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.)

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?

I went to a baseball game recently. Mind you, I am not a sports fan, nor was I looking forward to this particular outing. I had even tried to back out at the last minute. However, I am really glad that I went. This is why.

For charity, there is a fundraiser the stadium sponsors. After the game, there are large targets placed around the baseball diamond. Fans are able to purchase a tennis ball and write their name on it. Once the signal is given, the fans get to throw these balls. The ball that lands closest to any particular target wins that prize. Everyone seemed pretty excited about this event.

Also of note… there is a net erected around certain sections where we fans sit. It is there to prevent us from getting hit with a wild foul ball during gameplay. This net is not lowered for the charity event. Depending on where your seat is, this net could present a problem.

For the guy in our section, a couple of rows in front of us, this problem became distinctly his.

The man’s first throw bounced off the net about midway and came back to him. His second throw was not much better and bounced away. He ran after and clumsily retrieved it from under someone's seat. People began to point at him. They laughed and booed.

This stranger's continued failures began to reveal an interesting cross-section of humanity within our microcosm:

The hecklers (the loudest, of course):

“WEAK!”

“Stop embarrassing yourself!”

“Guess who's dad never played catch with him?”

The analysts:

“He just needs to move back about 15-20 feet.”

“His mechanics are all wrong— he'll never make it over.”

The commentators:

“Well folks, it looks like he is going to try again. Unbelievable.”

The encouragers:

“He's got this! He's gonna make it this time.”

Then, right around his twelfth attempt (and failure), something in our section palpably shifted. We were now invested in this stranger. Maybe we began to see him as a fellow human trying his best, as awful and humiliating as that was. Perhaps his public struggle somehow became representative of our own personal struggles, whatever they might be. I don't know, but for some reason, it now mattered that he succeeded at the daunting task before him. He could not give up. We wanted— no, we needed him to not give up. Pretty soon, even the hecklers were on their feet, loud as ever, but now earnestly cheering for him.

Finally, the man threw the ball just enough to clear the top of the net. It fell over and unceremoniously bounced in the orange dirt far behind home plate. The ball landed nowhere near the targets where he might win a prize. But to us? He had just won it all. It was glorious.

We went absolutely crazy. You’d have thought we were Houston's control center during the moon landing. Our entire section exploded in cheering, stomping, and clapping. Beer was sloshed from raised cups and high-fives were given all around. The professionals we had all paid to watch play were forgotten. We had just witnessed true greatness.

Many made their way over to the tired and embarrassed looking man to shake his hand and pat him on the back in sincere congratulations. Later that night, as we filed out of the stadium, I couldn't keep from smiling. I left feeling like we, as a whole, had somehow won.

Yes, we had won. Big.

I am posting a short personal note to let you know that I have not been able to respond as I usually do to each post into my challenge prompts. I greatly regret this and want to apologize and reassure you that I read each post and appreciate your work fully. I am battling some pain at the moment and have every intent to return to writing. I will mark a heart and repost, so you know I have read your work and have every intent of resuming writing comments soon.

I will likely continue to post prompts, and again ask for this understanding for a little while longer.

Please know that your writings inspire and motivate me. I even had a dream based on one of the responses posted recently in the Comedy portal, and I rarely ever dream.

Thank you! and please take good care of yourselves :)

*p.s. I will delete this post in time, once things normalize.

While packing up all of my things to move to a new apartment, I had an opportunity to sort through things that, over time, I’d forgotten about. I was flipping through an old sketchbook and I found a painting paired with a poem from a couple of years back.

And I remember

the first time my necklines,

Became blurred lines,

and then borderlines

became crossed lines,

and now every time I sigh

I

Hear the cries

over guidelines

that should have been redefined.

And now every time I breathe

I

Wonder if my necklines

can be rectified.

As I read this poem, I was flooded with emotions. Today, years ago, I was sexually assaulted, and this poem was something I wrote in an attempt to make sense of the guilt, pain, and confusion that I’ve battled ever since my assault.

Over the years, through the help of a strong support system, I rediscovered what love, intimacy, and joy could look like in my life. I learned that I could in fact rectify my body, my boundaries, my purity, my strength, and my sexuality. However, as I read my old fears out loud to myself I couldn’t help but feel this nervous tingle in my stomach. “What if I never truly healed from this?”

You see, I’ve always strived to remain open about the things that I’ve struggled hoping that my story could in some way help someone else. But as this day approached, I felt a long-forgotten heaviness in my chest causing me to clam up any time I tried to talk about the guilt I was feeling with friends. I was so confused.

So, looking down at my sketchbook, I started to meditate on how the road to redemption, while full of moments on the mountaintop, has moments spent in the valley.

Today, even though I didn’t quite feel ready, I reread the poem again. I was surrounded with peace and grace; I softly whispered to myself,

“You have been redeemed, you have freedom from this”.

I used to feel like I could never experience rectification for the things I had gone through. I believed that every single day, I would spend meditating on what had happened to me. That any time I was lying next to a partner, I would look into their eyes and see his face looking back at me. And while some days, this still feels like the case, most days I feel more strength, healing, peace, self-love, and forgiveness than I ever imagined possible.

Healing can be painful. Healing is a process. Healing can sometimes feel endless. Healing can be difficult. Not every day is easy, and in fact, most days aren’t.

But healing is beautiful, healing is possible, and healing will come.

