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Archive for the ‘Personal Anecdote’ Category

It’s Sunday?

Not necessarily.

Let us pretend I can teleport to California. Ha-ha! It is now Saturday! Albeit very late…but Saturday nonetheless!

Due to time constraints, frivolity, Finals, and having to pack a roomful of items into a tiny cubicle/trunk, I have had little time to focus on creating a dazzling post for the blog. I do hope my Muse and my time are given more freely and frequently once the summer begins.

These sound like lame and mundane excuses — and they sort of are. They are also very true.

The truth can be mundane and lame.

But isn’t there a pinch of beauty in that?

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I’m going to be published in Ithaca College’s Stillwater.

And it feels damn good.

What is ironic, however, is that I am having a poem published when I don’t really consider myself a poet. This led to my reassessment of what I have had published in the past — only to realize the bulk of my published work is in poetry.

I aspire to be a fiction writer, and yet my greatest successes have come from poetry. Is this merely a logistical truth[1], or some sort of hilarious irony by the cosmos?

I promise I’m not complaining — but I am reevaluating my past work and my future. I don’t think of myself as a poet; hell, I rarely even write poetry for my personal enjoyment. But when I do write that one, good poem…it feels good. Real good.
And it feels even better to have others recognize that it is good.

For anyone in the New York Tompkins County area, this evening there will be a release party for Stillwater, as well as the winners of the Writing Department’s Writing Contest here on the Ithaca College campus! It will be at 6pm in the Handwerker Gallery, and I am told there will be refreshments. Who isn’t excited about the possibility of free food and drink?

1. Poetry has more opportunities for publications because literary magazines can put ten or fifteen poems whereas can only hold two or three pieces of prose.

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Writing major? Who does that?

Me.

Where the heck does one find such a major?

In a few nestled places — almost always, if not exclusively, liberal minded colleges. I for one am in Ithaca College, center of the wannabe hippie world.

Do you need this major to be a writer?

Well, no…

Is it going to help you get published?

…not necessarily.

Why do it?

…to pull thousands of dollars out of my butt in preparation of living in a box and forever fighting for publication. It’s slightly masochistic, really… (In all seriousness, it does give a great amount of practice, experience, and networking opportunities.)

What does a writing major DO?

Write. Most of the time. All of the time? A lot of writing, let’s leave it at that.

Can you have a life?

Oh, yes. It’s probably one of the few times a writer can feel less like a hermit and more a part of a substantial, flesh-and-blood community. Unlike those poor, poor music majors who are locked away practicing for their recital, we writing majors can actually get together to write or revise or, most of the time, procrastinate! I personally try to take advantage of social interactions knowing I will likely become a solitary and grumpy author with cold hands and a colder heart.

So, finals are coming up. What do they look like?

Portfolios. After working on many different pieces throughout the year, it’s time for editing, revision, and polishing to pass in to the professor. It’s nerve-wracking but also blissfully calming to know that all my work will finally be finished, tucked away in a pretty little folder.

Can you get laid easily?

No. No more than saying “Hey, I’m a philosophy major” can get you laid. Please re-think your major choice if you want to seduce people. Try Directing for instance…or psychology if manipulation is the route you’re going for.

I don’t understand…why choose to be a writing major when all this money is needed, and there isn’t even a guarantee of having a better career than a non-college-degree writer, or even getting laid?

I don’t get it either.

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Here is where I return, full of guilt and sorries and explanations as to my two months of postlessness.

Except I don’t feel like I should be apologetic, because that would mean I had no good reason to neglect this blog I have worked hard on. No; life happens. They say life sucks, then you die. That philosophy was given quite a bit of evidence with all of the Lifetime movie melodrama whirling in my life (unwarranted, mind you). Classes became tyrannical monarchs, friends became estranged (or downright exiled for possible serial-killer red flags), and hearts were stabbed with sharp, point needles.

And I thought college would be more mature. I guess that’s my naiveté showing.

I am guilty and sorry, though, that I never posted acknowledging my absence or my difficulties. That was just crappy of me to do, and for that, I apologize. No one should be left in the dark or the dust, or the dusty dark.

I plan to slowly re-enter the steady schedule of Kurious Krawford.

I do hope everyone has survived the winter; I’m still thawing out.

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I’ve been lacking motivation. It’s likely thousands others out there are, too.

When what goes on in the brain doesn’t translate to the page, frustration is born. I’ve been frustrated. There seems to be a barrier between my idea and my execution; the muse is only whispering while the inner editor is loud and clear.

It’s not just in writing — it’s been with life in general as well. I feel no consequences though logically I am aware of their existence. I feel as though I’m floating in a purgatory of nothingness, where everything is as insignificant as the lint in one’s pocket.

Of course, all these emotions and notions aren’t just spiraling from my lack of writerly motivation; I don’t have any qualms talking about the fact that I live with depression. It’s flared up recently, likely causing these oh-so-lovely chain of reactions.

What is it with artists and mental illness, might I add? Some of the best writers and musicians suffered from some mental illness or other, whether it be depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, or the like. The correlation between creative genius and mental illness is uncanny, really. On the bright side, maybe this means I’m destined for greatness too since I have the mental illness variable down.

