character is important enough or I’m unfamiliar with his background, I spend more time on naming. If the names seem too familiar, I google them, and if the name is too distinctive and somebody already has it, I change it.

When trying not to interrupt a writing flow, I just stop for a few seconds and the name pops into my head. Then I try out a few ones, like filling in a crossword puzzle, sometimes by looking for similar names. I might have a name list open, or spending a couple minutes looking at one gives my brain a break while being productive.

Writing the character without permanently naming him can give me enough information to find his name. I might think of the name or know which keywords to use. Also, figuring out the name occasionally leads me to useful details or somebody else’s name. Sometimes I need to spend time focusing on the character’s name. I try to search for names outside composing time, but sometimes I have to figure out the name. An unnamed character might be hard to write, maybe because finding a name digs up details about the character or story.

While looking for names, sometimes I list choices, which identify similarities and differences between names, the language, and the story, like finding a flavor or a clash. I try to limit the choices to two or three, but some characters have several options.

To conlang, I combine syllables or sounds randomly with each other, leaving off endings and the like until I have time to figure them out. I change existing names slightly if the language relies heavily on an existing language. For example, Elissa became Alisha. Unaltered names might fit, but for a current work-in-progress, I’ve been checking the names’ origins and replacing names when the characters wouldn’t be involved with the origin cultures. Breaking real words into prefixes, stems, and suffixes, and recombining them works well for me. The meaning might matter or they just need to sound good together. I had this idea because, as a Latin and Greek teacher, my dad could predict the effects of J. K. Rowling’s spells and her character’s identities.

Aliens are a nightmare to conlang and it’s because I assume alien vocal tracts and human vocal tracts are very different. So far, I’ve experimented with giving aliens Human names, approximating the aliens’ sounds to the human vocal cords, and translating alien words into a human language, although the translated thing might just vaguely look alike on Earth and the alien’s planet. “Coral” on Earth is an animal, but a planet’s “coral” might legitimately be a rock; I’m not sure. If aliens use robotic translators, I still have to write the sounds down somehow.

One story has particularly finicky names. The main character’s name is Charles Morgan; the antagonists make sure they have the right Charles Morgan. The antagonists and probably other people triple-check that they have the right Charles Morgan. The time travelers regularly alter their names to suit different historical periods or to keep their identities separate. The royalty tend to have long names and pick them carefully, based on tradition. I spent months calling one character her nickname, Classics, before figuring out her real name, Persephone, chosen because of her family’s interest in mythology. But only Charles may call her Classics; he invented it from a button on her bag. Other characters in the same work rely on codenames, and if they decide to use usernames, at least Charles has a strong urge to yell at them. An important character picked out the codename Macmillan. He wanted to be called Macmorris from Henry V, but I thought Macmorris’ name was Macmillan. By the time I noticed, Macmillan stuck—Macmorris was wrong. Macmillan and Persephone argue about which name Shakespeare used, everybody calls him Macmillan, and I’m not convinced anybody bothered looking up the answer. (Persephone argued for MacMorris.) Calling Mr. Tambling-Goggin anything else feels wrong, though characters use other names. He needed a British-sounding slightly odd name, which probably came from a list of rare British names. I can’t exactly remember its origin, but when it showed up, it was perfect. (This paragraph sounds like the elements should not go together, but they do, at least to me.)

Some of my works are actually…... written on the spot

Crazy

I just write here on prose without even looking for an inspiration

It scares me sometimes but it’s nice some other times

Because I see a like & I end up smiling the whole day

I hope what I’m saying is not crazy talk though

Personally, I can't stand it when Authors make their characters have Contrived names. Or burden their protagonists with Oppressive symbolism or metaphorical Meanings that only the writer ever knows of... I like good wholesome Common names that you find on any street. Bob is good. Everybody can related. Who hasn't had a dozen Bob's in his or her life?