Update: Ingles esta mi idioma favorito

Tomorrow, the twenty-fifth of March 2015, I will be headed off to a country outside of the united States and Canada. It’s for a school trip, and I’ve been waiting for this amazing opportunity since I heard about it, before I spoke Spanish. But first, let me take a self-sufficient moment to tell you other things.

So the introduction you may or may not heave read to that short story I was working on is now obsolete. I managed to delete 14 pages of work when trying to save the document. Since the flash drive incident, I decided to save it on my new flash drive and the computer, and when I was coping and replacing the document, I replaced the newer version with the older version. And then I groggily realized my mistake at 10:30 pm, once it was too late, and gave up on the entire project. For now. But probably also forever. You have read a ghost project. One that never stops haunting me and will forever be unreal.

It is as if the universe is personally telling me something by upping all clumsiness and mistakes I make. And I for one, make a lot of clumsy and stupid mistakes. Probably enough to account for millions. Or at least enough to account for the little amount of readers on this page de la red. Anyway, if I believed in that type of thing, I’d day the universe is telling me not to write anymore. Well, universe, screw you, and screw your faulty punishment system. I shall write and write I shall until the day my heart seizes beating.

Also as an update I’d like to say that there is a slight possibility that readers may or may not get offended when they read this and perhaps find themselves within my writing. And, classmates, people I know, humans of all species, do not flatter yourself. There are so many people who do similar things in our little section of New York state, and you are too kind on yourself to say that you are the reason for a blog post, or two. Or none. (If you don’t get this, it’s all good. This is just a precaution for future incidents that may or may not occur, and things that have. Apparently people have never heard of freedom of speech, and I have to write this just in case one of those people goes on a rampage… again).

Ingles esta mi idioma favorito. English is my favorite language. Despite this amazing factoid, which is actually a fact about an opinion, which is just a matter of thinking, I am traveling to Spain. For about 8 days, including travel. And during that time I really am hoping that something gives me the inspiration and motivation to write more. To not give up when things get deleted or aren’t coming together (right now) as I hope them to. I hope that seeing a different part of the world helps me understand my own situations, in my own world, and connect me to something bigger. I want to see that we may be just random pieces of the universe, but damn are those pieces pretty cool.

Hopefully I don’t get mugged.

After the trip, or during depending on the internet situation, I’ll make a blog post about the travels. For now, I’m trying not to remember famous movies with airplane crashes… Oh man. I’m having flash backs to World War Z.

Anyway, while I’m gone, I’ll be thinking of writing and what I’ll have to say upon return. Keep on writing, and I’ll be back soon.

Kylie Eileen

War Accordance

I’ve started writing a new story, and I’d like to post the beginning, which is three pages before Part One. It’s the tale of Gareth Kane, peacekeeper in some distant society, new to the concept of war. It is meant to show the irony that exists within the concept of war, especially to someone who isn’t blind to peace. The title itself is an oxymoron in that accordance means peace, conformity. I’d love to hear what you think, and perhaps in the future I’ll put the completed story on the blog. 

War Accordance First three pages

Stay low.

Nothing is visible and all I can hear are the crashing sounds. They’re shaking my ears and the earth. The sounds almost make the darkness blacker. It’s so dark that when I close my eyes things are brighter.

Stay low.

I feel the earth under me, my body lay low. The rumbling shakes my head, pounds it against the ground. My right hand feels the rubble underneath me, but I can’t move my left hand. My lips are covered in dust, but I whisper anyway.

I can’t feel my left arm.

Stay low, he repeats. I can’t see him, and his breathing sounds stop when another crash hits, and my body thuds against the dirt and ashes. There’s raging pain in my head, and that’s the only pain. My entire body is numb, and I can’t move my left arm.

Another crash happens, and something falls near me. I wish I could see what is going on. Everything is in slow motion, and every noise is louder than it really is.

Wait for it.

I can’t wait any longer. My head must be bleeding, or something. It feels dark and damp and the ashes on the ground are sticking to my skin. I breathe in, trying to move my arm. Hold the breath, blinking, hoping to see. Staying low, staying as safe as possible in an unsafe situation. Not talking, listening for the crash that ends it all. Feeling everything move slower and louder than it is. Breathe out.


Get up. Feel the ground with my right hand, push myself up. Stay low, run. I can’t see anything. I feel the ground beneath me and I can move my legs.

Run, stay low.

Things start to speed up. Another crashing sound. My ears are ringing. I can feel the blood on my face. The ground shakes as I start to run. My legs press against the wave of force trying to bring me down. I breathe heavily, my shoulder aching. I’m running, feet slamming up the dust and dirt and debris. I’m running and I feel him grab my right arm, and I run faster.

Stay low.

There is a light at the end of the dark place, and we sprint toward that, my ears ringing, my feet slamming, my heart pounding. My eyes are starting to close, and the light is getting smaller. Stay low and run. Breathe.

He grips my arm tighter and I can feel blood start to fall where he breaks the skin. I can almost see him, running in front of me as the light gets brighter. The earth shakes as another deafening sound cracks the ground, and something falls behind me.

I feel the thing that fell shake the ground, and with the light come screams and cries. He pulls me harder to keep on running, but my eyes are starting to close, and I can feel the blood fall down my face. It almost feels like rain. Almost there.

Everything gets faster. The light is brighter. It’s a glowing rectangle, and the sun shines through and I can see the back of his head, which is red. His neck is covered in blood. Keep up. I look at the arm he is digging into and blood drips down into his fingers. He is either pulling me harder or I am slowing down. I can’t feel my legs anymore, so hopefully he’s just getting faster.

Keep up.

The screams of the brightness get almost as loud as the crashes. We’re almost there as another wave of noise rings in my ears. It’s quieter, but something falls next to me and it digs into my right leg. I start to trip. Run faster. My eyes start to close all the way.

Stay with me. We’re almost there.

Are we? Everything is moving too fast. The light is consuming us. We aren’t going to make it. He tugs on my arm as I fall a little more. Keep up, breathe. I press on my lungs with every breath. I can see his green shirt and how it is stained with blood. I look at my feet, which are bloody and full of ashes and dirt. The ground is a light brown, and the light is brighter.

The screams are terrifying. I have never heard so many screams at once. We get to the light, and he is dragging me because I can’t run as fast, and my eyes are half closed.

Stay low.

Stay low but run fast and know where you are. These are things I have learned. Look around. There are people everywhere. There’s a big truck I know we have to get into. He doesn’t let go as we sprint for the truck. It’s blurry and it’s shaking. The ground beneath me rumbles more as someone runs into me, screaming. I can’t look over. I can’t take my eyes off the truck. Behind it something explodes. A wave of dust reaches my eyes before I stop running.

Keep going.

I stop running and I let my eyes close. He pulls on me as we walk as quickly as possible. Someone else runs into me, screaming. The screaming never stops. Another crash.

