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About Literature / Artist Premium Member Kaelyn M. SpiersUnited States Groups :iconlacoterie: lacoterie
 
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Oh hey! :heart: I actually saw that ~darkfeatheredwings chose to critique this for PIF and I thought I'd write a critique as well. I think I ...

If you have a piece you'd like critiqued, please feel free to note me!

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Journal Entry: Fri Aug 8, 2014, 6:12 PM
Skin by SimplySilent


I'm not 100% sure how this got started (I'm guessing it's a dA birthday thing?) but I've been tagged in a few of these posts, so I thought it'd be fun to make my own!

I've been an on again off again deviant since 2007, my time spanning a whopping FOUR accounts, because I'm a little bit crazy.  This one is sticking forever, though.  I promise.  I can't remember how I first discovered this wonderful site, but I remember why I first joined: I was a 14 year old dork who was way too obsessed with anime/manga and fan art.  I wanted to be a manga artist SO BADLY.  And if that's your dream, hey, there's nothing wrong with that, but I wanted it for stupid reasons.  My parents bought me a laptop for my 15th birthday, and I found deviantART.

I was really into manga style art and realism.  Odd combination, I know.  Here are some pieces by my favorite artists from when I first joined:

FF: Vincent +Oblivion+ by Cataclysm-X TFRS Colored by Miniatureowl sweeny todd mrs lovett chibi by Lufreeshia
The Four Beauties by luciole

I actually know Miniatureowl (the artist behind the second piece above) because we went to high school together.  I don't even remember how we wound up talking.  I somehow ended up sitting with her group at lunch and I'd spend my lunch period watching her draw.  She has cultivated a really unique style that has changed quite a bit over the years, but I think all of it is really good!

The very first real friend I made here was Jiosen, who I'm sure remembers how much of a dork I was but, kindly enough, doesn't talk about it anymore.  He's been there for my entire journey as an artist.  He encouraged me to find my own style, and while art ended up being just a hobby for me, my writing really started to take off a few years ago, and his advice and encouragement have stuck all this time.  We were out of touch for a while, but we've recently started talking again, which totally rocks.

I started becoming SERIOUSLY involved on dA about 4-5 years ago.  I participated in a creative writing seminar at what would be my first college (as many of you know, I'm a dropout now, and I'm hoping to finish my education in the future).  It was then, I think, that my writing started to, well, not completely suck.  It was a major turning point for me.  In my early teens, I wrote a lot of trite teen-angst-romance-depression-emo crap that I'm not proud of.  I guess it's part of my journey as a writer, but man, I was annoying.  Anyway, the seminar produced some decent stuff and gave me a LOT of inspiration from working with other writers in my age group, and writers who were professors at the college.

BirdsongFinches practice songs in their sleep.
Larks and mockingbirds are always admired
for the beautiful songs they sing
of lovely sunny mornings in the springtime.
We hear their songs, cheerful or somber,
romantic or melancholy, and we want to fly.
Less well known are the songs of finches,
the little birds that practice their craft
day in, day out, even when they dream.
For although the finch is seldom praised,
he will never cease his nighttime singing.
He will not break down, even if alone
and without a single encouragement,
but will work all the harder as he continues
to dream of one day performing for the world.
I may be unknown, and I may never be,
but like the yellow finch I will carry on
my Birdsong for all of eternity.
  Nearly Nine in 2001The summer my country was in despair,
the world in shock, the people's hearts in anguish, I walked
through the woods behind the house.  I climbed
over steep hills, and swung from branches of pine trees
as I ran with delight to my favorite place.
The other children were in school,
not understanding why the grown ups were
all crying.  I was blissfully unaware of anything
but the shallow creek that lay just beyond
the wire fence with a hole just big enough
for a wild child to crawl through.
I slid alone down the muddy slope to the bank
where I was greeted by beautiful
white and brown horses, who stood
on the other side.  I admired their majesty
and their grace as they played like children
in the open, grassy field.  I longed
to join them, to make friends with them,
but I would be caught, out in the open.
I could only watch, and wish.
As did we all.  Wishing always for a perfect world.

