http://www.chicagoclout.com/weblog/archives/2010/08/mayor_daley_uses_child_labor_t.html
This is not only a horribly written blog post, it is also purely subjective without any concentration on fact. Thank you, Patrick McDonough, for proving that even the least educated people in the world know how to work a computer. It's true. Even a caveman can do it.
About Me
- Brianna
- Ever a contradiction: I'm a pessimistic optimist, a practical idealist, a messy perfectionist, a shy yet outgoing, distracted yet organized, procrastinating yet prompt oxymoron. And I'm also on Twitter! @BriannaKratz
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Writing Every Day
After my Lenten goal to write every day was so successful, I promptly dropped the "write every day" goal and lapsed into laziness, May Term, and summer vacation. Naturally, now that I'm back at school and procrastination is necessitated by the existence of homework, I'm bringing back my goal to actually write every day. And I am proud to say that I have written every day for 11 days now. Which I would say was a record, but that would be a downright lie since Lent is 40 days. Not including Sundays. I think.
Anyway, in writing every day again, my calendar is pleasantly populated by happy little orange x's on the days that I write, and my notebook has stopped complaining that it's gathering dust. I personally think that such a complaint is unfounded merely because I consistently find myself moving my notebook from one side of the bookshelf to the other if only to keep it from staring at me. Because I worry about these things.
And now instead of reading about Shakespeare's historical context, I'm typing on a blog that I really only use to blabber to myself about randomness since there's very little point in anyone else reading it. Mostly because it may not make sense to anyone who either considers themselves sane or don't know me. So apparently blabbering about my own blabber is totally acceptable.
Since I'm the only one who reads this blog anyway. :^P
Anyway, in writing every day again, my calendar is pleasantly populated by happy little orange x's on the days that I write, and my notebook has stopped complaining that it's gathering dust. I personally think that such a complaint is unfounded merely because I consistently find myself moving my notebook from one side of the bookshelf to the other if only to keep it from staring at me. Because I worry about these things.
And now instead of reading about Shakespeare's historical context, I'm typing on a blog that I really only use to blabber to myself about randomness since there's very little point in anyone else reading it. Mostly because it may not make sense to anyone who either considers themselves sane or don't know me. So apparently blabbering about my own blabber is totally acceptable.
Since I'm the only one who reads this blog anyway. :^P
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Transition
Transition and I are not friends.
Back in elementary school, I used to cry before going into the new school year because I would be in a different grade with a different teacher, and some different friends. I'm pretty sure I did the same thing when I went from elementary school to middle school, a transition that only I and a couple of my friends from elementary school were doing because we would otherwise have gone through 8th grade at our former school. If that makes any sense.
And it would follow that I did the same thing or similar when I went from 8th grade to high school. Though I don't remember.
I don't remember crying before going off to college. I remember being worried, and I remember fretting over every tiny detail of my packing well in advance. That was probably the most prepared I was before leaving for a year of college. I cried once I got there, but that was homesickness, and it only came at night. Or when I was alone.
I haven't cried yet this year, but I have begun to experience a certain lack of motivation. This is my third time going off to college, and the first year I'm starting off as an RA instead of a Staff Alternate. So of course there are differences. But Transition and I are not friends, so I've hit a wall in my packing and I don't really feel like reading the summer reading book that I'm supposed to so I can talk to my freshmen about it.
I want to go, but I don't want to prepare for it. I would rather take off with whatever I had with me at the time and send for the rest of my things.
But maybe that's my lack of motivation talking.
Back in elementary school, I used to cry before going into the new school year because I would be in a different grade with a different teacher, and some different friends. I'm pretty sure I did the same thing when I went from elementary school to middle school, a transition that only I and a couple of my friends from elementary school were doing because we would otherwise have gone through 8th grade at our former school. If that makes any sense.
And it would follow that I did the same thing or similar when I went from 8th grade to high school. Though I don't remember.
I don't remember crying before going off to college. I remember being worried, and I remember fretting over every tiny detail of my packing well in advance. That was probably the most prepared I was before leaving for a year of college. I cried once I got there, but that was homesickness, and it only came at night. Or when I was alone.
I haven't cried yet this year, but I have begun to experience a certain lack of motivation. This is my third time going off to college, and the first year I'm starting off as an RA instead of a Staff Alternate. So of course there are differences. But Transition and I are not friends, so I've hit a wall in my packing and I don't really feel like reading the summer reading book that I'm supposed to so I can talk to my freshmen about it.
I want to go, but I don't want to prepare for it. I would rather take off with whatever I had with me at the time and send for the rest of my things.
But maybe that's my lack of motivation talking.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Two-ish weeks
It has occurred to me that my leaving for the school year is inevitable. And imminent. And all those other words that mean "looming on the horizon like a gigantic blimp that looks like it's about to fall out of the sky any second now." The more I begin to realize that I'm going back to school very soon, the more I begin to realize that I haven't packed yet, even though the majority of my things I just didn't unpack to begin with. Which is rather irritating when you're looking for your toothbrush and you remember, "Oh wait, it's somewhere buried amongst my books, towels and dry erase markers."
I think it goes without saying that that experience is horribly inconvenient.
All the same, I really want to go back to school, which in and of itself is strange. The concept of wanting to go back and study is just so weird. Then again, there is the prospect of meeting new people and making friends, and all that wonderfulness that comes with a new year.
And then my presidential duties.
I've been trying to forget that I'm the president of my school's Residence Hall Association, but the panic, fear and nerves keep creeping up into my consciousness. Another terrible inconvenience.
And I only have about two weeks.
Frightening.
I think it goes without saying that that experience is horribly inconvenient.
All the same, I really want to go back to school, which in and of itself is strange. The concept of wanting to go back and study is just so weird. Then again, there is the prospect of meeting new people and making friends, and all that wonderfulness that comes with a new year.
And then my presidential duties.
I've been trying to forget that I'm the president of my school's Residence Hall Association, but the panic, fear and nerves keep creeping up into my consciousness. Another terrible inconvenience.
And I only have about two weeks.
Frightening.
Monday, July 5, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Organization
Today is a rare type of day in my life, being a day of organization. I have my very own method of organization that involves making piles of things and sifting through them every now and again in order to pretend that I'm "cleaning" my room. Today's organization required that I go through all of my writing and sort through it. Now, I've kept everything I've ever written ever since my first creative writing class in 3rd grade. At least, around then. I can tell because of the evolution of my handwriting throughout my writing collection.
So you can imagine the sheer bulk of papers that I have in my possession.
Today I will finally be retiring my old blue and sticker-covered one inch binder in favor of a file boxy thing that I just got from Target. It's magical, I'll tell you that much.