Grab onto him.

I stop breathing as people grab onto me, yelling something. There’s another crash and half of the screaming stops. Breathe. I open my eyes for a second and someone is talking to me, pulling me somewhere. Things are starting to go slow, again. Breathe. You’re safe now.

I can’t feel my arm, I mumble under my breath. The truck is moving, shaking with each crash. Someone says something about how three couldn’t get out of there.

I know, someone replies. Get me something to stop the bleeding.

Someone moves my body over a little bit. Try an open your eyes. I see the ceiling of the truck. There’s blood on it. Someone’s head briefly comes into view. It’s clean, so it can’t be anyone I know.

Something is pressed on my shoulder and I scream in pain. No one says anything and all I can hear is the truck move fast against the shaking ground. I can’t hear any crashes.

Where are we going next? I ask through the pain.

Home, someone from far away says. We’re going home.

Red Flash Drive

Red flash drive

You contain everything

Over 150,00 words

And I lost you

And with your death

I am also buried

Because the universe hates me

That is a micro-poem I posted on Twitter a few days ago. I have lost my red flash drive, and no one understands how I feel. And this post is mainly going to turn into a rant. And I literally feel dead because my life is an epic action film, where the flash drive contains everything.

An epic action film where the only plot is of a girl, walking away out of a room, and then a jump shot to her crying because after exhausting all resources, the flash drive is most likely never going to be found. It’s a sad film, and most people will walk out of the theatre, and not for the good reasons like the best depicted war scene ever. No, this isn’t Saving Private Red Flash drive, this is a sad tale of Kylie being stupid and making people walk away, because they simply don’t understand my cinematographic art.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me

I suppose I should start from a small beginning, or something, even though I feel dead right now. A few months ago, my computer screen broke, and I’m no expert but since I had to hook up another monitor, I moved all my writing and documents onto a red flash drive. This was a good idea seeing as the lap top failed to work after a few days of being all bionically hooked up to something that was high-tech in 2006. The red flash drive was the back up.  And so for the next few months I’ve been writing on there, and during that time, I’ve successfully completed a 60,000 word work, give or take a few hundred. It was over 130 pages long, and was the sequel to Basil, which you can read in the Longer Works section of this blog, but you probably won’t.

After the sequel to Basil, titled Clover on the flash drive, I began some pieces that I have yet to finish. These range from 4-15 pages, so it isn’t a major loss, but the novel I wrote in 9th grade is on there, and the only other versions are ones with spelling errors and stuff, which are on my email. That was 61,225 words, I think. A short story trilogy, titled “The Insomniac” that I wrote in 2012, spanning around novel length all together, is on there and no where else. Now the others, including the trilogy, aren’t written well and they aren’t anything I’d let people read now that I’ve developed as a writer, but they’re important to me. I can remember something and go back and read about these characters and their lives.

When I talk to people in school, and even my mother, I see that no one understands how much time is put into writing something around 50,000 words. There are so many little short stories on that flash drive that I’ll end up forgetting about in years and never being able to feel the stories and characters again. The short story Clover was one of the most transparent things I’ve written, and I expressed myself in it and I felt everything I wrote. I felt the main characters and I felt what was going on. Letting that just fade off into nothing makes me fade off into nothing.

Without my writing, I am nothing.

And not even the so-called “writer” friends I have understand. I hate putting people under the bus, but they have no idea what it feels like to connect to a story and to write something that you put in your mind as art. Something that is art. They’re writing is like the Insomniac story I mentioned before. It is something I would be embarrassed to call my own. And I hate saying that but it’s true, and I am ranting. And the universe hates me.

I lost the flash drive at a small college, but security and an intern at my mother’s work who goes there can’t help me. The security desk has my phone number, and the intern looked all over the room I left it in. My mother says a college kid probably wiped it clean, but to do so one would have to go through everything. Can anyone be so awful that they would delete years of my life away? Probably.

And, yes, I know what comes next. “You should have put it on several flash drives”.

Do you know how many times I’ve heard that the past week? Almost every single person has said that to me. But, really, would you have taken the time to buy another flash drive and then copy all 50 or so documents onto it just for a back up in case you left it at a college at a Model United Nation’s conference? NO. You’re lying if that would have come to your mind. The flash drive was the back up. 

No one understands. Not a single person. And sympathy does nothing, because it’s easy to say “Aw bro I’m sorry your mom got murdered” but it means nothing when your mom also didn’t get murdered, bro. And it means nothing when people go “Yeah that sucks but you should have made other copies and put it in other places” because I’ve done everything in my power to get it back after my awful mistake. It’s as if people don’t see how much losing the red flash drive is killing me. My soul is literally breaking.

The flash drive was the back up.

I’ve said that so many times. I’ve been defending myself this whole time, and keeping my spirits up, but right now, I want to cry. And die. Because it isn’t just a red flash drive. It is literally years of my life. It is a story that I can’t retell. Some girl actually said to me “re-writing that is going to suck”. I can’t re-write my life. I don’t plan my stories, I have a thing called talent and I let them flow and waver and I can’t remember every single thing that happened in 60,000 words. No one understands, and I have to defend myself on a topic they automatically loose on because of what? Popularity?

The characters are dead. And they were part of me. So part of me is dead.

Part of me is dead. It isn’t the red flash drive, it is the lives they’ve lived and the part of me that feels them. A year after I wrote the Amleth Tales, which are also on here in the Longer Works and aren’t that great, I can still feel the characters in my heart. Do you ever have a good memory of something or someone, and you feel it in your heart? You literally feel it there in your heart?

That’s what it is like for what I’ve written. And when someone leaves my life, I feel the loss and grief, and sadly, these made up characters give me more pain than anyone who has ever left me. These just “made up” characters mean more to me than my friendships and family relationships. They are part of my life. Writing is the only thing I can do where I feel human, and reading the writing, I can remember who I am and who these just “made up” people are. They aren’t just me. They’re something so much bigger. And no one understands this.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me.

And I’m so angry, and sad, and I feel even more alone than I did before. Basically all of my life’s work is gone. And, I know, I’ll write more, or whatever, but the stories are important to me. Clover is important to me. Writing more doesn’t change that. Writing more doesn’t negate the time I’ve spent on the story and the life I’ve build within it. Writing more without anything to reflect back on doesn’t let me grow as a writer. And so, I’m angry and sad and alone.

And this is the end to my rant, I guess.

It isn’t just a flash drive. It is more than 200,000 words.

To give you perspective, this post doesn’t even break 1,400 words.

The death of the flash drive is the death of me.

It must be my face, or something.

