Alexa Turczynski's Blog: Love to Pay the Bills

It was a startling, slightly disturbing realization the day my literature professor broke it to us that literature wasn’t everything. I think I took it well. I didn’t faint in class or anything. I even let the idea sink in and slightly penetrate my conviction that the study of literature basically encompassed the study of everything. Over Christmas, I gradually allowed the idea to fester and bother me until I couldn’t sleep at night…if literature isn’t everything, if it’s not the only way to encounter and understand human nature, then what is? How can I call myself an English major who wants to devote her life to writing great works of literature that will transform the world if I do not believe in the exclusive power of literature to change the world?
Okay, as usual, I’m slightly exaggerating. I’m still quite happy with my major and my career choice. But my professor’s statement did get me thinking. I realize that literature, while it is very important to me, is not everything. How can it be when reading Jane Eyre is never going to find the cure for cancer? Or scanning poetry is never going to restore peace in the Middle East? I get it that the stereotype of humanities majors is that we have our heads in the clouds. I’ll admit that I am impractical most of the time, but I think that’s okay right now, so long as I realize that I’m impractical. I can’t study everything. And, believe it or not, there is no major, no matter how lofty or practical, that can encompass everything. In fact, there is no major that is better than another. I think that realization is the most important. Once I realized that, I realized that it was still okay for me to study literature and to love it and embrace it.
Now I could continue this blog post with all the amazing aspects of being an English major and bore everyone who isn’t reading it as an affirmation as their life decision (aka other English majors). But I think I would actually bore myself, so I won’t do that.
I’ve been noticing a trend in the various blogs posted on Facebook that contain lists of activities one should complete within a given time frame or instead of doing something else: 24 things to do instead of getting married before you're 24, 10 things to do before you die, 100 flavors of gelato to try before leaving Italy, etc., etc., etc. I have therefore decided to write a list of my own based on my humble experience (or inexperience). Because as much as I love literature, I don’t want to just be an English major. College, if we’re being honest with ourselves, is four years of self-indulgence under the pretense of bettering ourselves for the sake of the world. It’s a pretty good pretense, since most of us really do intend to do something important with our lives and to help others, be it in education, law, medicine. But while we are here it’s really all for our own sake. And I think we—or at least I—have the tendency to think the whole world revolves around me and my major.
So here is my list of ten things to do instead of studying…what I mean is, ten things to do instead of ONLY studying for my major. They are ten things to make me move outside of my comfort zone, out of my lovely little world in the clouds. It would be great if I could do all of these before I finish college, but if not, I suppose I have the rest of my life to work on them (wait, there’s life after college?)

1) Read a book that has absolutely nothing to do with your course of study
2) Travel to another country and try a new food
3) Learn a different language and try speaking it to a native speaker
4) Discover a new hobby
5) Tell your parents thank you
6) Make time for old friends
7) Make friends with someone whom you’ve always ignored
8) Learn about what’s going on in the world…and try to make a difference (vote, help campaign, etc.)
9) Spend a month of service in an impoverished country
10) Learn to laugh at yourself

I read somewhere—and shamefully I can’t remember where—that it is the crime of youth to take itself too seriously. Maybe it’s true, and maybe it’s a forgivable crime. But I think the world would be a better place if we all laughed a little more at ourselves and cared a little more about everyone else.


PS. Check out my new blog at wordpress.com: alexawriter.wordpress.com

As the summer comes to a close, and I ramble away my spare time in reading and writing and soaking up the Texas sun, I find myself once again balancing the role of a dreamer and the role of a practical member of society. My dreams haven’t quite started paying the bills yet. But I suppose there are not very many twenty year olds who can say differently.
But as I contemplate my entrance into the “real world”, I find myself wishing to retreat more and more into the fantasy worlds of books and stories. I heard someone say not long ago that we read to escape. “True!” I thought, recalling lovely days snuggled under a blanket engrossed in a book so much that my own life seemed second to the lives of the characters in the story. But then, of course, I had to go and think more about the reason for reading. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that such an assertion was actually far from the truth.
Perhaps we do read to escape the boringness and the toil of everyday. But if we were really trying to escape, wouldn’t we read books in which nothing bad ever happened? We would immerse ourselves in children’s bedtime rhymes—but then again those don’t always go so well (don’t get me started on Rockabye Baby). Almost every book we read contains a plot much crueler than the plot of our own lives. We revel in characters whose plights are enormously more challenging than our own.
So is the escape simply the dissolving of our own struggles into the denser problems of fiction? A physical escape yes, but hardly an emotional one. Because you see, I don’t think we read just to escape. We read to know we’re not alone.
The great characters are the ones with whom we can relate, the ones whose struggles remind us of our own. Perhaps theirs involve saving the world, but their conquests give us the determination to overcome our own. We read to find someone like us. And in the discovery of them, we discover ourselves.
The right book is not an escape. It is the first page turn towards facing our own world, and knowing that it means something.
Because why else would anyone read?