The problem is that I don't really organize things. So I've been spreading out all my writing, making random and separate piles that would probably only make sense to me, which is how I'd like to keep it. It's weird to see all my writing spread out like this though, and it makes me wonder if I'll ever use that little blurb I wrote about a girl riding a horse in 4th grade. And it's enough paper to make me regret that our family doesn't recycle paper. Heh heh.
Organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it's not all mixed up.--A.A. Milne
So you can imagine the sheer bulk of papers that I have in my possession.
Today I will finally be retiring my old blue and sticker-covered one inch binder in favor of a file boxy thing that I just got from Target. It's magical, I'll tell you that much.
The problem is that I don't really organize things. So I've been spreading out all my writing, making random and separate piles that would probably only make sense to me, which is how I'd like to keep it. It's weird to see all my writing spread out like this though, and it makes me wonder if I'll ever use that little blurb I wrote about a girl riding a horse in 4th grade. And it's enough paper to make me regret that our family doesn't recycle paper. Heh heh.
Organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it's not all mixed up.--A.A. Milne
Thursday, July 1, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Supreme Empress of the World
In 7th grade, I decided that I would be Supreme Empress of the World. In 8th grade, I wrote this as part of my "Supreme Empress of the World website".
A Brief History of the Supreme Empress and Her Rise to Power
When I was born, I was given the name "Supreme." My last name was "Empress." I was always a very bright child. In kindergarten, when everyone was finger-painting, I was painting with brushes an exact replica of Monet's "Water Lilies."
In second grade, we did a play on Johnny Appleseed. I was the star of the show. I was the bird. I stole the show when I flew on stage with my lovely blue feathered wings. Johnny didn't have a chance.
In fourth grade, I was in a guitar recital. I played "Happy Birthday." My guitar was the loudest and the most clear out of the whole entire class. I was the only one who didn't even make one mistake.
In sixth grade, I was in the school play called "Annie Jr." I was the most fun character in the play. I was Lily St. Regis. Do not forget that I had a great accent and I even added a line to make the play more interesting. I sang and danced my heart out and was the best villain.
In seventh grade, I found that my true calling was to be Ruler of the World. I decided who would own what, and what would happen to the world when I died. Then it happened. On my way to P.E. on the faithful Wednesday afternoon, I just took over the World. Just like that! It was magical!
Note: Keep in mind that this history is based on fact and that these events happened in some truth and this is a BRIEF history.
A Brief History of the Supreme Empress and Her Rise to Power
When I was born, I was given the name "Supreme." My last name was "Empress." I was always a very bright child. In kindergarten, when everyone was finger-painting, I was painting with brushes an exact replica of Monet's "Water Lilies."
In second grade, we did a play on Johnny Appleseed. I was the star of the show. I was the bird. I stole the show when I flew on stage with my lovely blue feathered wings. Johnny didn't have a chance.
In fourth grade, I was in a guitar recital. I played "Happy Birthday." My guitar was the loudest and the most clear out of the whole entire class. I was the only one who didn't even make one mistake.
In sixth grade, I was in the school play called "Annie Jr." I was the most fun character in the play. I was Lily St. Regis. Do not forget that I had a great accent and I even added a line to make the play more interesting. I sang and danced my heart out and was the best villain.
In seventh grade, I found that my true calling was to be Ruler of the World. I decided who would own what, and what would happen to the world when I died. Then it happened. On my way to P.E. on the faithful Wednesday afternoon, I just took over the World. Just like that! It was magical!
Note: Keep in mind that this history is based on fact and that these events happened in some truth and this is a BRIEF history.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Blurb
"The character is inside you."
When she said that, I had to keep myself from watching my classmates vomit up a character in my mind's eye. Their characters would end up being caricature versions of themselves, more beautiful, smarter, better teeth. The cheerleader across the circle from me would vomit up a character so blonde her hair would light up the entire room with its brilliance, and the musician two seats down would hurl a bassist with longer hair and blacker nails into the middle of the circle. The chess club president a ways down would actually manage to create his perfect mate, and that would be the most original creation from any one of them.
I would exhale a villain that could antagonize their cartoon heroes. Or maybe the outcast of the group. Okay, the outcast is my caricature, so maybe not.
So there I sat trying to think of a unique character. Finally putting pen to paper, I allowed the glimmer of an idea to fill me up. The idea formed words and were scribbled onto my otherwise blank page. I was just putting the finishing touches on the description when our teacher told us to stop. And so began the most grueling part of class as each of my classmates in turn explained in a mumble what they had written.
When she said that, I had to keep myself from watching my classmates vomit up a character in my mind's eye. Their characters would end up being caricature versions of themselves, more beautiful, smarter, better teeth. The cheerleader across the circle from me would vomit up a character so blonde her hair would light up the entire room with its brilliance, and the musician two seats down would hurl a bassist with longer hair and blacker nails into the middle of the circle. The chess club president a ways down would actually manage to create his perfect mate, and that would be the most original creation from any one of them.
I would exhale a villain that could antagonize their cartoon heroes. Or maybe the outcast of the group. Okay, the outcast is my caricature, so maybe not.
So there I sat trying to think of a unique character. Finally putting pen to paper, I allowed the glimmer of an idea to fill me up. The idea formed words and were scribbled onto my otherwise blank page. I was just putting the finishing touches on the description when our teacher told us to stop. And so began the most grueling part of class as each of my classmates in turn explained in a mumble what they had written.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Enthusiasm
Sometimes I get excited or do things that confirm my nerdiness. For example, merely knowing the date of Towel Day/Geek Pride Day...
One of the most recent examples of my nerdiness displays has been with the final assignment for my class. I'm taking Introduction to Dramatic Literature. So I already geeked out over reading Hamlet AND over finding all the references to eyes, blindness and seeing in Oedipus the King. On top of it, we have to do this final project type thing. One of the options is to re-write one act of one of the plays that we read, adapting it into a different genre/style. Now anyone who knows me will know that I adore the idea of adaptations. Just look at my past two summers for evidence.
So sharing this excitement is interesting because no one knows what I'm talking about. Because I'm going to adapt a Medieval drama into a modern comedy. And I already have all sorts of ideas to keep it from getting preachy. Which is always good when adapting morality plays for modern audiences, I find. :^P It's just coming together really well in my head, and I can only hope it'll come together on paper as well!
One of the most recent examples of my nerdiness displays has been with the final assignment for my class. I'm taking Introduction to Dramatic Literature. So I already geeked out over reading Hamlet AND over finding all the references to eyes, blindness and seeing in Oedipus the King. On top of it, we have to do this final project type thing. One of the options is to re-write one act of one of the plays that we read, adapting it into a different genre/style. Now anyone who knows me will know that I adore the idea of adaptations. Just look at my past two summers for evidence.