Listen, Kylie, we’re not friends or anything and I don’t care about you, but I am in a bad mood and am going to rant to you and tell you secrets that will stay with you and wear you down along with all the other bullshit of life because, I don’t know, pity, or something? Yeah, make it pity. I’m not really a friend, but you’re just like a talking wall, because, you know, walls don’t nod and make me feel like a confident individual. You understand, right? I have no other friends here, and you’re a fellow female, so I’ll make it seem like an equal conversation but really I’m the only one talking. If you talk I’ll just look or walk away because this is actually about me. My problems, in case you didn’t get the memo, are the actual center of the universe. Yeah, I’m also amazing at science, and writing, but I don’t let people read my stuff. You have a blog? Yeah well I’m going to change that into a subject about me now, and, uh, next time just don’t respond. Okay, so I’m emotionally damaged- I know- and I need at least ten minutes for this rant. You have stuff to do? Sorry I forgot that other people besides myself exist. We’re not really friends, I’m just waiting for my real friends to get here, have you seen them? Oh wait now it’s time to fish for complements to raise my self-esteem, that is actually really high up but I like to make people think it’s super low because for some reason I like attention, or whatever. No, don’t start talking, I haven’t finished telling you about all my dreams and accomplishments so even though I’m like damaged and broken I’m still better than you. Didn’t you know that I am actually better than you? But you should still feel sad for me. Like, I kinda feel bad for you, since I’m talking to you, but that’s different. I’m just a super nice person. Oh, what you said was witty but I think you forgot the universe is about myself. Yeah, you should feel bad. It’s hard being the center of everything all the time. Did I mention my parents? They’re awesome and support all my ideas and dreams. I have so many dreams. Kylie, I know you have something insightful but shut up while I tell you about what a good writer I am. You like movies, well I am practically a movie I am basically a 16mm that is basically me. Literally me. Me. Me. Have we talked about me yet? Did I tell you all my deep secrets? It’s just casual; I probably tell everyone but- I don’t know- you wouldn’t tell anyone so it’s like writing in a journal. Which I do. I’m also a little bit better in everything you are in to and my “struggle” is, like, so real. Kylie, you’re so nice, why don’t people talk to you more? I mean, I would, but I have friends. Well, you know, real friends. We can’t hang out. Hey! Is that so-in-so? Oh my god! I’m not going to say goodbye or anything, and I’m just going to walk away now.

It must be my face, or something.

Today a hyperbolic event of what usually happens to me happened, and I decided to write a blog post of what must be going through people’s minds when they do this to me.

I stood there, listening to her, and the entire time I guess I was thinking about this. What goes through people’s minds when they talk like this to me? Is it just because I’m weird or something that people feel the need to open up, but do it in a flaky fashion? Is the world too stupid for intelligent small talk or are we all just competing for who is “saddest” or the “best” at something? I feel like people change their entire goal of what they were talking about just to one-up me or to relate in a way that changes the subject completely about them. Now, I’m all for anecdotes that relate and contribute, but come on does everything have to be pretentious and phony? Call me Kylie Caulfield, but today I was just not in the mood. And I gave this person my blog address but the thing about being a phony is that one isn’t up for follow through. Or listening. It must be my face.

Letting yourself feel sad

I say goodbye. My voice cracks subtly, and I bring the phone away from my ear. The faint voice travels away, and the glowing red circle on the screen waits for the warm goodbye of my thumb. I hesitate on pressing it, thinking that there should be more; there should be at least a minute more. Of course there can’t, but there should and there isn’t anything I can do about it. I press the circle, and the call ends permanently, and I am left to look at the time of day staring at me, the voice gone forever. The white lined numbers know not of what was said, and all that is saved is the time the call took. It wasn’t more than ten minutes. And as I bring the phone down, as I set it on the table and look at my place of work, where I should be focusing my energy, I feel sad. I shouldn’t, though. I should be used to this. It’s just a phone call, it is something people do all the time. Out of everything that happened today, to compare it, a phone call is the most innocent of events. A phone call shouldn’t leave me to remember everything and recollect on how nothing is okay. Hanging up isn’t some sort of silent killing; yet it is. And I swallow, and I know that this is a stupid thing to cry over. This is a stupid thing to produce watery eyes and a cracking voice. I’m not sad, I tell myself. I’m angry, I’m upset. Of all the things, this is not that one that should break me, but it is. And as I swallow again, I close my eyes, forgetting the work place, forgetting where I am, and let myself feel the sadness. And for some reason, it helps. And this time, just for me, I say goodbye again.

Living as a nihilist

Please don’t turn away from this post because you have different beliefs than me. I’ve spend more hours in a church than I have spent doing homework my entire life. I have been raised to be accepting of everyone’s views, and for a few minutes of reading time, I ask for you to be as well. This blog, I know, has been more of a platform for me to blindly tell the world how I feel about things rather than the network for my creative writing, as it was meant for. Sadly as of the moment all my creativity is being pushed to find new and exciting ways to keep myself from failing math this semester. So, bare with me.

I was raised to be a roman catholic. I suppose I should capitalize that seeing as many feel their cults deserve pronoun-like respect. As a Roman Catholic, and going to Catholic primary school, I got to learn the ways of the lord, and the tales of the bible. My grandparents and parents thought they were doing me a favor; bringing me into their religious beliefs before I could spell the world Mississippi (Also a pronoun but sadly not a cult) and forcing me to spend more time in my day for religious study than mathematics. Yes, from a young age I was doomed to be bad at numbers. But, that really shouldn’t be the motif of this.

I then moved on to a Lutheran faith when my Catholic school closed and I was introduced to people of other belief. I went to Lutheran church and spend time with a Lutheran family for a few years. During this time I was an adolescent so I was questioning everything. I was questioning why I was supposed to learn algebra and why everyone was so sure there was a god. I was also really, really afraid of dying. From a young age the concept of Hell was real to me, and from a young age I thought even saying certain words would doom me to a lake of fire for the rest of eternity (Which doesn’t make any sense, but Unicorns don’t either and they’re right there in the bible as well). So, I didn’t really understand why people even believed this stuff, and why the people who opposed were so adamant of opposing and proving religions wrong.

I know, I know, a lot of back-story.

Anyway, I stopped believing in god around winter of freshman year of high school. I came to realize that at night, when I was lying in bed and talking to my ceiling, I just made myself sadder. I begged my ceiling to be happy and to make my parents love each other and to show me signs of why I was even on this earth. But, you know, ceilings are pretty quiet.

The more and more my 14-year-old self stepped away from religion, the more and more I realized how awesome the world was. I could say the word Fuck and not have to worry about drowning in fire. I could see nature as something that would only happen in small circumstances of evolution, not the easy creation of a higher power. Suddenly everything was brighter. The evils of the world were not a response of the devil, and this so called devil would have no impact on my life. Everything I did wrong was okay. We were all going to die, so why must we live a perfect and boring life on earth while being simultaneously judged by a figment of our imaginations? Religion seemed really dumb.