Dear Child,There are more stars than
all the grains of sand on Earth.

Imagine the long stretches
of white sand on the warm beach,
the countless, tiny specks, that
are beyond measure.  And then
recall the vast expanse of
sky, almost entirely black
at night, but dotted with stars
many times the size of Earth.
Those stars, appearing so small,
far outnumber all the grains
of sand on that beach.  They are
many, and they are seen as
so miniscule, quite pointless.
But if you throw away the
simplicity with which we
think, if you imagine the
vastness and significance
of those many infinite
stars, you may just discover
worlds much greater than your own.
  Atlanta TrafficAtlanta traffic stretches on for miles.
Countless cars, driven by people
who cannot drive, sit in lines
under the hot summer sun
and drenched by falling rain,
the people shouting out cars' windows.
The office buildings with glassy windows
are also still, lined up for miles
with the cars, watching the endless rain.
They are filled with unlucky people
who long to leave work and see the sun
again as they get into the long lines
of the Interstates, lines
that lead to more cheerful open windows
of the suburbs.  The sun
will return, they know, from miles
of puffy clouds--the people
who always bring more rain.
Downtown at the Fox plays "Singing in the Rain"
while Centennial hosts endless lines
of Patriots who come for fireworks.  People
sit in the grass waiting for an open window
through which opportunity lies within the many miles
on the road of life.  And the sun,
the merciless, blazing sun
glaring down upon them all, makes the rain
that has fallen evaporate to


Trust me, you don't want to see my earlier writing.  Most of these are "eh" by my standards now, but I was really proud of them at the time.  Especially Atlanta Traffic, which was my first real attempt at writing fixed forms (sestina).  Fixed forms turned out to be, well, just not my thing.

It was around that time that I started getting involved in the literature community on dA--or even really knowing that there was such a thing.  I mostly saw the visual art on this site and I had no idea how to get noticed as a writer.  Because unlike visual art, which gives you a good idea of the work at a quick glance, writing takes more time to hook its audience.  (That isn't to say writing is harder; just different.)  Writing on dA was, to my knowledge, just a bunch of fan fiction, which wasn't really my thing, either.

But then I started meeting people like TwilightPoetess, Iniquitire, londonreySilverInkblotThePaladinofShadows (whose lit is all in storage now, or I'd feature him, too!), o-ohhai, and Scarlettletters.  Their words were so beautiful, they (pardon the cliche) made my heart sing.

Jasmine,He wouldn't recognize
you without your picture
in his smile, without
your lyrics tucked
under his hungry
gasping cheek-bones.
Innocence stopped
calling when you
changed your number.
[Highway forty-five
won't take her home
anymore dontevenbother.]
Escape artists paint
birds without cages
and girls who smile
with more than just
their naked teeth&lips
&NaiveRiverEyes.
Flapping roofs are
meant as imagined
wooden-wing statues.
They're potentially-
poetic and forever
hoping-for-tornadoes.
Freedom equals
being the sole
survivor of the fire
in his eyes that
burned out every
idea you ever had.
Freedom equals
freckled-french kisses,
and wearing lace to
funerals with sand-
castles and obscenities
in her pockets.
She left because you needed her to.
You needed her, too.
  TroubadourI do not fly under your flag
or sup from your well of souls.
You will not find my name
written in your lists of legion
or my likeness slipped under your footstool
while your minstrels cower
and beggar men go blind.
I will not sing your praises
or sit at your table
below the salt
waiting like your dogs
for bonescraps to drop
or pray for rings to kiss
in the stark chill of something unborn.
I am no tattered remnant
of your majesty
no soldier of fortune
blinded by your promises
to make me better than I am
or raise my gifts
to unimagined heights.
I am but one man in a scant crowd,
born beneath your horizon
in places you refused to look,
watchful and impertinent,
and still not deceived
by the weight of your scepter
or the gleam mocking in your words.