If you feel like you’re in the valley, just remember that not all of your journey will be spent there. That every hard season eventually passes. That our doubts and worries and hesitations, while very real, aren’t always rooted in truth. And while you may not always feel like you’re making process, you are.

You are moving forward. You are climbing the mountain. You will reach the top. This is just the beginning, you are so worth loving, and redemption is at your fingertips.

Excerpt from the debut chapbook “Who I Am Today” by Julianna A. Leverette.

“Who I Am Today” holds a decade of work, honoring the journey of life; from leaving adolescence and childhood homes behind to searching for a place in the world, from navigating shadow work to healing ones deepest hurts, from releasing external expectations to deciding for yourself who exactly it is that you want to be. This poetry collection navigates past loves and lives, the hurdles of mental illness and existential dread, and creating peace with yourself, your experiences, and your choices, and believing that truly, it is well, through the ebb and flow.

In the vast kingdom of writing, another queen had long held her throne. Her realm, filled with loyal soldiers, marched to the beat of her command, always ready to defend their queen against any perceived threats. Her name echoed in the halls of Inkitt, a place where stories came to life, and her power was unquestioned.

But now, a new contender had arrived. Terrex J. Corbin, a story writer of unmatched talent, had made waves on Inkitt, gaining popularity and recognition. The news of Terrex's rise spread like wildfire, reaching the ears of the queen herself. Unsettled by the sudden emergence of this new star, the queen decided to retreat, her mind racing with thoughts of how to protect her dominion.

Terrex's arrival on Prose was met with anticipation and curiosity. The queen's loyal soldiers whispered among themselves, their gazes filled with suspicion and doubt. Who was this newcomer who had dared to challenge their queen's supremacy? The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with the promise of conflict.

The queen, known for her strategic mind and fierce determination, saw Terrex as a formidable threat. She knew that this story writer's talent could not be easily dismissed. As she retreated to her chambers, she plotted her next move, her mind a whirl of plans and counterplans.

Terrex, unaware of the brewing storm, continued to weave tales that captivated and enchanted readers. The stories flowed effortlessly, each word a brushstroke on the canvas of imagination. The realm of Prose buzzed with excitement, and the queen's soldiers could not ignore the undeniable pull of Terrex's narratives.

As the days passed, the queen's unease grew. She knew that a confrontation was inevitable, that she could not ignore the rising star in her midst. The kingdom of writing was vast, but its rulers were few, and the queen was determined to hold onto her throne.

The stage was set for a clash of titans, a battle not fought with swords or shields, but with words and stories. The queen and Terrex J. Corbin, two masters of their craft, would face off in a contest of creativity and imagination. The kingdom of writing watched with bated breath, eager to see who would emerge victorious.

In this world of endless possibilities, one thing was certain: the realm of Prose would never be the same again.

I love talking about my feelings in my blog posts. I recently posted a poem about Love. And about how if we love hard, we might get some of that love back. And if we give love, we may receive love.

It was different from what I usually write which is about ’standing your ground in the lonely world while remembering that there is someone for example some entity like God who watches out over the workings of the cosmos, and over its seemingly insignificant creatures who are somehow longing for him.

Sometimes when you post you have to post things people like to see, just so as a frequent poster, you get someone showing the same feelings towards what you are also putting into the content Universe.

And so I have been writing short stories on Prose for a while now. I love that Prose is so happening, but you have to have something that makes people think or feel something to post on there to get people reacting/responding/reading/clapping for your posts.

When I had started my journey, thinking of my self as a writer of some sort, I did a course in ’creative writing’ which had nothing to do with content writing. I never thought/pictured my self as some sort of Fiction Author, and in no way did I ever think that I could write a short story.

I started writing short stories for good measure, which go up to 1,500 words. And yes the course I did in the morning gave me awesome ideas! They said things like maintaining a writers journal was an important part of honing ones creativity as a writer...

So its a given that I rarely post things without them meaning anything here on Prose. If you ever liked anything I posted, remember that I put my self into my writing, and no effort of mine is ever just for the sake of doing it. I love writing, and I love the Universe, and God, and he helps me write the things I write, a little better every day. Even the poems about Love.

Maybe it was the way the clouds floated still, not moving even an inch. Outlined by the dim, orange glow they hung motionless under her dazzled gaze. Yet, when her staring was interrupted, diverted to the external world, they seemed to shift at an immaculate pace. When she returned her dark eyes to those cottony spectacles, she found they had shuffled into a new, dimmer, yet equally stunning array. A more somber and ordinary scene ensued, finding the clouds less illuminated by the sun’s waning color. The reverse-dawn had taken its toll, disguised at first as a beautiful sunset, but now only an oncoming veil of dark abyss. With the darkness came reality, and with the sun went hope. The sentimental meaning she had been searching for revealed itself. With the last streaks of color leaving her view came that sad analogy: depressing truths shaped like motionless, dull, grey clouds.

It's another great day to post something on Prose. Like I said, I simply love it here and like the environment. I like that some people get to vent about whatever it is they are going through, and we are all going through something. You find people writing poetry, and short stories and all kinds of stuff that is all very heartfelt, and it gives a person some form of purpose, apart from what might seem like the ordinariness of Life.

I like that people respond on here, and I like sharing random thoughts, I like putting more and more content into the Prose Universe, and it’s fun to see that people are reading, and replying. Sometimes when someone comments or likes things you are posting, it brings a smile to your face and brings meaning. Sometimes that like or repost can mean everything and is almost spiritual.