So sharing this excitement is interesting because no one knows what I'm talking about. Because I'm going to adapt a Medieval drama into a modern comedy. And I already have all sorts of ideas to keep it from getting preachy. Which is always good when adapting morality plays for modern audiences, I find. :^P It's just coming together really well in my head, and I can only hope it'll come together on paper as well!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Conflict
It's raining.
And thundering.
And though I'm thrilled that the grossness of the weather will probably encourage me to actually do work on this day when I have no class, I'm conflicted. Mostly because I have to go to the Dollar Tree to buy massive amounts of bleach, and a couple pairs of dish washing gloves. Granted, the Dollar Tree is across the street...but there is no way that I'll be able to juggle an umbrella and that amount of bleach.
In looking at the wonderful resource that is www.weather.com, I have come to realize that the county is under a severe thunderstorm warning until 8:00 this morning. Luckily, I only have five minutes until that expires. But I also discovered that it will be raining all day, thereby encouraging the further procrastination of my bleach and glove purchase.
So the procrastinating side of me is quickly winning me over. I'll have time tomorrow...but the thing with buying things tomorrow means I'll actually have to do it. Luckily, www.weather.com says that it's going to be sunny all day tomorrow. Thanks for nothing, Thursday.
And thundering.
And though I'm thrilled that the grossness of the weather will probably encourage me to actually do work on this day when I have no class, I'm conflicted. Mostly because I have to go to the Dollar Tree to buy massive amounts of bleach, and a couple pairs of dish washing gloves. Granted, the Dollar Tree is across the street...but there is no way that I'll be able to juggle an umbrella and that amount of bleach.
In looking at the wonderful resource that is www.weather.com, I have come to realize that the county is under a severe thunderstorm warning until 8:00 this morning. Luckily, I only have five minutes until that expires. But I also discovered that it will be raining all day, thereby encouraging the further procrastination of my bleach and glove purchase.
So the procrastinating side of me is quickly winning me over. I'll have time tomorrow...but the thing with buying things tomorrow means I'll actually have to do it. Luckily, www.weather.com says that it's going to be sunny all day tomorrow. Thanks for nothing, Thursday.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Chalk
You have to love small children.
Today I went on a walk around the neighborhood surrounding school. I was planning on going to the Constitution Trail, but then I thought that maybe there would be too many people around there, and I didn't want to deal with people this morning. So I just wandered. As I was wandering, I re-noticed the tower type thing that's north of the school. Cutting between two houses on a gravel driveway, I crossed the Shirk parking lot and headed toward it as best I could. Unfortunately, there wasn't a direct route to it from where I was, but I ended up as close as I could get, discovering that it was part of the Immanuel Bible Foundation? It's in the backyard of this mansion thing that they own. Here, enjoy:
The reason why I love small children is because I was on my way to this tower thing, so I had to go through the residential part of the neighborhood (surprise, surprise). As I was walking, I noticed chalk on the sidewalk, so naturally I stopped to check it out. Written on the sidewalk in large green letters, it said, "ICE POP!" accompanied by an arrow that pointed to the house behind it. And right underneath it, in smaller pink letters, it said "Never mind."
I couldn't stop smiling. :^)
Today I went on a walk around the neighborhood surrounding school. I was planning on going to the Constitution Trail, but then I thought that maybe there would be too many people around there, and I didn't want to deal with people this morning. So I just wandered. As I was wandering, I re-noticed the tower type thing that's north of the school. Cutting between two houses on a gravel driveway, I crossed the Shirk parking lot and headed toward it as best I could. Unfortunately, there wasn't a direct route to it from where I was, but I ended up as close as I could get, discovering that it was part of the Immanuel Bible Foundation? It's in the backyard of this mansion thing that they own. Here, enjoy:
The reason why I love small children is because I was on my way to this tower thing, so I had to go through the residential part of the neighborhood (surprise, surprise). As I was walking, I noticed chalk on the sidewalk, so naturally I stopped to check it out. Written on the sidewalk in large green letters, it said, "ICE POP!" accompanied by an arrow that pointed to the house behind it. And right underneath it, in smaller pink letters, it said "Never mind."
I couldn't stop smiling. :^)
Friday, March 26, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Drastic plastics tonguing street corners restlessly.
I have decided that it greatly annoys me when I step into the shower, turn on the water, and a lightbulb turns on. I'm not talking a literal lightbulb, I'm talking lightbulbs of the metaphorical variety. I'm talking the "EUREKA!" lightbulbs. The "oh my gosh, so that's what gravity is!" lightbulbs.
The lightbulbs that make me want to jump out of the shower sopping wet and run naked across the hall to grab a pen and paper.
I don't think my roommate would appreciate that very much.
Okay, so I'm thankful for any lightbulbs that grace me whenever they grace me, but could they just delay their arrival for until I get out of the shower and maybe dry off a little bit?
I don't think my notebook would appreciate being dripped on.
This is the perfect opportunity for someone to invent a waterproof way of documenting those lightbulb moments. Especially for writers such as myself who have short attention spans and horrible memories. I would keep it in a pocket. Somewhere. They'd have to install some sort of shelf in the shower specially crafted to hold this waterproof documenting device. Honestly, whoever invents that will make a mint. I would tell all my friends, and just think of the number of novels, poems, philosophical arguments and worthless headlines could be written just because the person could write them down immediately after thinking of them.
While in the shower.
I know I would buy one. Whatever it may be. Laminated notebook pages and special pen (maybe a Sharpie, they work everywhere)? Some type of waterproof messaging, note-taking device? Handheld, of course.
Think of all those lightbulbs saved.
Instead of burnt out.
The lightbulbs that make me want to jump out of the shower sopping wet and run naked across the hall to grab a pen and paper.
I don't think my roommate would appreciate that very much.
Okay, so I'm thankful for any lightbulbs that grace me whenever they grace me, but could they just delay their arrival for until I get out of the shower and maybe dry off a little bit?
I don't think my notebook would appreciate being dripped on.
This is the perfect opportunity for someone to invent a waterproof way of documenting those lightbulb moments. Especially for writers such as myself who have short attention spans and horrible memories. I would keep it in a pocket. Somewhere. They'd have to install some sort of shelf in the shower specially crafted to hold this waterproof documenting device. Honestly, whoever invents that will make a mint. I would tell all my friends, and just think of the number of novels, poems, philosophical arguments and worthless headlines could be written just because the person could write them down immediately after thinking of them.
While in the shower.
I know I would buy one. Whatever it may be. Laminated notebook pages and special pen (maybe a Sharpie, they work everywhere)? Some type of waterproof messaging, note-taking device? Handheld, of course.
