I have nothing new to offer because this act of terror is nothing new. But it isn’t familiar to everyone and I don’t see it becoming unfamiliar either.





Vlogging could be classified as a career and as someone who cannot even make up their mind on a graduate program, I don’t think I am in a position to consider it. Thus, I’ve made a blog instead. Blogging is as arduous as vlogging, but I find the task of writing much less daunting than recording hours of tape only to whittle it down to a ten-minute video.

So here I stand once more. With an eager and heavy heart, I shall earnestly write.

To persuade.

To grieve.

To convict.

To gripe.

To remember.

To enjoy.

To revel.

To myself.


“She was made up of more, too. She was the books she read in the library. She was of the flower in the brown bowl. Part of her life was made from the tree growing rankly in the yard. She was the bitter quarrels she had with her brother whom she loved dearly. She was Katie’s secret, despairing weeping. She was the shame of her father staggering home drunk” (71).

– A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith