Why create a full language for my books? This question calls to the very heart of why I write at all—the need to build worlds that feel so vivid, so tangible, that they resonate in the minds and hearts of readers long after the final page is turned. It started for me as a burning desire to craft stories that weren’t just stories but experiences. This is why I studied the greats, the authors who didn’t just write novels but created universes and of course caught my attention as a reader or seeing it on tv/movie. J.R.R. Tolkien, Gene Roddenberry, David Peterson, George R.R. Martin, Anthony Burgess, James Cameron and Paul Frommer, Frank Herbert—they weren’t merely storytellers; they were architects of worlds. They gave us languages that spoke of history, of culture, of identities woven deeply into the fabric of their imagined realms. I knew I wanted to do the same, to create something that felt alive, something that could stand on its own as a cornerstone of the worlds I wanted to shape.

Language is more than communication; it is the soul of a culture, the rhythm of its existence. When I realized this, the need to create a language for my books became not just a creative choice but an essential one. Fantasy or science fiction demands depth. It demands that every detail whisper authenticity, that every corner of the world breathe life. And nothing achieves this quite like language. A well-crafted language doesn’t just add flair; it anchors the story in a world that feels more real, more immersive. It gives the reader a chance to step into a realm that feels textured, layered, multidimensional. It’s about more than making characters speak in tongues no one else understands—it’s about creating a sense of place so deeply rooted that even the smallest utterance carries history with it.

When I decided to embark on this daunting journey, I didn’t do so lightly. I was inspired by the likes of Tolkien and Peterson, yes, but their brilliance also intimidated me. Tolkien was a philologist, a master of languages who shaped Middle-earth with linguistic diversity that felt ancient and sacred. Peterson gave life to Dothraki and High Valyrian, breathing fire into the Game of Thrones universe. These were people who understood language in ways I could only dream of. I, on the other hand, could barely keep my grammar straight on a good day. But I didn’t let that stop me. I knew that even if I couldn’t rival their linguistic genius, I could create something meaningful for my own worlds. Something that would add depth, continuity, and a sense of belonging to the stories I want to tell.

One of the first things I understood about creating a language was its ability to unify. When you’re writing a series—spanning multiple books, years, or even generations—a language offers continuity that ties everything together. It becomes a thread running through the narrative, binding characters, events, and histories into a cohesive whole. Without it, the world might feel scattershot, disconnected. With it, every interaction, every incantation, every whispered phrase feels intentional, purposeful. It’s not about using language as ornamentation—it’s about embedding it as a fundamental part of the world’s identity.

But I also knew my limitations. I wasn’t going to sit down and invent grammar rules from scratch or conjure up an entire lexicon overnight. So I turned to help—a language generator called VulgarLang. This tool became my lifeline, allowing me to shape a language without getting lost in the labyrinth of linguistic design. It’s surprisingly customizable. I could tweak settings to exclude certain letters, adjust grammar mechanics, and create something unique to my world. Most importantly, it offered a translator, letting me convert my English phrases into my new fictional tongue without tearing my hair out over syntax. This wasn’t cheating—it was a resource, a bridge that helped me take my creative vision and make it tangible.

Even with VulgarLang, I wanted my language to feel rooted in something real. It needed to have a soul, a connection to my heritage and the cultures that inspire me. That’s when I turned to the Y-dialect of Plains Cree, a language tied to my ancestry. Its rhythm, its alphabet, its history—they all felt like a perfect foundation for the language I wanted to create. I didn’t replicate it, but I borrowed from it. I honored it by using its alphabet as a starting point and then adapting its rules to fit my vision. The result was Kempy, a language that feels uniquely mine yet carries echoes of something timeless and profound.

Kempy isn’t perfect, but it’s mine. It’s woven into the fabric of my stories, giving my characters a voice that feels authentic to their world. It’s not just about creating a new way for them to speak—it’s about giving them a culture, a history, a way of life that feels intrinsic to their identities. When a character mutters a curse in Kempy, it’s not just words—it’s emotion, frustration, maybe even fear. When another delivers a solemn vow, the language itself carries weight, as though the words have been spoken by generations before them. Kempy adds depth, resonance, and a sense of belonging to my stories, making the world feel lived-in and real.

Creating a language also challenged me as a writer in ways I didn’t expect. It forced me to think about the mechanics of communication, about how language shapes thought and interaction. It added layers to my characters, making me consider how their dialects might influence their relationships, their conflicts, their identities. Writing in Kempy isn’t just an exercise in creativity—it’s a way of deepening the narrative, of exploring the nuances of how people—and worlds—connect.

I’d be lying if I said this process was easy. There were times when I wanted to give up, to settle for English and call it a day. But every time I considered abandoning Kempy, I thought about how much it added to my stories. I thought about the sense of immersion it creates for readers, about how it transforms my world from something imagined to something that feels almost tangible. That’s what keeps me going—the understanding that every word I write in Kempy offers a glimpse into a realm that is uniquely mine.

Language is power. It shapes identity, builds bridges, and carries history. For my stories, it does all that and more. It breathes life into my worlds, giving them a depth and richness that I couldn’t achieve otherwise. Kempy is more than a tool—it’s a cornerstone of my storytelling, a thread that ties everything together. It’s not perfect, and it’s far from polished, but it’s mine, and it’s meaningful. One day, I hope readers will embrace it as part of my worlds, maybe even try to learn it, though I wouldn’t recommend starting with its grammar rules. Until then, I’ll keep writing, keep creating, and keep finding new ways to infuse my stories with the magic of words.