Think of all those lightbulbs saved.
Instead of burnt out.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Prompted
Thank you, to prompt websites that make my life easier.
May was a college student. That is to say that she spent the majority of her time during the week in the library, and her Fridays and Saturdays as far away from the library as she could possibly get. And being the dutiful college student she was, she called her parents once every two weeks to assure them that yes, she was doing fine in classes, and no, she wasn't letting her boyfriend push her around. Mostly because she didn't have a boyfriend. But that wasn't the point.
This particular afternoon found May, the college student, on a train, on her way home. And for May, home meant a great number of things, most importantly, home meant being within the same city limits as her former high school boyfriend. And he was one of several reasons she didn't have a boyfriend at school. The other reasons being the names of innumerable STDs that she was fairly certain the fraternity boys at her school collected and a certain overprotective father who didn't like bikers, artistic types or political science majors.
But I digress. At that very moment, May sat in her very own seat on the Amtrak home, with her laptop open on the fold out tray in front of her. The light from the screen was dimmed since she had her power cord in her bag and she didn't feel like fiddling around with the dimmer. Besides, she didn't need to see perfectly in order to play Spider Solitaire. It was rather inconvenient that the train didn't have Wifi, but hey, she had Moulin Rouge and a set of headphones in her bag if she felt the need to entertain herself with something other than pixelated images of shuffling cards.
May shifted in her seat, fighting to get comfortable in the chair to which she would be confined for over three hours. After fidgeting for a good bit, she discovered that she had been sitting on a ball of crumpled paper. Furrowing her brow, May picked up the paper ball and opened it, smoothing it out on the corner of the tray table that wasn't taken up by her laptop. When she uncrumpled it...
May was a college student. That is to say that she spent the majority of her time during the week in the library, and her Fridays and Saturdays as far away from the library as she could possibly get. And being the dutiful college student she was, she called her parents once every two weeks to assure them that yes, she was doing fine in classes, and no, she wasn't letting her boyfriend push her around. Mostly because she didn't have a boyfriend. But that wasn't the point.
This particular afternoon found May, the college student, on a train, on her way home. And for May, home meant a great number of things, most importantly, home meant being within the same city limits as her former high school boyfriend. And he was one of several reasons she didn't have a boyfriend at school. The other reasons being the names of innumerable STDs that she was fairly certain the fraternity boys at her school collected and a certain overprotective father who didn't like bikers, artistic types or political science majors.
But I digress. At that very moment, May sat in her very own seat on the Amtrak home, with her laptop open on the fold out tray in front of her. The light from the screen was dimmed since she had her power cord in her bag and she didn't feel like fiddling around with the dimmer. Besides, she didn't need to see perfectly in order to play Spider Solitaire. It was rather inconvenient that the train didn't have Wifi, but hey, she had Moulin Rouge and a set of headphones in her bag if she felt the need to entertain herself with something other than pixelated images of shuffling cards.
May shifted in her seat, fighting to get comfortable in the chair to which she would be confined for over three hours. After fidgeting for a good bit, she discovered that she had been sitting on a ball of crumpled paper. Furrowing her brow, May picked up the paper ball and opened it, smoothing it out on the corner of the tray table that wasn't taken up by her laptop. When she uncrumpled it...
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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By:
Brianna
[jungftak]
Yesterday I finished a book called Paper Towns by John Green. And being the nerd that I am, I decided to look up "paper town" in Wikipedia, and discovered a whole slew of information on fictitious entries out there in the real world. On maps, in dictionaries and encyclopedias, on the Internet...it's really fascinating to think about. Where do people come up with these things? That they're just going to make up a word and throw it into the dictionary.
These are traditionally used as copyright traps, so if your made-up word shows up in someone else's dictionary, you know they're copying your dictionary. But I have to wonder with the Technological Age and all, are these entries just waiting to be found? Are they being made because people have the potential to find them?
I wonder what kind of fictitious entries there are out there? Have more been created recently?
I wonder...
These are traditionally used as copyright traps, so if your made-up word shows up in someone else's dictionary, you know they're copying your dictionary. But I have to wonder with the Technological Age and all, are these entries just waiting to be found? Are they being made because people have the potential to find them?
I wonder what kind of fictitious entries there are out there? Have more been created recently?
I wonder...
Sunday, March 14, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Good Thing...
"Good thing my daughter's focused."
What does that mean?
After talking about whether a friend has "what it takes" to get through four years of design school, that's what my dad comes out with.
"Good thing my daughter's focused."
What does he mean by "focused"? Focused on my studies? Focused on skating by with a decent grade on that paper I wrote the night before it was due? Focused on what I'm going to do all weekend when I'm not on duty? Does he know I want to be a novelist? That I want to write fiction, ridiculous things about plastic lawn flamingos, a girl that wears enough clothes to clothe a third world country and a green snakeskin hand bag with an attitude? Does he know that I want to pick up a French major so I can actually understand what Edith Piaf, Renan Luce and Kyo have to say? Does he know that I'm really focused on figuring out what I'm going to do next year when I should probably be doing my homework for Philosophy? Does he know that "focus" doesn't really have a definition for me with my scatterbrained thought process? Does he know that while he watches a Shania Twain concert online that I'm upstairs typing about how I don't know what he means by "focus"? Does he realize that I have more questions about "focus" than I could ever have about the nature of pickle relish? (Why IS it so green anyway?)
Okay. So maybe I'm latching onto one word and expanding it into something ramble-worthy. Very possible. Probable, actually. I should be focused on re-learning what little French grammar I knew before so I can dive into whatever classes I want to take for that wonderful French minor I've got my eye on. Or maybe I should be focused on an idea for that brilliant novel I'll write one day. Or focused on watching the second Back to the Future movie with my brother and getting him to stop playing Xbox for a little while.
Or maybe I should just stop writing about what I think "focus" really is.
What does that mean?
After talking about whether a friend has "what it takes" to get through four years of design school, that's what my dad comes out with.
"Good thing my daughter's focused."
What does he mean by "focused"? Focused on my studies? Focused on skating by with a decent grade on that paper I wrote the night before it was due? Focused on what I'm going to do all weekend when I'm not on duty? Does he know I want to be a novelist? That I want to write fiction, ridiculous things about plastic lawn flamingos, a girl that wears enough clothes to clothe a third world country and a green snakeskin hand bag with an attitude? Does he know that I want to pick up a French major so I can actually understand what Edith Piaf, Renan Luce and Kyo have to say? Does he know that I'm really focused on figuring out what I'm going to do next year when I should probably be doing my homework for Philosophy? Does he know that "focus" doesn't really have a definition for me with my scatterbrained thought process? Does he know that while he watches a Shania Twain concert online that I'm upstairs typing about how I don't know what he means by "focus"? Does he realize that I have more questions about "focus" than I could ever have about the nature of pickle relish? (Why IS it so green anyway?)