Grounded planesAs I stand here, feeling the weight of my hair increase and slump on my shoulders with water leaking down the curve of my back, I think of you, kneeling in the bedroom, forehead on the dirty carpet of lies, betrayal and doubt. Power lines and coral reefs separate us, a torturous wait for something that we hope alleviates us.
As I put on the headphones and make my choice against the voices of the world, I remember your crying, your painful sobs of apologies and promises I still believe you will one day fulfill. I clutch at my chest and wish that I could take a heartbeat and send it your way. Maybe you'll hear me...maybe I'll feel you. Ripped envelopes, healing scars and passionate thoughts connect us, a desire we will one day share.
-
Tonight I dance with streetlights in fine rain and I smile. Tonight, you stare out at misty roads and mountains with glass alone keeping you locked in.
Tomorrow I sing to ink cartridges and faded paper. You'll hold pillows and shuddered breaths that feel l
  Boy Jeans and GirlsI wear boy jeans.
It's true. Only I bought them by accident.
But I wear them on purpose.
I wear boy jeans and I think about girls
They're dark, dark blue and straight
(Not the girls, the jeans)
Except for where they gather at my ankles
Because I'm too short
Or maybe boys are too tall.
I'm not straight like my jeans.
Except where they gather at my ankles,
I guess.
Only, I don't really gather things.
Not at my ankles or anywhere else.
I actually lose things most of the time.
So maybe I should keep my keys
And my promises and my spare change
In the upturned cuffs of my jeans.
Because, like I said, boys are too tall.
Or maybe I just don't measure up.
I wear boy jeans and I think about girls.
I said I'm not straight like my jeans
But I still like boys sometimes
And I kiss them sometimes, too.
And I think I've loved a few of them.
So I guess I'm not happy, either.
Gay, I mean. Not happy. Gay.
(Sorry)
I wear boy jeans and I think about a girl
I wasn't telling the truth before, when I said I t

I remember she pointed at me.It was no use pretending I wasn't hurt.  There I stood, glasses perched precariously on the end of my button-shaped nose, one sleeve of my teddy-bear nightgown falling from the slope of my shoulder as hiccuping sobs wracked my chest.  There I stood watching in silent mortification, my ten-year-old brain trying to drown out the sounds of her pain as your palm met her cheek once, twice, five times.  There were bags under her eyes and they were being swallowed by the red bruises you were leaving and I was broken, confused.  I was ten, for God's sake.  Ten!
Your hands were dimpled with age lines and speckles of her blood and she was slumped across the floor, her hand flung out across the burgundy carpet in supplication, in a silent plea for mercy, when you finally noticed me.  I was choking on snot and spittle and a thousand things I couldn't find the strength to say.  Maybe you could see them in my eyes, t
  RainDear Friend,
I love these grey overcast days, when the sky is dark but somehow everything on the ground looks a shade brighter, sharper. It's so beautiful to me, like a visual paradox.
You're so beautiful to me,
all sharp edges and dull curls under tight skin that barely contains your
oh-so-gentle smile.

Dear Friend,
The thunder is crashing just outside my window, but the rain won't fall.
It's so disappointing.
So, so disappointing.
You'll never know your own loveliness and I –
I'll never be brave enough to tell you.

Dear Friend,
Now the rain is running and the lightning has come to join the fun. I can see the drip drip drop of the pellets hitting the porch from a dry distance. I think maybe I could run through it if I had a place to run.
Run with me. We can race the stars
and never reach the finish line
because we won't let each other lose.

Dear Friend,
There's a current of rainwater flowing down my street. It's caught in the ridge where the street s


The funny thing is, I can't remember exactly how I met any of them, or when.  But I'm so glad I found each and every one of them.  They've been such a huge inspiration ever since.

Then I started seeing a group mentioned pretty often in Beth's posts, lacoterie.  I started poking around a bit and thought "Whoa, this group looks so cool!"  I was super intimidated by their elitist-and-proud description.  But one day I summoned up the courage and joined, and let me tell you, that was the best thing I could have done for myself as a writer back then.  Through my participation in the group I met angeljunkie, who was the main admin of the group back then.  Later on, I also met the other admins there, as well as AzizrianDaoXrak.  The group got me writing consistently and really striving to improve myself, and, maybe most importantly, it got me meeting people and putting myself out there more.