They say it is the little things in life that matter. Don’t ask me who they are, but they seem to know everything. While I often disagree with them, this is one thing on which I do agree. What is life without ice cream cones, and watermelon by the pool, and little kids making a mess with wrapping paper? I’m a firm believer that the small things, the little moments, are what add up to make life meaningful.
Nonetheless, while it is the little things that can make life beautiful, I do find a tendency in myself and others to focus too much on the bad little things, instead of the good. Often times we forget that the tapestry painted by the beautiful moments and simple events is still there behind the tiny splotches of our misfortunes. If we could only learn to look past them, we could see the big picture.
This summer, my family ranch has suffered a plague of grasshoppers. Literally, a plague. Every step across the lawn sends a host of grasshoppers leaping into the air, flinging their spindly legs in all directions. They’ve eaten the leaves off several trees, they clog the filters in the pool, and they have devoured half the plants in our garden. While we have had an unpleasant amount of grasshoppers on our land before, never has their infestation been this bad.
My family has been quite overwhelmed by their presence and we have tried just about everything to get rid of them, spraying just about every kind of bug spray that promises to destroy grasshoppers. Some die, but a whole flock of them return the next day. They are rather disgusting little creatures, and when you look closely, you can see them almost everywhere.
But by the fact that there is nothing more we can do about them, I have decided not to let the grasshoppers get to me. And my metaphorically trained mind has of course turned grasshoppers into the analogy for the little problems of life. They haven’t completely destroyed the beauty of our little ranch…in fact (despite the Texas heat) the land remains golden and beautiful, especially as that orange and pink sun nestles beneath the horizon.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t face our problems…but when we have done all that we could, the focus on those frustrating things is more the problem than the things themselves. You can’t let the grasshoppers get to you. They’ll go away on their own eventually and the beauty will only resonate if you take the time to notice it.

I’m just going to come out and say it. Most of my close friends know this, and many of them doubt my sanity for it. But the truth of the matter is, I love pugs.
If you are pug lover like me, you already understand my fetish. If you hate pugs, then you’re probably going to stop reading this anyways. If you’re undecided, let me convince you.
Well, in all honesty I can’t really convince you if you don’t already find their squished faces, wrinkly bodies and big sad eyes appealing. There is something just so lovable in their ugliness. They can’t help it. And for that they need loving and squeezing more than most dogs. I actually don’t have the privilege of owning one of these adorable fellows yet. But when I am no longer in college or in debt, then…then my pug hating friends will probably never visit me. For now, Google images will have to content me.
http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rc...
You’re probably wondering what the point of this post is. There isn’t one. It’s just me confessing to the world that I’m never going to stop loving pugs. If all else fails, I would rather be a pug lady than a cat lady.
I admit that I have a soft spot for almost all animals. Growing up on a ranch brings one into contact with many different types of animals, creepy crawly to soft and fluffy. I’ve had my fair share of pets, some of which were rather unaware that they were my pets. Like the jar of grasshoppers I kept until they started dying. Or the pet rock who ran away from home. Others were quite willing to be loved by me. Like the loyal dogs who taught me about life and loss.
From my first pet hamster who died in my hands, to the old dog who lays in my front lawn, to that stubborn horse who taught me what it was to dare and feel my heart leap in my chest for a moment as she dove into a gallop for the first time, animals have formed an important part of my life.
I am quite determined to have a pug in my life someday soon.
Now that I’ve gotten that off of my chest I promise I won’t prove my obsession by blogging about pugs more than once.