Okay. So maybe I'm latching onto one word and expanding it into something ramble-worthy. Very possible. Probable, actually. I should be focused on re-learning what little French grammar I knew before so I can dive into whatever classes I want to take for that wonderful French minor I've got my eye on. Or maybe I should be focused on an idea for that brilliant novel I'll write one day. Or focused on watching the second Back to the Future movie with my brother and getting him to stop playing Xbox for a little while.
Or maybe I should just stop writing about what I think "focus" really is.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Arizona
Okay, the thing about Arizona is that my dad loves it. And me being a bratty teenager as I once was, I needed to hate it just because my dad adores it. I needed to hate absolutely everything about Arizona. Every rock, every speck of dust, every cactus, every street name and tourist attraction. Just because my dad was in love.
Now that I'm a little older than "bratty," I'm mellowing out. Arizona is still not my favorite place in the whole wide world, but I no longer hate it with a passion. And if I do, it's just to be contrary.
I do greatly dislike the weather. I'm not a fan of heat, I'd rather bundle up than strip down. Personally.
And I am pretty scared of cactus. They're deadly, come on, who wouldn't be afraid of something that could cuddle with you and draw enough blood to feed a football team of vampires?
And you have to admit that nearly everything plays into stereotype when it comes to Arizona. There are streets called "Teepee Road" and "Buck-eye Trail," and a town called "Apache Junction." So many stereotypical western restaurants and tourist attractions, I wonder how the state can live with itself. Does it realize that it's entire purpose is tourism? The Grand Canyon is the best feature of the landscape. Okay, the red rocks are cool too. And petrified wood. And a couple other things...as long as I don't have to get too close to the cactus.
And let's face it, Arizona is crawling with retired police officers. Most old people go and live in Florida, but not the police officers. They go to Arizona. Why is that?
Cheeky Arizona, flipping the bird at me with those handy saguaros...it obviously doesn't care about my opinion.
Now that I'm a little older than "bratty," I'm mellowing out. Arizona is still not my favorite place in the whole wide world, but I no longer hate it with a passion. And if I do, it's just to be contrary.
I do greatly dislike the weather. I'm not a fan of heat, I'd rather bundle up than strip down. Personally.
And I am pretty scared of cactus. They're deadly, come on, who wouldn't be afraid of something that could cuddle with you and draw enough blood to feed a football team of vampires?
And you have to admit that nearly everything plays into stereotype when it comes to Arizona. There are streets called "Teepee Road" and "Buck-eye Trail," and a town called "Apache Junction." So many stereotypical western restaurants and tourist attractions, I wonder how the state can live with itself. Does it realize that it's entire purpose is tourism? The Grand Canyon is the best feature of the landscape. Okay, the red rocks are cool too. And petrified wood. And a couple other things...as long as I don't have to get too close to the cactus.
And let's face it, Arizona is crawling with retired police officers. Most old people go and live in Florida, but not the police officers. They go to Arizona. Why is that?
Cheeky Arizona, flipping the bird at me with those handy saguaros...it obviously doesn't care about my opinion.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Randomness
Time trickles against the will of those who would have it stop. The few grabbing at the frayed hem of Time's robe, the strings loosening between their desperate fingers.
"What?" Time asked, tired of the constant clinging.
"Just stop for a second."
"I see no second here."
Time walks on, her desperate train imploring her to stop . Just for a tad. But was IS a "tad"? Time snickers at her own wit.
-----------------------
The young woman walked with care. She held the leash of a silver haired mutt, and she wore dark sunglasses. Sitting down on a park bench, she let out a breath.
"Lovely day."
"Gorgeous," agreed the dog.
-----------------------
What IS popcorn anyway? How is it related to corn on the cob? Maybe it's a distant cousin. A bastard son of an illegitimate union between a corn cob and a peanut? How would that even work? So a corn cob and a peanut walk into a genetic laboratory...Sounds like the beginning of a lame dinner joke.
"What?" Time asked, tired of the constant clinging.
"Just stop for a second."
"I see no second here."
Time walks on, her desperate train imploring her to stop . Just for a tad. But was IS a "tad"? Time snickers at her own wit.
-----------------------
The young woman walked with care. She held the leash of a silver haired mutt, and she wore dark sunglasses. Sitting down on a park bench, she let out a breath.
"Lovely day."
"Gorgeous," agreed the dog.
-----------------------
What IS popcorn anyway? How is it related to corn on the cob? Maybe it's a distant cousin. A bastard son of an illegitimate union between a corn cob and a peanut? How would that even work? So a corn cob and a peanut walk into a genetic laboratory...Sounds like the beginning of a lame dinner joke.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
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By:
Brianna
The Hour Past Midnight
In being up later than I normally would be, I notice a number of different things. For one, it's astounding how quiet the street outside is. At home, I'm pretty sure I can hear the busy street near us, and the train especially in the early hours of the evening.
And then there are the empty pop cans clanking down the hall. After spending two or so weeks believing that my residents drank a lot of pop and were just making sure that they recycled correctly, I discovered that no. Oh no, my residents are far too clever for that. They strung up four feet worth of pop cans. From the ceiling. In the inlet where their door opens. Needless to say, every time someone enters or leaves that room...::clank:: ::claaaaaank:: Annoying? Absolutely. Especially at 1:30 in the AM.
And now my sleep-deprived brain has begun pondering what "AM" means. And "PM," for that matter. I supposed "After Midnight" would be appropriate for "AM," but where does that leave "PM"? "Past Midday"? That seems like a stretch. I wonder who came up for those terms. Was it the train system giving us time zones and neat ways of saying "in the afternoon or evening" without resorting to 13:00? But then the Europeans run on 24hr clocks. So was it the crazy American that gave us the weird measurement system that decided that the U.S. should have two 1:00s in the course of a day? Why would you do that? Naturally if I'm saying I'm going to meet someone for lunch at 1:00, they assume I mean in the afternoon, but what if I had no sense of when lunch should be eaten, and I showed up at the restaurant at 1:00 in the morning only to realize that the joint's hours are 9 AM to 10 PM, leaving me standing out on the curb without a "lunch"? What then?
A random update on my Lenten goal to write every day of Lent...I'm actually doing surprisingly well. I did cheat a couple times, making up for days I missed by writing extra, but hey. At least it's getting done, and there were only a couple days like that anyway. Chances are when I get home all this effort is going to be forgotten. Hopefully that won't happen, considering I'm so proud I've gotten this far writing every single day. That never happens. Never... I always promise myself that I'll get into the habit of writing every day, but I never actually buckle down and do it. What makes this time different, I have no idea, but something's working.