Y160301 by angeljunkie

Rosarywoven [still] with the fading scent of home
patchouli and honey eyes
cigarettes and smiles
stiff fibres softened with anxious fingers
I am your sanctuary bound within a noose;
I am your makeshift rosary:
a bead for all the things you can't forget.
  erroratticno.
[backspace]
not right.
[delete]
tangle in
words
you can't
breathespeaksleep
[have a cuppa,
luv,
it'll take away the
chill]

paraoxysm:
an uncontrollable outburst
a. a sudden recurrence
of a disease
b. any fit or attack
[oh, that wouldn't be
an
american accent,
would it?]

wetcoldywindy
sneakers scuffing sidewalk
every step
aching
feetshoulderslungs
2 AM wide awake up
grasping at
any
social interaction
[comeback
comeback
comeback
i miss -]

no.
[dahy-dak-tik]
inclined to teach
or lecture
others too much


Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back             1.  I say nothing I am thinking.
For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food
             2. A sketch of myself.
                                 He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crackling heat here, heat to drive you crazy,
and suddenly I open my wide arms for
New Orleans, find myself needing the wind from
the Great Plains. Like a buffalo I have the spirit
of the Sun and I carry it with me. I am a plant
of burnt umber,
                                 brown, ready and waiting like
sage bushes, like the hill you go to that is best
for collecting jun
  You've Been Looking at Virtues, All WrongYou've Been Looking at the Virtues of Child, Man, and Woman All Wrong
In the end we're all myths, hermaphroditic deities.
Our names are the most real things about us.
        i. My mother named me for the Virgin
        and I carry her legacy in my blood—
        she is my spirit animal; the creature
        who crawled first across the placenta line
        outside my home. In truth, I imagine all
        are wolves or coyotes drawn by the smell
        of fresh blood.
        ii. There is no purity in childhood:
        we are simply jesters with blistered feet
        and the pu


Lady of the Crows by AzizrianDaoXrak

I seriously love how many of my writer friends are also talented visual artists.  Speaking of which... one of the best friends I've made on dA is Christianonfire7.  For whatever reason, we started talking, and we clicked right away.  She has become one of my dearest friends, transcending computer screens, three states between us, and over 900 miles.  Jamie is the author of three wonderful books, the photographer of amazing people, animals, and landscapes, and the writer of too many awesome short stories, letters, and poems to count.  She's also the one who came up with my tagline on my profile: The Surreal Express!

Forever We Will Serve. by Christianonfire7

  AutumnYou said ‘paint me a scene of golden leaves
stroked across a sky of cheerful blue.’
I grab my brush and pull out my easel
to stare out at this autumn canopy.

Crackled golden leaves turn to
a blanket of colorful Julia Heliconians stretched
beneath layers of sapphire calendula wings.
Old oak trees seal their sap
a hidden splendor within dried up bark
renewed by relentless rain,
silent leafhoppers dine on its hidden treasure,
locked within a timeless old tree.
I fill in the gaps, paint colors to the leaves with feathers,
entwine the life of the oak within the insects it feeds.
The sky is a haven of indigo crests that soar effortlessly.
the treetops crawl with life, orioles rest their fruitful
young and spread their golden wings, filling the trees with
its autumn glory.
You said ’paint me a scene of golden leaves
stroked across a sky of cheerful blue.’
I hand you the easel with a smile on my face,
I offer my mind, my heart and my soul within
the colors of
  Dear First LoveDear First (and future) love.
Hi there… by the time you read this we will know other, we will love each other unconditionally. I’m pretty sure the day I hand this letter to you you will understand why I wrote it.  
As I write this you are a stranger 'well, kinda anyway. I don’t know your age, your eye color, your name or if your parents are still around. But I do know you are out there waiting for me like I am waiting for you.' I have prayed for you all my life, every night before bed as dad tucked me in. When I was thirteen, or fourteen, I wrote my prayer for you down, then I would read Proverbs 31. ‘A wife of noble character.’ ‘Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all. Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.’
I do not seek to be praised but I do desire to please the Lord and to love you until my dying day like no other woman has ever loved her man, the


Shepherds of the Capital by Christianonfire7

The kiss by Christianonfire7

I really admire her for her strength and her devotion to her values.  She and her whole family are among the most giving and kind people I've ever met.

psithurisms is another one of those amazing online friends I've made here on dA.  I mentioned her old account earlier, but you should all know her current account so you can go check out her AMAZING gallery.  The way she chooses her words and arranges them into poetry is nothing short of masterful.  She'll deny it, though.  But seriously, she's incredible.  AND BEAUTIFUL.


PaginationI perused the pages of your spine,
like a desperate and dying woman
would cling to the collar of the last man
to walk past and say
"I'm going and I'm okay with this."
Turn around.
And hold me around the hips
so when I fall apart,
the last part of me to go would be where
you spent the better of your time
with me.
  AffannatoIf my ribs were weighted keys,
I'd play you an ocean song that tips you
right off the edge of the earth,
and clinging to my last phrase, you'd say
'what a tragedy, what a helpless dreamer,
such a beautiful pair of lungs gone to the dust'.
And night would hold us in that distant desperation,
playing our heartstrings so we couldn't keep up,
no, not with that soulful, off-tempo portrait
of who we could have let each other become.
I'll crawl back to bed on my bare boned knees
and when I wake to the black holes you've burned
into the sheets you and I were 'us' on,
I'll write you a desert song
about how I jumped off the edge of the earth
and you weren't there.

Scavenger huntingThere must be a reason why heavy tongues
are the most honest.
Whether the alcohol has built up
at the back of your throat until the roof
of your mouth is sandpapered to a blank slate
upon which you lay your deep-set words
or the 2:30 a.m morning has twisted your teeth apart,
so everything you regurgitate gets out.
Consider it a cleansing,
an exfoliation of the ridges in your spine,
a time to smooth out the rough edges so that
all your feelings come tumbling down.
There must be a reason why you kneel on the floor
and build a puzzle of everything I shouldn't have to say.
And I don't intend to find them
because part of me likes it that way.
  poetry for non-poetsI guess he was wrong when he said
'you are poetry'
because all you were made up of
were line breaks and phrases
that never, ever went together.
The disharmony between your heart and lungs
was something he liked listening to,
just thinking there was a thunderstorm in your chest
but never considering that maybe
you were hungry or drunk or hurting.
No. These were all so beautiful
and worth writing about in the dark.
But I guess the best decision he ever made
was to pull his head away from your shoulders,
take a good long look at your shaking form
and run farther than he ever thought
those bent knees could take him.


All of her poems break my heart, somehow.  They're just so absurdly beautiful.

And, of course, there's RavenXNevermore.  I seriously couldn't tell you when I started reading her stuff on dA because she's my best friend offline.  Raven is a beautiful human being, a talented writer, and a passionate reader.  Her writing is a mix, but I particularly love her flair for all things Victorian, mythological, and macabre.  She also just for her very first DAILY FREAKING DEVIATION.

The Girls My Mama Warned Me About--- FFM Day 3You see, the thing my mama would never understand is that a woman needs to have her friends. I’m not talking about the girls she meets in a book club that she randomly signed up for online, or the ones she calls friends but never sees outside of the breakroom at work. No, I mean real friends. The girls she’ll always surround herself with, like a queen does a court.
  I had my girls, and my mama didn’t necessarily approve of them. She thought I partied with them too much, and often told me that I needed to give it a rest. But, these were my girls! My best friends! I don’t think Mama has ever had girls like I did. They’ve never abandoned me, and I could never have dreamt of abandoning them.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
   My girls were so unique. Each one was as different as the colors of the rainbow. There was Vonda and Teena, the two wild girls I met at a party some time while I w
  An Unwritten History--- FFM Day5  The carriage rode down the cobblestone streets, under the silver moon. The horses trotted through puddles, huffing as their impatient driver cracked a whip against their backs. Inside of the carriage it was dark, but Illeana knew that they  were entering the richer side of Theodora City.  
  “At this rate we’ll be late.” Said Illeana nervously. She peeled back the curtain next to her, and peeked out the carriage window. They were fast approaching their destination. The young woman sighed heavily, pulling her hand away from the curtain, and folding her gloved hands in her lap.
 “Illeana,” a deep voice said. She looked up and, in the small bit of light that streamed in from the window, she saw the dark outline of the young man sitting across from her. One of his deep green eyes caught in the stream of light. “Everything will be fine. You will be in and out of there quickly. No one will notice.”  
  Illeana hal