Today I had the arrogance to think I knew what was wrong with the world. If I had that answer, I probably wouldn’t be working a summer job as a receptionist. But, if I’m being honest, I do think I was on to something. You see, I always have to laugh at myself when I complain that my Internet connection is slow, or that it’s SUCH a far drive to anywhere from my little hometown. If I really stop to think about it, I realize that I’m complaining that a system that provides me with all the information in the world at the click of a button is taking ten seconds instead of two. Or that I have to drive a whole hour to get across 60 miles when the fact that there are cars and highway systems that can get me that far that fast should mute all complaints. What I think may be wrong with the world is that we’ve lost all patience, all ability to delay gratification for more than a few seconds. If it’s not fast, if it’s not right now, it’s basically worthless.
I’m not against advances in technology. Believe me I am very happy to have the Internet and cars and such. How on earth did my parents write research papers without Wikipedia? (Don’t worry college professors; I’m kidding). But am I entirely wrong to complain about an age in which children stare at little bright screens instead of clouds in the sky?
There was an ad (on the internet) that asked how you could possibly be happy when you’re not instantly watching the movies you want to watch. That was what spurred this tirade against the world. We have to constantly be satisfied by some source of entertainment—a moving screen, an upbeat song. I heard on the John Tesh Show that this need for instant gratification actually prevents—even destroys—imagination. And if there is anything I’m truly against, it’s destroying imagination. Because once we’ve destroyed that, well, you can say goodbye to original ideas for movies for one thing. Nobody will have imagination enough to think one up.
In all honesty, I think the world moves fast enough as it is. We don’t really need another 1000 gigahertz of fastness (I know that’s not a technical term). Maybe if we slowed down, there would actually be less traffic. Maybe if we stopped watching videos or scrolling through our Facebook feed we’d actually get a chance to really know the person sitting next to us. We’d actually get to know ourselves. Maybe if we appreciated the moment we had, regardless of how “entertaining” it might be, maybe then we would no longer be so dissatisfied with a world that promises to give us everything in a blink of an eye. Because in a blink of an eye, everything that really matters can be gone.

There are three children in my family. I am the sole girl stuck between two brothers. Did I say stuck? I meant happily nestled between. Ok maybe just separating two brothers.
Anyways, with a family of only five, one would think we would be able to easily come to decisions. Not exactly. This weekend, we acquired a pair of kittens. One a grey fluffy girl and the other a grey and white fluffy boy. They are brother and sister and are about six weeks old (An excellent start to my future Cat Lady collection). They are a lively, adorable pair, running all around and attacking every plastic bag that dares tremble beneath the breeze of the air conditioner.
It took my family of five two days to arrive at an acceptable pair of names. I wanted to name them Hansel and Gretel but no one took very kindly to that. I thought of Linus and Lucy, Pier and Claire, Fluff and Ee. Nobody seemed to care for those. My brothers and parents came up with some other (less
admirable) names. Finally, after much debate and angst as they passed among our hands, we settled on Juliet and Wesley. Despite this decision, I have the feeling that they may end up like our first cat who, though her real name was Tabatha, was only known as Kitty her whole life.
You see, there is something quite daunting that goes into the naming of things, even little kittens who will probably never know their names. I always think that I am better at making the story than making the name. Consolidating the essence of a thing into one word or even a few words never seems to do the story justice. Maybe some day I will hinge upon the proper method. For now, I’ll try my skills out on unsuspecting kittens.

This is something I’ve been thinking about for awhile. Pretty much every time I turn on the radio. You see, I always complain that there is nothing good on the radio. Every station plays the same ten songs over and over and over again. A lot of the songs are actually really good songs, but so overplayed that I change the channel when they come on, only to encounter another overplayed song on the next channel. Not to the mention there’s only about five channels that are actually in English. Not that I have anything against music from other cultures, just not exactly my genre.
But despite how much I complain about the radio, I continue to listen to it everyday, causing a driving hazard every time I reach to change the channel. It’s been suggested that I try an iPod…but the only one I own is a tiny shuffle without a car cord (I’ve never claimed to be a technology expert). Then there are CDs but that's just the same set of songs over and over again (okay, same problem as the radio). I heard somewhere that if you listen to the same one hundred songs rotating for a certain amount of time you’ll go crazy. I’m surprised that all of America isn’t crazy. (Or maybe they are…but that’s another topic).
So what is it that keeps me listening to the radio? Why do I risk my sanity and my driving skills for the sake of a few over played songs? As I said, I’ve been thinking about this for awhile and I think I’ve finally figured it out. It’s because every once in a while, every fifty or so bad or overplayed songs, there is one song that comes on that I absolutely love, one song I could listen to a thousand times and still not get tired of. But why exhaust myself with the radio when I could burn a CD with all of my favorite songs on it? (Since I’m too poor to buy a new iPod).
It’s because that one song that comes on, that one song that I love in the midst of so many other songs, makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world. It’s like I just won the lottery without even wasting two dollars. It’s like the stars have aligned just for me for those three glorious minutes. Like God was thinking of me when he told the radio to play that song.
And so to choose the songs myself is to lose all the joy in its serendipity. It’s like knowing about a surprise before I get it…like trying to give myself a surprise. I compare it to trying to write your own fate. You can certainly direct your destiny (that’s called changing the channel). But you can’t always control which songs are going to be played. Sometimes you have to accept the bad songs even with the good. And sometimes, that one amazing song comes on and you remember that life is worth it. Or at least listening to the radio is.
I may be exaggerating a little bit…but then again I could be going insane.

