Killian's Blog/Website/Whatever

Bukowski has this poem, “The Last Generation”, and it does the smash-bangingest job of conveying my mild (or, you know, major) anxieties about jumping into an over-saturated field of work (unfortunately, I don't think it's available online). How am I supposed to jump into writing during a time when everyone and their mother (and father, and older sister, and younger cousin) is an author * ? Will anyone ever pick up one of my books? And how can a serious albeit young writer find a community these days? All of the greats are jaded, and most of the newbies... Well, let's just say that finding peers (dare I say,  friends ) at my starting-point in the literary world requires a lot of wading through legions of people who are incompatible. And, as you are about to find out, I do mean  legions . It’s a surreal thing to consider: the population of the world, alone, is more outrageous than it has ever been, and when you also factor in increasing racial- and gender-equality as wel...

Beware: this is kind of a sappy post. ...And my primary motivation was basically to show off pictures of a couple family members. my great-grandfather proved that fezzes are cool  So my cousin Kaitrin recently sent me this amazing picture of my great grandfather, Fred Meeds. It made the rounds on facebook between all the cousins, and it's funny to see my fourteen-to-sixteen year old relatives (brothers included) obsess over it. To them, he's mostly a construction of stories and the occasional photograph--he died eleven years ago, so what memories they might have of him are hazy, at best.  My memories of him, however, are largely crisp and clear. So clear, in fact, that writing this right now is making my eyes tear up a little. I was twelve when he died, but for over a year leading up to that, I was his art apprentice. Grandpa Fred, and his faith in my potential, make up one of the biggest reasons why I have not given up pursuing art. He taught me how to make clay-and-pape...

Two posts in two days? I must be on fire . So, brand new as of last night, I've decided that I'm going to apply to grad schools with the goal of beginning a program Fall 2012. There are a few conditions (personal parameters), however, that are at play here. First, I am only applying to schools that could provide me with full funding* and a living stipend. Second, I am only applying to top tier MFA programs. Though the prior no doubt makes sense to any liberal arts major who is considering grad school, the latter might appear a bit odd (i.e. limiting, or even egomaniacal). But here's how I see it: I've been on the fence about a Masters for the past few years, never knowing if it was "right for me." The thought struck me that, since I am not desperate to attend just any school, I should just go for gold and try to get into the best programs I can find.** Why not, right? And if I don't get in, then my situation is no different than it is now. I can make...

I have a website! Woooo, isn't that fancy? I spent about five or six hours putting it together yesterday. It's free, so it's got one of those subdomains attached to the address, but I am not one to complain. Go look at it ! Ooooh, pretty. Now I would like to talk about endings .* I kvetch about them a lot. All the time. It's incessant. When I'm not audibly complaining about them, I'm visualizing my hatred for them (often this mental imagery involves yelling loudly and lighting magazines/my computer on fire). Generally compared to the landing of an airplane, ending a story is the single most difficult part about writing (short stories, in particular). They often come out sounding rushed, trite, or shocking-for-the-sake-of-being-shocking. If you're me, this leads to a few days of erasing everything and feeling depressed. Plenty of people seem to settle for the bumpy landing and publish their stories, regardless. This deepens my depression. If I were a ca...

Preface: Be prepared for lots of pictures of things. *ahem* Just got back from ol' Stumptown last night. Because I have not yet reached the Obsessive level of photo-taking (and because I was both (a) sick and (b) paying attention to a large platoon of party-goers who were there to celebrate my graduation), I don't actually have any pictures of the party. No pictures from Saturday at all, in fact. Being unable to breathe through my nose and overwhelmed by ever-increasing pressures in my head, most of my concentration was dedicated to helping my mom set up--and smiling. That said, it was still a great party. There was beer, there was wine, there was amazing food. Everyone who came had a great time, for which I am very thankful. The last thing I wanted was to be a party-pooper at my own party. That said, I want to share some pictures. Along with the ever-needed grocery money (and bookstore certificates--just as necessary as grocery funds), I got a few fantastically unique thin...