Harsh WinterHarsh Winter
You came for everything that mattered most to me.
First, you came for the sun. You locked it away in a cage of grey,
Leaving my world dark, and without warmth.
Then you came for my children.
My poor, sweet, children. They once stood so tall and beautiful;
Now they stand stripped of their beauty, and pride.
After that, you stole my animals.
You knew how their freedom gave me hope,
And so you took them and replaced them with horrible creatures.
Next, you came for the very ground beneath my feet.
You tore and shredded it, until it was almost crumbling
From under me.
And then I was all that was left.
You came for me, dragging me under with you.
Knowing there was no one to save me from this jail sentence,
That was our marriage.
  Paper WingsWe all wish to fly,
To soar through the clouds. So sad...
Paper wings don't fly.


After being involved for a while with lacoterie, I applied for an admin position.  I became an admin for that group, cofounded Expose-Lit, and recently became a volunteer for LitRecognition.  Everyone I've worked with on dA in these groups is fabulous.  Most have already been mentioned, but I need to give a shoutout to draecana.  Sylvia is my partner for the New Artist Highlight at DLR, and she has given me such a warm welcome there!  She's delightfully friendly and all around lovely.  I seriously don't know how I hadn't really met her before now!

for everyone who needs to beif you were the stars,
then i'd be the darkness
just so i could surround you
in my embrace.
if you were the darkness,
then i'd be the moon
just so i could be near you
enough to comfort.
if you were the moon,
then i'd be a cloud
just so i could reach you
to kiss your face.
if you were a cloud,
then i'd be the sun
just so i could warm you
with my adoring gaze.
if you were the sun,
then i'd be the sea
just so i could reflect you
and show you your beauty.
if you were the sea,
then i'd be the wind
just so i could caress you
and skim along your surface.
if you were the wind,
then i'd be the trees
just so i could whisper to you
and sing you songs about forever.
if you were the trees,
then i'd be the Earth
just so i could nurture you
and nourish you with dreams.
if you were the Earth,
then i'd be the stars
just so i could shine for you
and make your wishes true.
  the truth is thisin my last life,
I was a beggar girl;
weak, cold, and starving.
I thought I was missing something.
I thought I'd found a knight to save me;
that you'd be everything I needed to make me whole.
the truth is,
you were never the one doing the saving.
in my new life,
I am a queen;
strong, brave, and shining.
and no mere knight will do for me now.
now, I wait for my prince, my king, my equal.
the truth is,
I don't need to find my other half;
I'm not broken.

The stains we carryAtlas, bittersweet,
in your next life you were a phoenix
with wings of steel
and love can guarantee so much more
if only the meaning of dreams...
but, the river doesn't always sing;
  My nameMy name is not Ophelia;
I am not the girl who relies on everyone else
to save her, no.
My name is not Cleopatra;
I am not the woman who backs herself into a corner
and embraces death, no.
My name is not Cressida;
I am not the woman who allows herself to be sold
by any man, no.
I will not drown in helplessness.
I will not accept your sweet poison.
I will not be a slave to your whims.
I am giddy with this realization.
My name is Viola;
I am the girl who survived the raging storm 
and saved myself, yes.
My name is Lavinia;
I am the girl who will not let silence
rob me of justice, no.
My name is Portia;
I am the woman who uses her wits
to save her loved ones, yes.
I will brave the perilous, stormy seas.
I will raise my voice for truth and right.
I will fight for myself, and the ones I love.
I am sobered by this profession.
I am strong.
I am clever.
I am loyal, brave, and true.
I will not bend, nor break, nor bow.
And you've lost the the right to speak
my name.