Maybe it's the procrastination.
And then there are the empty pop cans clanking down the hall. After spending two or so weeks believing that my residents drank a lot of pop and were just making sure that they recycled correctly, I discovered that no. Oh no, my residents are far too clever for that. They strung up four feet worth of pop cans. From the ceiling. In the inlet where their door opens. Needless to say, every time someone enters or leaves that room...::clank:: ::claaaaaank:: Annoying? Absolutely. Especially at 1:30 in the AM.
And now my sleep-deprived brain has begun pondering what "AM" means. And "PM," for that matter. I supposed "After Midnight" would be appropriate for "AM," but where does that leave "PM"? "Past Midday"? That seems like a stretch. I wonder who came up for those terms. Was it the train system giving us time zones and neat ways of saying "in the afternoon or evening" without resorting to 13:00? But then the Europeans run on 24hr clocks. So was it the crazy American that gave us the weird measurement system that decided that the U.S. should have two 1:00s in the course of a day? Why would you do that? Naturally if I'm saying I'm going to meet someone for lunch at 1:00, they assume I mean in the afternoon, but what if I had no sense of when lunch should be eaten, and I showed up at the restaurant at 1:00 in the morning only to realize that the joint's hours are 9 AM to 10 PM, leaving me standing out on the curb without a "lunch"? What then?
A random update on my Lenten goal to write every day of Lent...I'm actually doing surprisingly well. I did cheat a couple times, making up for days I missed by writing extra, but hey. At least it's getting done, and there were only a couple days like that anyway. Chances are when I get home all this effort is going to be forgotten. Hopefully that won't happen, considering I'm so proud I've gotten this far writing every single day. That never happens. Never... I always promise myself that I'll get into the habit of writing every day, but I never actually buckle down and do it. What makes this time different, I have no idea, but something's working.
Maybe it's the procrastination.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Homework
So I discovered that my friend who shares her itunes library with everyone within range has the Indiana Jones soundtrack on her itunes. While a normal human being would probably not listen to a movie soundtrack just for fun, I put it on so I could listen to something that wouldn't distract me while I was doing my homework. And I made a discovery.
Listening to Indiana Jones while doing my homework makes it feel like an epic accomplishment when I finish something.
So after finishing a review of a play I went to see last week and e-mailing it to myself, the soundtrack was finished. My next task? Astronomy accompanied by Star Wars. Appropriate? I think so. Highly appropriate, in fact.
It's really a comfort to know that I find enjoyment in my homework when it has a soundtrack. Why can't life have a soundtrack? I really sometimes wish that it would, but then I realize that my life would have the ironic "oh how sad" mocking music whenever I do something stupid, and I worry that that would get a little old. And would other people be able to hear my life's soundtrack? I wonder, because I'd rather not have other people hear the "love theme" when someone I think is attractive walks by. That would just be embarrassing...for everyone involved, I'm sure. Though amusing for others, I suppose. As of right now, if my life had a soundtrack, I would like it to be composed by John Williams or Hans Zimmer. Or maybe Alan Silvestri. Not so sure about Danny Elfman, he does a lot of creepy stuff...
I'm going to have to give some thought as to who shall compose the soundtrack of my life. I'll keep you posted.
Listening to Indiana Jones while doing my homework makes it feel like an epic accomplishment when I finish something.
So after finishing a review of a play I went to see last week and e-mailing it to myself, the soundtrack was finished. My next task? Astronomy accompanied by Star Wars. Appropriate? I think so. Highly appropriate, in fact.
It's really a comfort to know that I find enjoyment in my homework when it has a soundtrack. Why can't life have a soundtrack? I really sometimes wish that it would, but then I realize that my life would have the ironic "oh how sad" mocking music whenever I do something stupid, and I worry that that would get a little old. And would other people be able to hear my life's soundtrack? I wonder, because I'd rather not have other people hear the "love theme" when someone I think is attractive walks by. That would just be embarrassing...for everyone involved, I'm sure. Though amusing for others, I suppose. As of right now, if my life had a soundtrack, I would like it to be composed by John Williams or Hans Zimmer. Or maybe Alan Silvestri. Not so sure about Danny Elfman, he does a lot of creepy stuff...
I'm going to have to give some thought as to who shall compose the soundtrack of my life. I'll keep you posted.
Monday, February 22, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Riddle Me This
So on Friday, one of my friends called me at midnight, asking me if I could take a look at a poem he had written to submit to this magazine. I said that I would, and promptly spent the good part of an hour talking to him about his poem, suggesting revisions and complimenting my favorite lines and concepts.
Of course, this doesn't seem like it might be an odd occurrence.
Except...
I have sworn to loathe poetry for all eternity.
In fact, one of my favorite homework assignments is to critique my classmates' poems for class. Is it the poetry or something else?
I would say that despite my growing fancy for poetry, it's "something else." For some reason, I really enjoy critiquing and editing things. For instance, I've got lined up a paper by my best friend and a short story by a friend here, both to distract me from my Astronomy reading. Which believe me, is fine by me.
Why do I like editing and critiquing? Is it because I get to tear open a piece of writing and write all over it in pretty colors? Is it because I'm self-righteous and think that whatever I'm critiquing is made better just because I'm writing all over it in pretty colors? I wonder if an ability to edit and critique comes naturally or if it's something you learn from critiquing your own work...I don't really know, but I do know that the next person who tells me they're writing a paper, I will be volunteering to edit it. I hope I don't put the Writing Center out of business.
“Only presidents, editors and people with tapeworms have the right to use the editorial we.” - Mark Twain
Of course, this doesn't seem like it might be an odd occurrence.
Except...
I have sworn to loathe poetry for all eternity.
In fact, one of my favorite homework assignments is to critique my classmates' poems for class. Is it the poetry or something else?
I would say that despite my growing fancy for poetry, it's "something else." For some reason, I really enjoy critiquing and editing things. For instance, I've got lined up a paper by my best friend and a short story by a friend here, both to distract me from my Astronomy reading. Which believe me, is fine by me.
Why do I like editing and critiquing? Is it because I get to tear open a piece of writing and write all over it in pretty colors? Is it because I'm self-righteous and think that whatever I'm critiquing is made better just because I'm writing all over it in pretty colors? I wonder if an ability to edit and critique comes naturally or if it's something you learn from critiquing your own work...I don't really know, but I do know that the next person who tells me they're writing a paper, I will be volunteering to edit it. I hope I don't put the Writing Center out of business.