I’m going to make the English Major confession of a lifetime: I don’t love poetry.
I know. It’s shameful. I’ve tried, but I’ve discovered that I really go more for prose (go figure right?). Now I don’t hate poetry. I just don’t adore it. And this presents an interesting situation as my next semester’s big project involves taking a single poet and learning all about his life and works. Now if I really liked poetry like a good English major should, I would have probably already picked my poet. As of yet, I’m going through the Norton Anthology of Poetry dog-earing the pages.
I’ve narrowed it down a little bit. Gerard Manley Hopkins is a possibility. One of his poems struck me most especially, and while I’m not an expert on interpreting poetry, I could at least relate to it. The poem, “Spring and Fall,” is addressed to a young child named Margaret who is crying over the falling leaves in Autumn. The speaker at first seems to find it silly that Margaret is crying over something so trivial, and he comments that she will see many worse things in life to cry over. And for that reason, he comes to the conclusion that as she mourns the falling leaves, she is really mourning the passing of time, change—that all men must suffer—and that it is really she whom she mourns for.

Márgarét, are you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow's spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Somehow, this sad scene reminded me of an amusing scenario from my early childhood. I was five years old and I was just learning the joys of dressing myself. Well, it was summer in Louisiana and I decided to wear sweat pants and a sweater. When I showed my mom, she said I would be too hot.
“Go stand outside for five minutes and you’ll see,” she said when I protested. I went and stood on the driveway and soon enough I began to cry loudly.
My mom hurried outside. “What’s wrong, Alexa?”
After rubbing my eyes and sniffling, I finally managed to explain. “I don’t know how long five minutes is!”
I remember my mom laughing (quite justifiably I might add) and I remember truly being consternated over the fact that I had no idea how to measure five minutes.
I suppose the poem reminded me of this because it not only showed the silly things that children cry over, but also the lesson we can even learn from that. At five years old, I had no concept of time and the idea of trying to measure it filled me with great anxiety. And yet now, I find myself measuring minutes, counting down the days to something else, to the point that I sometimes forget that today, right now, is all the time I have.
Sometimes I think it might be nice to be five again and to have no idea how long five minutes is. To be like Margaret and to have the worst thing I cry over be the falling leaves. But then, I probably would be missing out on things; like an insight into poetry (I’ll admit I’m starting to like it a little bit) or the ability to dress myself properly for spring or fall.
It’s rather strange to think that today marks the one-year anniversary of the release of Whispers of Nightfall. Time certainly does fly. If you haven’t gotten your copy, here’s the link to order one: http://www.tatepublishing.com/booksto...