I hope to feel motivation and the world soon. I’ve got to get my ass to class, even if I don’t feel like it. I’ve got to write even when my fingers don’t feel like moving. If I force myself to move along, perhaps I can recapture that motivation again.

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I accept the fact that my first home will probably be a cardboard box.

Not to worry, though; it will be that high quality, corrugated cardboard that isn’t easily destroyed by the rain. It will be a big enough box to entertain one or two other homeless writers, or some successful college friends who’ve gone on to produce radio shows or build museums.

I think I enjoy the idea of having a mural wall inside the box. I should probably use Crayola chalk — it is the high-grade stuff. Sure, it’s a bit of a splurge, but every home needs a focal point. Maybe it should be a nature scene, or perhaps I could put up a quote by Oscar Wilde. There is so much you can do with a blank box side.Box Home

My Mother, I must say, doesn’t like my box discussions. I think it’s because she’s an idealist (aren’t all parents?) while I’m a realist. She has such lofty and unattainable wishes for me, like owning my own apartment or being able to buy food. I mean, honestly Mother, I’m a writer. It’s in the small print that I be poor and homeless. She can be quite silly sometimes. I must say, though, she has supported me 100% in my decision to pursue writing, which I appreciate 110%.

Luckily, I have many to-be-successful friends of which have been forewarned about my future as a wandering, writing, freeloading hobo. It will be a glorious existence of hopping house to house to house. And eventually, when I have my first novel published, I might be able to afford something off of Wendy’s extra value menu. Perhaps I could even upgrade to a better neighborhood with my box.

Look out, world. In four years, you’ll have a writing major taking on the world one friend’s house / town alleyway at a time.

— This post brought to you by Sarcasm —

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I’ve preached (well, I hope it didn’t actually sound like preaching) that in order to become a writer and improve your writing, you need to write. It sounds very elementary, but it’s usually the powerfully simple things we forget and avoid. Write is a verb, and should be treated as such. It’s an action, and actions don’t complete themselves!

But — I don’t want to start sounding like a 1939 German rallyist. There are times, often very key moments, in which one needs a break.

The muse, however beautiful and helpful, is an entity that is fickle and reliant upon energy. Your energy. And if that energy is depleted or wavering or blinking like a dog that got a piece of dust in its eye, then stop. Put on the brakes and discard that writing action for a while. Everyone deserves a break; everyone needs to recharge the batteries of their soul. Why else do vacations exist?

I’d like to share what I do when I blissfully approve a vacation for my muse.

Entertaining the Sketch Pad

I’m no artist or cartoonist, but I am a doodler. An aspiring doodler, I might add. There are times when the thought-stopping action of sketching is all I want or need to do. I usually sketch characters, without having any particular concept in mind except maybe a mood (happy, angst, dark, silly). And when I am sufficiently happy with my sub-par artistry, I begin to wonder about my character that I’ve visually created. Coming up with possible reasons for birth marks, hair styles, fashions, or expressions is a great way to get my brain exercised and entertained.

Puttin’ on the Headphones, Bub

MUSIC. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then a song must be worth millions. Music is something I’m not sure I could live without. (Hence why I typically pick ‘blind’ in the, ‘if you had to be blind or deaf, which is it’ debate.) The emotion, the artistry, the rawness, and the humanity (or just plain awesomeness) of music is irreplaceable. I’m almost always listening to some sort of music. It soothes me and pleases me. (Caution: music that soothes me, aka Metallica or Disturbed, may jar you.)

Friends are Family Members without the Awkward Obligations

Be with friends! There’s nothing more inspiring, more worthwhile, than sitting down for tea with some friends and listening to the stupid funny things they say. Not to be all mushy and sentimental, but I for one am severely thankful for the friends I have. Even the non-writer ones. There’s a whole lotta love and laughter with the people you can actually tolerate in this world filled with snippy bosses and rude-people-who-don’t-hold-the-door-open-even-though-you-were-right-behind-them.

Reading the Words of Authors of Yesteryear…or Today

Reading is awesome. It’s just awesome. New worlds, characters, adventures, all in really beautiful detail. It’s a fun story that sucks you out of your monochrome life and plunges you into the artfully multichromatic world an author [just like you…sort of] created. Not only can you learn more about the craft of writing from reading, but it gives you a break from the stresses and suckiness of a bad day. Oh, and to those of you who think graphic novels or comics aren’t reading, I’d like you to pick up a copy of Watchmen. Thanks.

Square Enix made ANOTHER fantasy?

I’m an unapologetic gamer. Not avid, not necessarily hardcore, and not into World of Warcraft shenanigans, but a gamer nonetheless. I love my video games, I love to play them, and they fill me with excitement, joy, and a sense of belonging to an external world. I’m a huge RPG fan, but slap me with some old school games like Super Mario Bros. or Galaga, and I’ll be just as happy. Not as happy as playing Kingdom Hearts, Final Fantasy, or Spider-man, but happy just the same.


Such is the typical fare of how I spend my days separated from my muse while I recuperate to take charge of my prose and essays once more. It’s super thrilling, I know. I’m curious how others recharge their batteries. Do you do anything fascinatingly different from me? (And if you wish to flame me for my taste in video games, I do have the power to smite your comment, you know.) ~Leave your two cents in the comment slot box below~

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