“Only presidents, editors and people with tapeworms have the right to use the editorial we.” - Mark Twain
Monday, February 8, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Reflection
This Valentine’s Day I think I’ll reflect
on things that matter to me.
Not on chocolates, on trinkets or candies,
but on the one who I love to see.
My valentine is truly a wonder,
with a heart made of purest gold.
Only ever speaking when I speak,
my valentine is certainly bold.
My valentine has hair like mine
and beautiful green eyes too.
Not so sure ‘bout my valentine’s style,
but that’s between me and you.
But there’s a fact I’ve begun to realize.
Oh yes, it’s getting clearer…
My valentine looks quite like me!
Oh wait. Is that the mirror?
Happy Valentine’s Day!
on things that matter to me.
Not on chocolates, on trinkets or candies,
but on the one who I love to see.
My valentine is truly a wonder,
with a heart made of purest gold.
Only ever speaking when I speak,
my valentine is certainly bold.
My valentine has hair like mine
and beautiful green eyes too.
Not so sure ‘bout my valentine’s style,
but that’s between me and you.
But there’s a fact I’ve begun to realize.
Oh yes, it’s getting clearer…
My valentine looks quite like me!
Oh wait. Is that the mirror?
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
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By:
Brianna
The Photograph That Never Was
This is a draft of the first poem that I wrote for my Writing Poetry class. We were supposed to write about a piece of art or a photograph (aka an "ekphrastic poem"), and this is what came of it! Reactions? Comments? Questions?
Camera spits.
One square of slowly developing brilliance.
Now a box full of fog,
soon an example of artistry.
Held gingerly at one slippery corner,
waved in the wind.
Grayness fades,
almost like murky water parting.
Impatience.
Anticipation.
Expectation.
You hear the accolades in the breeze.
Shouts commending your brilliance.
"More!" They say. They want more.
More photographs, more autographs.
"It was nothing," you say. Waving.
You smile.
You look.
You see.
Nothing.
Camera spits.
One square of slowly developing brilliance.
Now a box full of fog,
soon an example of artistry.
Held gingerly at one slippery corner,
waved in the wind.
Grayness fades,
almost like murky water parting.
Impatience.
Anticipation.
Expectation.
You hear the accolades in the breeze.
Shouts commending your brilliance.
"More!" They say. They want more.
More photographs, more autographs.
"It was nothing," you say. Waving.
You smile.
You look.
You see.
Nothing.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Some Preferences
As I attempt to write close to every day this month, I've discovered a number of preferences I've developed through the years. Going through my old writings, I was relieved to note that my handwriting has improved since 4th or 5th grade or so. Definitely good to know I don't take up half a page with three sentences of my gigantic writing. My writing is still admittedly larger than others', but it's significantly neater now. Such a relief.
Preferences:
- Dark black pen, ball point...preferably Bic (none of that "gray" ink, and not the ink that sinks through the paper either)
- NEVER pencil.
- Papermate blue pens, if I have to write in blue. Black wins, usually.
- Notebook over loose leaf, usually.
- Handwritten, not typed.
- Quiet, or very VERY low music.
And that's all I can think of right now. Pretty basic. I was just thinking about it and wondered if any of my quirks were odd. To me, they're perfectly normal, or maybe a little odd, but not horribly so. I mean, maybe the dark black ink is a little weird, but I can tell the difference between that icky gray-ish ink and real black ink. It just looks so much better in true black ink.
A thought on chronic writer's block:
Everything that I've ever read that offers a solution to writer's block tells me, "Just write." And I can't help but wonder, "But how am I supposed to write? I have writer's block!" It's as if those people don't understand what you're telling them. You're telling them that there's no other alternative for you but to pound your head up against a brick wall, and they tell you in that infuriatingly patient text, "Just write." So what they're saying is, you have to struggle and run into that brick wall a couple hundred times with a pen, and then it'll come tumbling down, your own personal Wonderland of infinite story lines. An oasis of inspiration. Is that right? Is the pen mightier than the brick?
Preferences:
- Dark black pen, ball point...preferably Bic (none of that "gray" ink, and not the ink that sinks through the paper either)
- NEVER pencil.
- Papermate blue pens, if I have to write in blue. Black wins, usually.
- Notebook over loose leaf, usually.
- Handwritten, not typed.
- Quiet, or very VERY low music.
And that's all I can think of right now. Pretty basic. I was just thinking about it and wondered if any of my quirks were odd. To me, they're perfectly normal, or maybe a little odd, but not horribly so. I mean, maybe the dark black ink is a little weird, but I can tell the difference between that icky gray-ish ink and real black ink. It just looks so much better in true black ink.
A thought on chronic writer's block:
Everything that I've ever read that offers a solution to writer's block tells me, "Just write." And I can't help but wonder, "But how am I supposed to write? I have writer's block!" It's as if those people don't understand what you're telling them. You're telling them that there's no other alternative for you but to pound your head up against a brick wall, and they tell you in that infuriatingly patient text, "Just write." So what they're saying is, you have to struggle and run into that brick wall a couple hundred times with a pen, and then it'll come tumbling down, your own personal Wonderland of infinite story lines. An oasis of inspiration. Is that right? Is the pen mightier than the brick?
"The difference between the right word and the almost right word is really a large matter — it's the difference between a lightning bug and the lightning." - Mark Twain
Sunday, January 10, 2010
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By:
Brianna
Not A-Muse-d
I would like to take this time to set the record straight. No, I am not Greek. Yes, I am a muse. No, that does not mean that I'm going to inspire you just by being in your general presence. And no, I don't inspire just anyone. No matter how many times I explain to people, they always manage to come up with the most ridiculous questions to ask, and more often than not, they're the same questions I've answered a million times.
I live in New York, I've never been to Greece, nor will I ever go to Greece. I live in a very nice apartment down the street from a very bohemian cafe. And no, that's not a coincidence. I like the music there, okay?
I bake. Yes, bake. One taste of my famous cupcakes would have even the dullest office worker singing his own original show tune. That's right, cupcakes. Inspirational cupcakes. None of that magic touch stuff or divine inspiration, just plain old ordinary cupcakes that happen to taste pretty awesome. If I do say so myself.
But I do know people who inspire differently than myself. I mean, I can pretty much choose who receives these cupcakes. But then there are some people like that one muse who does inspire people by touching them. Boy do I feel sorry for him. Especially since he's one of those clumsy guys, always tripping all over himself, bumping into random people and sending them off to write sonnets. That whole Harry Potter fiasco? His fault. None of that was supposed to happen. That whole seven book phenomena was not supposed to exist, and now that random Scottish lady's raking in the...whatever kind of currency she uses. And who can I take credit for? A couple indie rock bands. At least I inspired them on purpose. His were all accidents. Lucky bastard.
I live in New York, I've never been to Greece, nor will I ever go to Greece. I live in a very nice apartment down the street from a very bohemian cafe. And no, that's not a coincidence. I like the music there, okay?
I bake. Yes, bake. One taste of my famous cupcakes would have even the dullest office worker singing his own original show tune. That's right, cupcakes. Inspirational cupcakes. None of that magic touch stuff or divine inspiration, just plain old ordinary cupcakes that happen to taste pretty awesome. If I do say so myself.
But I do know people who inspire differently than myself. I mean, I can pretty much choose who receives these cupcakes. But then there are some people like that one muse who does inspire people by touching them. Boy do I feel sorry for him. Especially since he's one of those clumsy guys, always tripping all over himself, bumping into random people and sending them off to write sonnets. That whole Harry Potter fiasco? His fault. None of that was supposed to happen. That whole seven book phenomena was not supposed to exist, and now that random Scottish lady's raking in the...whatever kind of currency she uses. And who can I take credit for? A couple indie rock bands. At least I inspired them on purpose. His were all accidents. Lucky bastard.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
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By:
Brianna
A Class Act
First day of class invariably brings with it the promise of work. And with the promise of work comes the certainty of procrastination. Not only have I spent an ungodly amount of time on Facebook, but I have also spent a good amount of time lying face down on my bed wishing that I didn't have anything to do but knowing that if I didn't have anything to do...I would be doing the same thing.
Not only have I correctly identified a serious problem in myself, but I have also discovered a truth. A really depressing truth.
I even procrastinate when I have nothing to procrastinate.
But in my defense, half of my work has to be left unfinished, undone, etc. because I don't have the books for those classes. Which might be a legitimate excuse to me, I'm not sure what my professors would say if I offered that excuse. "I'm sorry, professor, I would have done the reading, but I didn't have the book to read. Because it's currently in transit from some unknown place I ordered it from on the Internet." Because the Internet is so reliable.
It's a bad sign when I start reading something and all the words seem to hit a wall in my brain. I'm talking about literally bouncing off my brain as if it's a trampoline. All that stuff about the death penalty shed its shoes and is now bouncing around performing impressive acrobatic stunts on the trampoline that is currently my brain. Pretty sure if I could take my brain from my skull, it would make a fantastic bouncy ball right now.
Hopefully this isn't an indication of what the rest of the semester will be like.
Not only have I correctly identified a serious problem in myself, but I have also discovered a truth. A really depressing truth.
I even procrastinate when I have nothing to procrastinate.
But in my defense, half of my work has to be left unfinished, undone, etc. because I don't have the books for those classes. Which might be a legitimate excuse to me, I'm not sure what my professors would say if I offered that excuse. "I'm sorry, professor, I would have done the reading, but I didn't have the book to read. Because it's currently in transit from some unknown place I ordered it from on the Internet." Because the Internet is so reliable.
It's a bad sign when I start reading something and all the words seem to hit a wall in my brain. I'm talking about literally bouncing off my brain as if it's a trampoline. All that stuff about the death penalty shed its shoes and is now bouncing around performing impressive acrobatic stunts on the trampoline that is currently my brain. Pretty sure if I could take my brain from my skull, it would make a fantastic bouncy ball right now.
Hopefully this isn't an indication of what the rest of the semester will be like.
Friday, January 1, 2010
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By:
Brianna
New Years
It's New Years.
A new year.
2010.
The year that will mark my being two whole decades old. (Because the world obviously revolves around me. Clearly.)
So in the spirit of the new year, I have a friend who is setting a goal to write at least 300 words a day, and finish at least one story a month. If I'm remembering correctly. And now...because I've read those goals, I sit here thinking to myself, "Should I do something like that? I don't write nearly enough to be considered a real writer because I barely practice."
And then I remember my track record for completing goals.
Goal: Finish all my college applications by Thanksgiving.
Result: I was lucky to finish all my college applicaitions by Christmas.
Goal: Read at least 100 (or was it 50?) books in a year.
Result: I've either a) lost track or b) forgotten to read for fun because of classwork.
Goal: Finish packing before the day before I leave.
Result: Ha ha, I think you can figure this one out.
Remembering said track record leads me to wish I could figure out why it is that I have such a bad habit of either forgetting or losing track of my goals OR just all out ignoring them. I'd like to say it's procrastination. At least, that's the reason for the first and third examples... But the second example is the kind of goal a writing goal would end up being for me. And that's a forget.
I wonder if there's a way to encourage myself to write at least once every day. Like it doesn't even matter what. I'm thinking a really pretty journal would be fun...but then there's the issue of even if I see the journal, that's not going to make me think, "Oh, right! I haven't written today! I should do that!" No, there has to be another way of keeping track when I write and how often.
Could I keep tabs on my calendar? I mean, that'll be right by my desk, if I find a way of organizing my room that way...would that work? Would that be enough? Should I pull a Stargirl and have a dish of marbles or stones or something and transfer them to another dish every time I write?
What will keep me from cheating?
Hm...
Well, it's a thought.
A new year.
2010.
The year that will mark my being two whole decades old. (Because the world obviously revolves around me. Clearly.)
So in the spirit of the new year, I have a friend who is setting a goal to write at least 300 words a day, and finish at least one story a month. If I'm remembering correctly. And now...because I've read those goals, I sit here thinking to myself, "Should I do something like that? I don't write nearly enough to be considered a real writer because I barely practice."
And then I remember my track record for completing goals.
Goal: Finish all my college applications by Thanksgiving.
Result: I was lucky to finish all my college applicaitions by Christmas.
Goal: Read at least 100 (or was it 50?) books in a year.
Result: I've either a) lost track or b) forgotten to read for fun because of classwork.
Goal: Finish packing before the day before I leave.
Result: Ha ha, I think you can figure this one out.
Remembering said track record leads me to wish I could figure out why it is that I have such a bad habit of either forgetting or losing track of my goals OR just all out ignoring them. I'd like to say it's procrastination. At least, that's the reason for the first and third examples... But the second example is the kind of goal a writing goal would end up being for me. And that's a forget.
I wonder if there's a way to encourage myself to write at least once every day. Like it doesn't even matter what. I'm thinking a really pretty journal would be fun...but then there's the issue of even if I see the journal, that's not going to make me think, "Oh, right! I haven't written today! I should do that!" No, there has to be another way of keeping track when I write and how often.
Could I keep tabs on my calendar? I mean, that'll be right by my desk, if I find a way of organizing my room that way...would that work? Would that be enough? Should I pull a Stargirl and have a dish of marbles or stones or something and transfer them to another dish every time I write?
What will keep me from cheating?
Hm...
Well, it's a thought.
There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.
~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith
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