The other day I stopped at a shoe store. Now I realize that that is not a tame statement for any girl. Shoe store? And you only “stopped” there? Okay, I was there for awhile and tried on quite a few pairs of shoes. I said tried on, not bought (poor artist remember?). But anyways, as I was checking out and the cashier was checking to make sure the shoes were both the same size, I thought it must be interesting to see the different types of shoes people buy. You can tell a lot about a person, I thought, by seeing the style of shoes she buys. Just to start with there are about a million different styles ranging from hideously ugly to absolutely adorable (but I won’t go into too much detail…because then I’ll get carried away and you’ll start thinking I’m obsessed with shoes. Which I’m not. I did write a story once called “Cindy Lou and her love of Shoes” about a girl who owned over 100 pairs of shoes. Don’t worry; the character was not based on me).
You know that saying, “Don’t judge a person until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes”? I would think it’s pretty accurate because if you walk a mile in someone’s four inch heels you can probably form a pretty fair opinion of them as having exceptionally strong feet or just being crazy for walking a mile in stilettos.
All right, I’ll be serious. I do think that saying, just like “don’t judge a book by its cover” (a very treasured saying among authors you know), is worth heeding.
Right before going to the shoe store I had just had a book signing that went fairly well. One of the most enjoyable things about book signings is meeting the interesting, often very kind and encouraging people who stop by my table. And there is always someone very apt to tell me his or her life story. I don’t mind, as everyone needs someone to listen to them, and many of their stories are quite interesting enough to make it into their own books. I won’t spoil you with any of them, because I may use them for future inspiration. But each signing teaches me again and again not to judge a book by its cover, that each person has a past and a part of his own. That’s what fuels stories, the real world around us, and the struggles and joys of ordinary people. And so while you could judge a person based on what he or she looks like—what kind of shoes he or she might wear—you’re really only getting part of the picture. And you’re missing out on some great stories.
Now I’m not about to walk a mile in anyone else’s shoes, thank you very much. I have my own shoes that fit my taste much better. However, I’ll very gladly listen to your story, if you promise not to judge my book by its cover either.
And if you can tell a lot about a person based on his or her shoes, then I will gladly claim a shoe fetish, if only to get all the stories from those shoes that I can.

This post may be a little girly…but I don’t think I should be blamed for that. After a very busy and eventful semester, summer is here. I have set to doing what any good college student does at the end of a school year: watching Disney Classics. For me, these mostly consist of the Disney Princess movies.
Like most American girls, Disney princesses took up a good deal of my childhood and no matter how practical I might try and become I will never lose that romantic tendency given me by Cinderella, Belle, Aurora etc. Therefore, this blog post will be a defense of those unrealistic, dreamy stories.
I have noticed a tendency of social media to criticize Disney Princesses for the messages they give to little girls. Giving unrealistic expectations for perfect hair (Pocahontas), teaching that disobedience to parents is okay if you are following your dreams (Ariel), and showing that it’s okay to talk to and fall in love with strange men you meet in the forest (Sleeping Beauty). I’ll admit these probably aren’t the best things to be telling children. You probably shouldn’t talk to mice, or fall in love with your captor, or live alone with seven strange little men (and then take an apple from a creepy old woman…we’ll leave Snow White out of this). But, despite all this, I believe that Disney Princess movies have taught one invaluable lesson that stays with me today.
Nope. It’s not that dreams can come true. That’s nice and all but I do think that if you’re only dream is “One day my Prince will come” you might run into some difficulties (but I did say I would leave Snow White out of this). I will go on a tangent here to praise the Princess and the Frog for their message that hard work makes the dream come true.
But what’s the other running theme in all these movies? True love conquers all.
Bear with me. Don’t gag yet. I am a hopeless romantic but I can explain this a little more.
Beauty and the Beast was always my favorite Disney movie (still is). Right before the Beast dies, right before the last petal falls and all hope is lost, Belle whispers those three little words. The Beast is healed and transformed, the palace and its inhabitants are returned to normal and all because he learned to love and she loved him in return. Maybe this is exaggerating a little bit…but maybe not.
It was not until recently that I realized how much that ending scene influenced the way I understood love. As Cogsworth and Lumiere wait anxiously for those words, I saw how important those words are. You realize how saying them—and meaning them—is not to be taken lightly. Something that powerful must also be something very special, almost sacred.
And true love’s kiss? By showing the power of love they are showing the sacredness of love and all its actions. True love’s kiss only works on the right person and is not to be taken lightly.
We can accuse Disney Princesses of an over-idealized picturing of relationships, for making it seem like you can fall in love in a day. But I don’t really think they’ve failed in showing what love should mean. They have shown the value of love. In a world that has devalued love and portrayed one night stands as the norm it is refreshing to look back at stories that show the potential of truly loving someone. Kisses are portrayed innocently and yet with real importance. And if you really love someone, you should say it. If love is that powerful, when I tell someone I love them I have to really mean it.
So call me girly and hopelessly romantic but I think I’ll keep watching Princess movies. They’ve got some good songs too.