It was easier in the fact that my super religious friend seemed even dumber. When I wanted to talk about college and the future, she would kind of just zone out and say that god had a plan for her. And I saw more and more why people looked at me weirdly when I tried to witness to them about Jesus and tell them it would all be okay. It seemed really stupid on my part.

I didn’t know what to call myself, so I just kind of said “I don’t believe in anything”. And then recently I found out what I do believe, or think, rather, is nihilism. We are just specs upon specs of specs of randomness (Dr. Seuss had a good thing going, man). And nothing you, or I ever do will make a change in the ultimate force of how things will play out. In ten years that time I ran into a trash can won’t matter. In one hundred years, you and I probably be on no one’s minds ever. Like, ever. Unless I write an amazing book, of course. But, let’s not get our hopes up.

Personally, I like not having a higher power watching over at me. Every time something fails, which is usually a daily occurrence, I don’t feel as if I did something wrong, or as if the devil is trying to trick me into thinking my cult leader is upset with my actions. Because my actions don’t matter. Not really. And I’m not afraid of death anymore. When I die, my brain will stop functioning. I’m no Bill Nye, but I know that when I die, I won’t have any thoughts. And the thing is, not having any thoughts means I can’t summon up a thought or emotion of fear. I simply won’t exist. And the only scary thing about not existing is getting to that point.

The brain named itself.

I didn’t make up that cool quote, but I know it’s true. And it really helps my point. The brain is what is your thoughts. Yeah, how profound, but without thoughts, you couldn’t think about god, or that you have a soul. A soul. Your brain made thought waves, or whatever, and you thought up the idea of a soul. There is no part of your body that is a soul. It’s kind of (as I see it) a network of your consciousness. But, without the consciousness, the idea couldn’t exist. If we look at it with a timeline, the brain and all of it’s thoughts would have to exist before the soul so as the soul could be there. But since the brain and it’s thoughts are simply a network of signals and neurons which make up your thought, there really isn’t a soul. So, when your brain stops, so does the so-called “soul”.

I’ve confused you, but I’m not trying to persuade you.

This is just how I see the world. It makes sense to me, and it’s more logical than a higher power and more logical than eternal life. So, then, why even say this aloud (or… type it aloud?) if I’m a nihilist and know that nothing really matters? Well, Watson, that is a good question. Probably a better question is why am I asking myself questions posing as John Watson. But, you know, logistics.

There really isn’t any point to anything, as I see it. That’s why I don’t care about things that I probably should care about. And talking about how we all mean nothing sometimes makes me angry because, truth be told, I’d like for something to have meaning. But life does have meaning. It’s a time for you, and your thoughts and consciousnesses to be happy, to find something you enjoy. To live. And that’s why I kind of like viewing the would in the way I do. I don’t have to succumb to rituals, or rules of faith, or fright that I will screw something up. I can just live, and enjoy that the universe kind of messed up and made earth, and me, and everyone who is alive. And I can just live, and not worry so much because in the end, we’re all going to die. And I can just live because there really isn’t any other point I can make.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and how you probably think mine are completely misguided, so comment away. And that isn’t sarcasm. I haven’t had a comment for months, so please, type away.

Hopefully throughout the next few weeks I can get back to fiction writing, which is what I enjoy most (Besides putting puns in essays). And if I do, I’ll be quick to share it here on this blog, which if you aren’t following you should start following. It’s like super easy, you just gotta click that button that is somewhere to the right of this, and somewhere on top of this page, I’m pretty sure. Seriously. Just click it. Please.

Lastly, you can always comment for things you’d like to see, or send me a shout on twitter, which is also a click away in the right column somewhere. Thanks for reading this and as always, keep on writing.

Kylie Eileen

Trying to explain Synesthesia

Okay, so, I understand if you can’t pronounce that word on the first try. It’s okay; most text boxes on the inter-webs think it deserves the dreaded red squiggle underneath. But it’s real, no matter how many times people try to tell me I’m making things up in my head, or I’m just saying I have Synesthesia to get attention. Which is ultimately pretty dumb considering most humans factor that I’m weird enough already.

Anyway, to get to the point of the title, I’m writing this to try an explain Synesthesia as best as I can. Many people know a basic understanding about it, which is that some people randomly see colors floating around when they listen to music. And that is a type, called sound-to-color synesthesia, and many musical artists are well known for having such condition. There is also most commonly, grapheme-color, the association and experiencing of colors with letters and words. And there are number form, spacial sequence, and personification synesthesia types (along with others that are more rare). But that’s a lot to take in, and for a more scientific view, I suggest more reliable sources.

To start off my lucid tale of weirdness, I’ll tell you that I wasn’t the one to discover that I had Synesthesia. One of my best friends thought I was weird enough, I guess, to look up on the internet why I associated things in such a weird fashion. She told me about Synesthesia, and at first I thought that I was completely normal. What, normal people don’t see the map of the year around them? To make a long story short, I looked it up, and more and more I found out that this was something I had, and that other people had it as well.

And after looking back in old notebooks and whatnot, I found that years before I even heard of this, I was drawing ovals with the months of the year in accordance to how I saw them, and numbers with their assigned colors and personalities. Yes, I thought. I have found my place!

Synesthesia week

Messier versions can be found in 7-year-old-Kylie’s torn up notebooks

So I began telling other people as soon as I found out they don’t see the world like I did. Most thought I was pretty amazing, and others thought I was weird, which, as I’ve mentioned in other posts, was pretty normal for people to do. It still is. And I did more research on it, and read other’s experiences and how there were different types. I had found a little community of people and literature all dedicated to this thing that none of my friends understood. Like me, there were people who saw colors when they listened to music, and they knew each number and letter’s color, and they felt the week and year surround them in a perfect oval of order. These were the people who understood.

And they were the only people who understood. After a while of bringing up this sixth sense of mine, I noticed that most people didn’t understand, and some even got annoyed. Other’s dismissed it as something I was making up, as they could easily associate a color to a letter. A is blue, there you go, it’s so easy, Kylie. Well, no. A is red. A will always be red and I can’t imagine a world in which A is blue. I didn’t pick red for A. And when I read the word Applause, I know it is in black ink on the purplish background that is this blog, but in my mind it is yellowish. I’ve only met one other person who had it and even then we argued about what colors things were.

Many people think that when I listen to music, my view of the world is somehow obstructed by the colors it brings. And I always have a hard time explaining that it isn’t there, but it is, well, you know, it’s there in my head. Around this time the other conversationalist will have given up. But I guess the best way to explain it is comparing it to a day dream. When you daydream, you’re seeing the world pass by you, but in your head the pictures of your dream are playing. I see the band and I see my sheet music, but in my head the saxophones are drilling this fuzzy orange hue as the drums cascade a nice but subtle pang of resilient brown.

Okay, so that makes sense. I guess explaining the sound-to-color isn’t as hard as I thought.

Four is the younger sister of eight, who is a deep, oceanic blue.