Some other dear friends I've made on dA more recently (by which I mean sometime after I started with the groups and in most cases I have absolutely no idea when exactly we met but my life would be so incomplete without them): Nichrysalis, Sammur-amat, IncaDincaDoo, blackoutpoet, MinnemannE, Kinglorshi, raspil, thorns, nycterentVigilo, acrei, 3wyl, bowie-loon123.  Some, I still talk to or hear from about every time I log on, others not so much these days, and other still seem to have briefly (but profoundly) touched my life.  I'm grateful for every single one of these incredible people, and all of you who are reading this post (or saw how long it was and ran away, I UNDERSTAND).

Over the 8-or-9-ish years I've been here, I've grown tremendously as a writer and as a person.  I've recived two Daily Deviations and a handful of DLDs.  I've placed in a contest or two.  I've tried and failed too many writing challenges to count.  I've judged even more contests.  I've written collaborations and commissions out the wazoo.  I still have a helluva long way to go.  But as for everything that has happened so far... I'm so incredibly thankful.

And before you go, I want you to enjoy a sooper dorky picture of me, because I'll admit, I haven't COMPLETELY outgrown the dorkiness from when I was 14 and first discovered this community.

Halloween 2012 by SurrealCachinnation

Friends, watchers, and people who are stumbling upon my profile for the first time--thank you so, so, so much for sharing this journey with me.  You are all freaking awesome.  :heart:

deviantID

SurrealCachinnation
Kaelyn M. Spiers
Artist | Literature
United States
Writing is my life. I am left-handed. I don't like most people, but I find all people endlessly fascinating. I'm the textbook definition of an INFJ, have an obsession with owls, and would give anything to be paid to travel the world and write about the places I see. Except my left hand, because I need that to write.
Interests

Amazing People:

Some of my very favorite deviants:

:iconplaugh: - my daddy, Jedi Master, and hero
:iconsaavik33: - the love of my life, my "Wesley"
:iconravenxnevermore: - my best friend and partner in crime
:iconpsithurisms: - my long distance 'twin' from the West Indies
:iconchristianonfire7: - my absolute favorite meanie face



Show them some love! :heart:

How do you feel about social networks? (Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, etc.) I know more than one may apply, so please choose the answer that is most true/important to you. Feel free to comment. 

33%
4 deviants said They're important for keeping in touch with my friends/family.
25%
3 deviants said They're fun for me to use in order to socialize with other people.
17%
2 deviants said I don't use them at all/have accounts I rarely touch.
8%
1 deviant said They're a useful tool for promoting my art or other work.
8%
1 deviant said I use them for my work/to keep in touch with colleagues/coworkers.
8%
1 deviant said I only use them because I have to/feel obligated to.

Comments


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:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Aug 13, 2014   General Artist
brgtt- Thank you for the +fav 
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:iconsurrealcachinnation:
SurrealCachinnation Featured By Owner 2 days ago   Writer
:huggle:
Reply
:iconjade-pandora:
jade-pandora Featured By Owner Aug 10, 2014
Kaaaaelynnnn!  Oh gosh, thank you so much for enjoying and for fav'ing my poems, "Naked in the Cafeteria", and "Missionary"!
Heart Love You are such a sweetie, too!
Reply
:iconsurrealcachinnation:
SurrealCachinnation Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2014   Writer
You are most welcome!  I always enjoy your words so much.  :heart:
Reply
:iconpomohippie7:
pomohippie7 Featured By Owner Aug 9, 2014   Writer
Thank you very much for the favorite, dear. :heart:
Reply
:iconsurrealcachinnation:
SurrealCachinnation Featured By Owner Aug 11, 2014   Writer
Sure thing!  :aww:
Reply
:icondrippingwords:
DrippingWords Featured By Owner Jul 25, 2014  Student Writer
:huggle: Thanks for the fave(s)! :huggle:
Reply
:iconsurrealcachinnation:
SurrealCachinnation Featured By Owner Aug 8, 2014   Writer
Sure thing!  :hug:
Reply
:iconscarlettletters:
Scarlettletters Featured By Owner Jul 12, 2014  Professional Writer
Thanks for faving my work!
Reply
:iconsurrealcachinnation:
SurrealCachinnation Featured By Owner Jul 12, 2014   Writer
You're welcome!  I loved your new piece.  :D
Reply
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