As seriously as I take my writing, a certain quotient needs to satisfy my playful side. Several Loneccan words emerged when I crammed two English ones together, enhanced by an accent. Born into a tribe of immigrants, I view accents as linguistic stained glass that sheds enchanting color on everyday speech.
Consider Lonecca’s highest peak, Mount Pelokis. Can you tell where that one started? Hint: Think of what you’re supposed to replace every time you put clean sheets on the bed. (You do that, right?) It also holds your ammo together during a pillow fight. Take your time…
Inspiration lurks everywhere. Ever notice how families coin their own abbreviations? I’ve heard kids chime, “(Is) That okay?” To which their parents reply, “(Of) Course it is!” But garbled over dozens of repetitions, it emerges as Zadokeh and Korsetiz. Voila! Two neighboring Loneccan villages were christened. When kids deliver some good-natured ribbing, parents might respond, “Silly me,” a great handle for the village of Zilimi.
Other terms had more of an evolution. In Loneccan culture, fathers gift their sons with a unique object that they prize.
What to call these treasured tokens? They started out as augurs. Short and manageable. Should work, right? Later, I realized that readers might connect that term to the concepts of augury or prophecy. But those don’t exist in my storyworld.
In keeping with Lonecca’s Mediterranean flavor, I ventured into Spanish. “Mijo” was initially a contraction of “mi hijo.” Literally, my son, a good match for a father’s gift. Reversed, it’s “ojim.” Nice and short. But am I the only person who gets distracted by those two dots over the adjacent letters?
ojim ojim ojim ojim ojim ojim ojim
See? Easily fixed with a quick vowel substitution. Hence, Loneccan fathers bequeath an “ojem.” IYKYK
I must confess to some unabashed name-stealing. Not far from where I attended college was a quirky little clothing store that offered the basics at discounted prices. The owner would shadow you and locate what you sought from his overflowing shelves. I never knew if he was being super friendly, or just overly suspicious. Poor guy probably had 911 on his speed dial. Then he’d direct you to the counter at the front, while yelling to the cashier, “Ciro, take his money!”
So of course I had to immortalize good old Ciro. He appears in a short story I wrote for everyone who subscribes to my website’s newsletter. Except, Ciro appears… and then he doesn’t. Sign up and read it for yourself.
Ciao for now,
Kai O’Connor