All dressed up and no place to go except in between three and five.

Yeah, sorry picture I found on the internet, four is pink. Four is the only pink number, actually. But it isn’t the only girl number. Four, five, six, and nine are all girls. Eight is the older brother of four, and he has this cute crush on nine, even though Gothic nine, the older sister of both six and three, is in love with ten, who is a jackass. Three is a boy who is a muddy brown color and is best friends with two and four. Five is acquaintances with six, who is reddish and kind of selfconcious about her weight. Seven is the golden older brother of five, who is a pale yellow and pretty indifferent about everything.

This is when people usually think I’m crazy, or I just made this up when I was little. It makes sense, if we look back to those “factor families” or whatever they were called when you learned simple algebra in first grade. Either way, it has stuck with me, and I can’t really imagine a world where the simple integers don’t have lives and colors. I was trying to explain this to someone recently, and I fee like this person will always view me from a higher point of craziness than before.

Personification, as best as I can explain, is like connecting with characters you’ve written. As a writer you didn’t necessarily pick how they turned out; they just are that way, and the writing just flows the way it goes, be it upstream or down. I can’t stop thinking the way I do, just as no one really changes. Most characters stay with me, and they are who they are, just as if they were real. It’s the same with single digits, oddly enough.

The alphabet doesn’t have a strong personification, but the colors are usually pretty static. When I read, the synesthesia isn’t very prominent, and I absentmindedly know the colors of each word. It’s just that the colors of words don’t pertain to the content being written, and it doesn’t really draw any initial thought or reminder that they have colors in my head. To explain this I guess would be to compare it to another sense. You feel things all the time; but usually the feel of something isn’t thought worthy. When I open a door, I don’t stop and think about how amazing the worn down metal feels on my fingers, and how cool and beautiful it is. But if you feel a super soft shirt, you might think to yourself “Wow this shirt is super soft”, or not depending on your view of soft objects. Hopefully you weren’t strangled with some soft fabric when you were a kid or else this post is going to take a dark turn. Anyway, that’s the same for synesthesia. When I read, it isn’t important to register every color of every word. Just as when you go about your day, every texture of every thing isn’t some extraordinary experience of the senses.

And synesthesia, though some people think it must be extra interesting to go about my day in that world, isn’t as prominent to me as I make it seem. I know others feel it more intense, but most days I don’t even spend time thinking about how my world is different than everyone else’s. Yeah, four is pink, and yeah that song is a cool combination of warm colors, but it is secondary. It doesn’t interfere with my daily life.

The only thing that interferes is when I attempt explaining it, or having a conversation about it without making it seem like I’m bragging about my super cool brain mix up.

I'm not crazy, I swear.

I’m not crazy, I swear.

Because, in the end, I may be really different, but I’m the same in the inside. Or, well, not really because my senses are scrambled but- you know what I mean. I guess I just wanted to actually formally explain it, instead of further confusing people, or having people tell me I’m making things up. Hopefully this was interesting, and hopefully I’ll get back to fiction writing very soon in the near future. If only I could go back to the future.

Kylie Eileen

Reticence- A Poem

I have so many words I want to say.

But it isn’t that easy

And I want to tell you what I feel

And what I think

But the world can’t let that happen.

You are you, and I am me.

And silence is a force of strings

That loosely binds us to common ground.

My mouth opens but is slipped shut by society.

And my heart deepens in my chest

And I want to stop breathing.

My mouth is open and no air comes in

And my hands start moving

They’re out of control.

You are you so you look at me.

And your eyes are waiting for me to speak.

I want to tell you what I am thinking

What I am thinking is not anything important

And I will not change the future.

Our fixed time stops while you wait

And our fixed time tightens and the strings shake.

I have so many things to say.

I have so many words I’d like to speak.

Sadly now everyone is waiting, not just you.

And now I’m looking down into the swirling world below me.

It shouldn’t be this way, but the world has let this happen.

So I close my mouth

My words don’t matter.

I will not speak today.

I will breathe again and have the pressure slowly fade.

My hands stop moving and my mind is not shaking

And you are you so you understand.

And you move your eyes away

As the fixed time moves onward again

And I am me so I just nod my head

Because even though I have so many things I want to say

I know I can always write them.

And I have so many things to write.

And when I write, the world is not watching.

And when I write, the air is not thick.

And you are still you, so you still understand.

The strings that tied me down are dissolved.

My chest is not full of the gray fuzzy substance

My airway is clear, and I do not have to speak.

What is on my mind is soberly escaping.

I want to tell you what I feel

What I think.

Just talk. However if you mess up, everyone will remember forever and you should probably consider never speaking ever again.

“Just talk. However if you mess up, everyone will remember forever and you should probably consider never speaking ever again. On the second thought, you shouldn’t even open your mouth; what you have to say isn’t even worth the oxygen.”      -My thoughts everyday


This is going to be a different kind of post. It’s not an original writing piece, it isn’t a poem, and it isn’t any sort of minor update about my life. If this sort of thing doesn’t interest you, feel free to stop reading. I know my stats for this site, and I guarantee that most of my followers don’t check the recent posts, and for whichever reason someone is periodically viewing my blog from my school. Nevertheless, if you do decide to read this, I hope it provides something for you, even if it is mild annoyance.


It is the word used when describing many conflicts about a character in a book. Rarely is it actually applicable to life; most people are hyperbolic in nature, and their man vs society complaints are overstated. However, in those rare cases, it’s true. I might be hyperbolic, as a natural story teller (if I do say so myself), but I feel like in my case woman vs society, among other things, is the perfect description. Society is a term I use on a daily basis, usually in some philosophical complaint that I vent to my friends, who are thinking about other things while I talk. Don’t worry, they wont get offended because even my friends don’t read this. But day to day I find myself talking about society, it’s faults, and most importantly, my role in it.

I am a student. Or at least that’s my current occupation according to job applications. I am a student who attends school and studies (rarely) for school and whose main topic of choice at parties I don’t want to attend is school. And school work, and school people and school teachers- is my parallelism getting the point across? School. The main thing people of my age, who aren’t my peers but I’ll get to that later, converse about is school. We all think there are problems with the American Education system, and you can have a boring conversation about that with them, you know, if it would do any good.

Because we can do nothing about our woes. I’m a junior and since I don’t care so much about lower grades, I have no incentive to aid the problematic high school system. What I do spend my time on is the fact that although I can drive a car and potentially leave the state or kill another person, I can’t walk in a hallway without a piece of paper signed. I can’t go to the library and study for this ever-involvement in my life that is school without a dash of red pen on my piece of paper. I have gotten confronted by an administrator for opening a door. I was standing, looking outside at the beautiful fall air, and I got chastised before I so dreadfully admitted I wasn’t going to leave. I’ve been denied travel to a classroom because I forgot this little card with my face on it. I’ve been scolded by the vice-principal who believed a rumor about me, but not my side of the story. This same vice-principal wouldn’t change my gym class when I was being horrendously bullied because it hadn’t “reached a social media level”.

Now, I could blame the school, and it’s people. But it isn’t their fault. I guess it’s mine, and I’ll tell you why. As someone who is almost an adult, I respect that the number on a piece of paper that says my birth date is not the one that allows me to make my own decisions. But I hate being talked down to, so as I feel I am a mentally adult, I talk to other adults equally. Let me just tell you: it frustrates the hell out of them. How can such an ignorant girl like me think that I can address my issues in a professional adult manner? How could I, the almost 17 year old, think that I can calmly talk to a security guard about walking in a hallway? Society has skewed everyone’s perception of age as a number and a number alone.

I may still get upset at things I shouldn’t, you know like my feelings, but mentally I like to treat everyone equal. Of course, I should be so naive as to think that society could handle an outlier as myself. I’ve always been weird. In fact, I’ve been told I was weird as long as I can remember, not just as a joke by relatives, but as an insult among peers. Again, I use the term “peers” lightly.

You see, I know I don’t fit into society. And if you’ve read this far you probably can tell I’m just a sarcastic misanthrope. But ever since elementary school, people have singled me out, called me names. The first time I met my table partner in the 2nd grade, she said, and I quote, “I hate you.” I’m sure she’s still just as charming. Nevertheless, in middle school people would constantly call my name, and if I looked over, they’d start laughing. This continued until freshman year of high school, sometimes by people I didn’t even know. Sophomore year, we we all matured, and people started using the word “Bitch” a little more. I’m just glad their vocabulary was growing. Illiteracy can be a dangerous thing. This year has been mostly of rumors, and I have to give them a little credit for using their imagination. Cognitive growth is always important.

So, socially, society is against me. This is why I don’t have many peers. The ones that are my age, and tolerate my weirdness, usually go to confiding in me. Something about having a limited social life and being somewhat out of the loop must be great for telling secrets to. I’d never know, because I’m usually quiet about my awful home life, parent’s divorce, and lack of support for everything I love. But what ever, who cares about who I actually am, let’s just make fun of me more.

If you’re still reading, props to you because this is all most likely coming out as extremely complainy, which it isn’t supposed to be. Maybe it is, but I’m not done so hang in there. Thanks.

I’d be pretty down with the whole woman vs society thing, except for the fact that I’m not sure what I’m doing entirely wrong. I’m not going to tell you that I’m just “being myself” because that really isn’t the case. I change my personality, usually just a tad, for the person I’m with at the time. I get along better with them and they don’t think of me as so weird. I try to enjoy the things that my acquaintances enjoy, but sometimes it’s hard. When I do express my opinion, people give me the complaint that it’s too strong. This is usually because I don’t want to argue. If I do argue, just for argument’s sake, I am always the first one to end it. But the problem is, in today’s culture, everyone has to defend their opinion until they win, or if it’s a draw, they get all emotional about it. I end the argument because it’s pointless. I’m not going to change how I feel, and if you feel strongly about something, good for you. The world needs more people that have their views but can tolerate others. Sometimes I just want to tell someone how I feel about something, anything- even something as stupid as wallpaper- and not have someone immediately try to convince me that floral is always the way to go. Maybe I like striped wallpaper. I don’t need to defend myself to you simply because you can’t understand that not everything is a battle.

So that was a little bit of a vent. But that’s how I feel. If I ever say how I emotionally feel, well let me just say: it’s a stupid thing to do; especially among teenagers. God forbid I feel sad because guess what, someone else thinks they feel sadder and they have to justify such “fact” with a compelling story and make the entire group listening obey by their manipulation of the mind. God forbid I have any emotion, because it looks like I am the one looking for attention (which I like to stray away from) and it turns into a debate whether my emotion is real.

I can’t win. And I know you probably feel like You can’t win, but I’m going to be narcissistic just a little bit longer.

Society is great because not only can’t I fit in, enjoy, and be a part of it, I can’t win at even the little things. I can’t get my math grade up, I can’t count on something I’m looking forward to, and I can almost always know that when I run into that wall, someone will laugh at me. I know that every little thing I do will be wrong, and people will not forget it. I know that I laugh at inappropriate times, and I know that I probably dressed wrong to this occasion. Every little thing I do will be a fault in society’s falsely perfect face.

I’ve contemplated abandoning the entire commodity. But someone can’t even do that without the people of society looking in and judging how stupid, weird, or bitchy that seems to be. So I’m stuck here. With people who hate me for no reason, people who can’t handle little jokes, people who can’t let me think anything without Big Brother’s scold, and every situation I have or will ever fail at. I’d like to leave because my distaste is so repulsive that the thought of living another 70 years with this world makes me want to vomit. But it’s something I have to do. I rather find happiness than please the people around me.

Society, as it is, isn’t accepting. The people who we live with aren’t accepting of others, yet want to do what they wish without judgement. Society isn’t welcoming for someone like me, or for people with similar views. I’m not trying to be some angsty teenager, I’m not trying to say something no one has said before. I just want my view of society out there. My claim may not be as thesis-perfect as that essay I wrote for AP Language was, and my views may be contradictory. But overall, I think it all boils down to evidence and examples of what I see everyday. I’ve watched other people get bullied, I’ve watched someone fall off a bike, I’ve seen a kid get yelled at by it’s parents when it did nothing wrong. I can’t step in and help any of it. Society is disgusting, unwelcoming, and overall full of a million faults. I don’t fit into it. A lot of people don’t fit into it. And it isn’t fair.

Life isn’t fair. Well, genius, I know that. I don’t know my exact claim to this essay-like grievance, but I know that it shouldn’t be this way. People shouldn’t be singled out for being different. People shouldn’t be automatically assumed they’re up to no good. No one should have to accept that they are alone in this world. A number on a piece of paper shouldn’t have to guarantee your success, but it does. And I know that I can’t change that, and I know that no one can change that, but it bothers me and it will forever be bothersome.

I’ve gone on long enough, and odds are I’ll add something in as I anxiously look for errors, but for now, this is my, well, perception of the entire affair. It is kind of rambling, kind of intellectual, and most of all, true. If you have any problem, please comment. I’d love to hear your views, and how you probably think mine are completely misguided.

For now,

Kylie Eileen.

2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helpers prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

I didn’t do much, but hey. Whatever. Hope everyone had a good year, even if good means learning from the bad. I’d like to thank everyone who views my blog, and everyone who follows it. Even if you’re just stumbling upon this after a bunch of internet clicks, I thank you. Hopefully in 2015 I can write more, and further develop what I can some day call a style. Have a great year with writing!

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 610 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 10 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Update: Meanings



I haven’t made a blog post in so long that I didn’t get the memo that WordPress made some changes to their layout. And since my laptop completely flat-lined and I’m using a spare from my mother’s office, all my important writings have been moved to a special red flash drive which is more important than certain people’s lives at the moment. Melodramatic writer’s complaints aside, the issue has made writing a little less convenience. And I won’t even factor in my will to write anything particularly productive. I haven’t been able to complete a new piece in a while now, and it’s starting to show.

Essentially, I’ve been thinking in my head. I know, how crazy of me. But thinking in my head, in my own voice, isn’t the best thing, especially when I was trying to start getting the High(er) story going. Our main character was a good idea, she just wasn’t anything special in terms of characters. My will power to keep her along, to keep thinking of how she would respond to her situations, wasn’t strong enough. So as anyone would think: If I can’t keep this character, how can I keep others?

The answer, my dear Watson, was to take a break completely. And that is how this blog went from regularly running to being completely dry for the better part of two months. Once in a while I checked the stats, which believe me aren’t anything special, but creating a new post or page wasn’t on my mind. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, and that is how this particular post gets more interesting.



What matters in this world? I don’t know, and since I haven’t been keeping a journal lately, I shall contemplate meaningless questions into a great online failure. See that? It’s the seat-belt sign. Buckle up.

Nothing matters in this world. We are all just living, waiting for nothing, doing nothing, and expecting something to conjure itself out of nothing. And you can call me a pessimist, but I find that pointless. Sure, happiness is the key to success. But with that logic, all unhappy people should be unsuccessful, and with that logic why are so many people successful at being unhappy? Why are so many people successful simply because they are unhappy? Why do I feel the need to get a name plate entitled “Socrates”? Are people about to shout DIGRESSION at me or is my hat on backwards?

If you don’t get my humor, I forgive you.

The reason, though, that I brought up a bunch of hilarious ramblings that are only funny to me, is because they are important. Or, at least they must be because every day it seems like someone is asking me these questions. When you come from a biased family and hang around highly religious friends, your argument doesn’t seem to matter. And the meaning of life is almost always some unbalanced chemical reaction about living eternally. And I, for one, hate loosing that argument because I’m one of those poor unfortunate souls not suffering from schizophrenia.

What matters in this world? Why am I talking in circles? To provoke thought?

I question, therefore I am.

My entire existence has been based off questions. I’m sure you could come up with something more awesome and deep, but you’d be lying. Questions are what fuels us. And I’m not trying to sound like Neil Tyson or Bill Nye , but without questions there wouldn’t be any reason to live. The answer you gave way up my pitiful paragraphs ago, is the answer. My own answer, is the answer. There is no reason to live, and nothing matters. Maybe you love someone, and they are your reason. But even that isn’t a reason. One could write a paper, and then burn it. What was on the paper doesn’t matter, because it is gone and can never be gotten back. What was on the paper does matter, because it most likely was the reason it needed to be burned. Without what was on the paper, it wouldn’t have been burned. Without what was on the paper, there would be no paper. Without the paper, there’d be no metaphor I just came up with.

You don’t need to burn books to destroy a culture.

And you don’t need reason to get reason. I know I’m not making any sense anymore. Perhaps this is why I needed to take a break from writing. I’ll probably delete this part of this post tomorrow, when I’ll have had more sleep. But for now, internet people, think upon the world as if there is no meaning. If you realize that life is finite, then you’ll love it and cherish it more. Don’t feel bad for the drug addicts because they aren’t going to heaven, and don’t feel bad for yourself because you’re sad. Just live because the reason you’re here isn’t a reason. You’re here, and you’re reading this, and tomorrow maybe you will smile at that random person, because they are here, and that’s all that matters.

People call me a fool because I’m not looking ahead. People call me wise because I don’t live in the past. But there only is the now, and now has no meaning, so go give it some, even if it’s meaningless. you can’t be wrong, you can only end up burning the paper.


For now,

Kylie Eileen


Company: a poem

Here is a not so good poem I wrote while waiting for Stage crew to start. It isn’t great but I thought I would share it with you.

For which way do we see
When we are lost in company
And all is gone
And all is dust
Are the ones we are with
The ones we trust?

And truth be told
I try not to care
When thoughts are drowned
And emotions scarce
And truth be told I cannot see
When I am lost, in company

People are enigmas
Who thirst in drought
And see the world
With out any doubt
People cannot fathom
Or do without
Company’s presence
And talking about

What do you see
When trapped solitarily?
Do you see the way
Or get lost in the sea?
Chatter and laughs
Are great when needed
But what is needed is not a want
Surely you can change
The way you taunt.

Let everything go
And disappear
For what change
Is need here?

When all is lost
In dreaded company
I, myself, am not free
Because acceptance is not right
Nor ever will be
When all is gone
In company

My morning: the Total Lunar eclipse

I woke up at 4:30 AM.

For the average teenager, this can be pretty challenging. For me, the power of a lunar satellite is enough. I’ve always been interested in the moon;I actually gave a report on space in the 5th grade naming all the planets in order and explaining to the bored class what the different eclipses were. I’ve gotten up at 2:00AM to watch a meteor shower once. So hopefully now you understand how much of a nerd I am, and getting up at 4:30 for this magnificent portrayal of the sunlight bending around the earth was essential for me to watch.

I did my usual morning stuff, which is still not like how a 16 year old girl should act. I made coffee and watched the news. I was stoked to hear the weather man, a fellow person interested in this kind of stuff, talk about the total lunar eclipse. And to my utter disappointment, he sadly told the news that Rochester was going to have too much cloud coverage. I’m used to things not going in my part for the win, but this was just annoying.

So I continued my morning, and I know this is boring folks, but stay with me. And as I brushed my hair in preparation for showering, a shimmer caught my eye out of the little crack in my curtains.

It was the moon.

After I got dressed, in very office casual clothing mind you, I strolled outside with my shitty stadium binoculars and went to look for a good place to watch the partial phase turn to the start of the total eclipse. The street was pitch black and it was chilly, but celestial objects are a stronger force, literally. To sum things up, I ended up standing at the end of my street, near a lamppost.

It was a great view of the partial phase. And then things got interesting. I heard the loud roar of a motorcycle, and while sipping my coffee, turned to see a biker idly standing beside me.

“Yeah I saw the moon to looks neat,” The fellow yelled over the loudness of the bike.

“Oh it’s gonna get awesome,” I say back, kind of soft since it’s only 5:50 in the morning. And he rolls away. And this is the type of thing you get at 5:50 in the morning.

You also get baby foxes. I heard a scatter and turned and see a little fox running along the road like it’s a human or something. Now, I must say I was actually kind of frightened when it stopped and stared at me because all I could imagine was a gang of them with rabies attacking me and I can’t get help because it is now 5;56 in the morning and who the hell is awake!?

But the fox just scampered along the side of the road, making it’s daily travel to the office or wherever important foxes need to be in the morning. And, no, the fox did not say anything.

And more cars rolled by, and a waved to a few runners, being healthier than I’ll ever be. And all in all, it was pretty great. I strolled back home at 6:30 to gather my school things and got one last glimpse of the total phase before the bus came. But the total wasn’t very bright and “blood moon”-y as I thought it would be because of the clouds and the brightness of the sun and everything.

I guess the entire point I am trying to make with this lengthy story is that even though to most people this was a mundane event- which I will clarify that a total lunar eclipse is cool not mundane- in my eyes it was something I’ve been looking forward to since August. My childhood was largely impacted with my dad’s enjoyment for the moon, and even though he couldn’t watch this with me, I kept remembering those times while I watched the eclipse this morning. And I will probably always remember this morning because every little event that happened, effected my overall story. Perhaps not in your vantage point, but from mine, it was clear and memorable.

And these types of things happen to everyone. To relate this back to writing, jot down the next time a simple thing is really meaningful to you, or when you encounter out of the ordinary things. Personally I feel it helps capture the event as well as process it into something more real, more tangible, even if it is just in words rather than images.

Whichever phase you are in life at the moment, take the time to enjoy the little things. It’s really important.

October 8th 2014, Total lunar Eclipse

Kylie Eileen

Convincing and engaging stories… A brief discussion

How to write a convincing story

By, Harvard Wells

*Harvard Wells is a fictional character*

Being named Harvard, I was expected to go to Harvard. I was expected to earn good marks and grades and go to Harvard and perhaps transfer to an even better Ivy League university after I had a major and aced that major. I was supposed to be made fun of lightly for being named after the college I ended up actually going to and to be popular because of the light taunts. I’d get a great girl, and we would enjoy light necking and holding hands and going to football games. We would read books and talk about books and study together. I’d marry this woman and we would have children, two girls and a boy. I would not name the boy Harvard, though I would joke about the name Yale because Yale is also a college. The girl’s names would be Ellen, after my grandmother, and perhaps another name my wife liked, such as April. They would get good grades like their parents, and maybe they would all go to Harvard together, in respect for their father’s name and reputation at the school. It all would work out, except that I never got accepted into Harvard. Or Yale. Or any college for that matter. But my story was convincing, wasn’t it. Perhaps it made you forget about the title, about how it was supposed to be a lesson. Perhaps not.

Reading classics and even good modern literature, you can find yourself developed within each character and their thoughts and their story. You don’t think normally when reading exactly how convincing it truly is. You get lost in pages and pages of rants that stick in between dialogue simply because you can; it is a book, after all. But what is that extra bit of backbone, that little piece of ramling of the character doing? It is making the story convincing; it is subconsciously willing you to read it more, and to get involved with the story. Care no longer about the slow ride of hell that the plot has come to be, care no more about our one dimensional character villains! Care only about how you relate, make sure you care only about the main character, only care that you want to read more and that this will sell! Sure, it sounds nice and adds for word count. Sure, it’s great to know the voice and the characterization and the generous subplot that is a human mind, but do you really need it?

Yes. Simply put, a story must be convincing.

So distract your reader.

How do we distract our beloved readers? Firstly, forget their beloved. Hate them. They are your prey– just for now. Now, what does your prey want? Something to eat, after all this particular prey does also fall under the scavenger category (Score one for using Biology outside of class). Make a vibrant voice that flows and carries it’s own weight with ease. Good. Now make sure the voice in itself is convincing. Like mine; listen to the words instructing without condescending. There you go. Now rant. Flashback. Do something that distracts. Well done. Slowly leak back into your main plot. And you’ve done it.

Perhaps not all strategies work, and most don’t because a simple instruction can get pretty muffled under the sounds of keyboards clicking frantically as writers try to follow them, but still go “In their own style” Because why not act like some super cool hipster while you sit at home at your computer like you’ve done all day? Writers be warned: You’re not as unique as you think you are. You are not as special or creative as you’ve come to image yourself. I may not have gotten into Harvard, or even Yale for that matter, but what community college has taught me goes beyond all you pretentious freaks.

Do you see what I’ve done? I’ve gotten you involved in my story. Perhaps you were getting annoyed because you indeed are some kind of freak, pretentiousness to be decided at a later date, or perhaps you don’t have as much wit as myself. But I’ve gotten you involved in my story no matter the emotional commitment. Or I haven’t. What do I know? I couldn’t get into Harvard, and it’s my last name.


Written by Kylie Eileen, who also is not in Harvard, or Yale for that matter, nor intends on applying to either of these institutions, though wishes sincerely that the somewhat humorous blog post of today has helped at least one human on this earth see how simply writing in a different voice with many additional anecdotes even in a post about such ideas, can get one involved or interested reading it further, which is such a sneaky but awesome, if I do say so myself, idea which was therefore made into said blog post.  (Hooray for run-on sentences. Hemingway would be proud).

Update: Not having the words

I don’t always have the words. I say I do, but everyone lies. 


I’ve just started my junior year of high school, taking two AP classes for the first time. Being a junior and being in harder classes, I’m going to be busy. Not to mention being at the school building until 11 come November when I work on our musical. It is going to prove to be a stressful and eventful year ahead, including (hopefully) a school trip to Spain, College visits and the junior prom. You’ll have to understand there may be breaks in posts in the near future.

I hadn’t gotten to write this much this summer for various reasons. I was busy, with stage crew and getting my life together and such, but I also needed a hiatus. I’ve started to write many works this summer, but haven’t completed one yet. I call myself a writer, but when times like this come along, I feel like I am lying to the world. I just don’t always have the words, and forcing myself to make a blog post can worsen that effect.

When I don’t have the motivation to write, I’m thinking… or doing homework. I’m not all gone. I’ll be thinking of the past, the future, what I have to do later, what I want to write, what I need to write, and so on. It’s just that sometimes even all the ideas I have simmering in my mind don’t have their own words, their own little voices to tell the story yet. It doesn’t mean I’ve given up altogether- at least I hope not. 

So, when you’re looking through the blogs you subscribe to, note that just because I haven’t written in a while doesn’t mean I will stop entirely. And I haven’t stopped writing; I’m probably still working on one of many pieces on my computer or scribbling creative writing paragraphs in my notebooks when I’m not listening to teachers.

I just don’t have the words right now. I will again, but they’re not with me at the moment. I need to make sure the voice is good, the ideas are fresh, characters are elaborate, and everything is in it’s place before I start writing again. I also need motivation, and that isn’t something that comes naturally to me all of the time. 

Thanks for reading this, and if you have the time please tell me your thoughts below. I’ll be busy, I’ll be thinking, and I’ll be writing- just perhaps not on this blog. Check in once in a while and I’ll be sure to send a tweet out if a new post is up. For now, have a great day (Or night, for you insomniacs) and keep on writing… That is, if anyone actually reads this. Or cares.

-Kylie Eileen