Whenever I feel like I have come to a point where I have “run out” of things, ideas, themes, I turn to visual art to try and find inspiration. I do this thing where I am constantly writing about myself and what is happening in my life and, in turn, feel as if I am continuously writing about the same things over and over again in the same exact ways with the same exact language. It feels like I am stuck in my own writing. Going to visual art allows me to disconnect my personal life from my writing and take on the voice of the subject or artist or to interact with something other than myself in my writing. I will write pieces that I would have never thought about writing or even thought of in general because of pulling my inspiration from something else, something intended to make the consumer feel some sort of visceral reaction. Both writing and visual art make their consumers think and go further into each piece than what is first seen. It’s amazing. I can look at the same piece of art endlessly, but still continue to find something else about the it. There is always more. Élan takes both art and writing and uses them so that a kind of symbiotic relationship occurs within the book itself. There is writing that has to do with the art and art that has to do with the writing. Each feed off the other. In the 2017 Fall edition, an art piece titled, Fruit on Wheels III, is one that I find myself going back to consistently and doing nothing more than just looking at it and trying to piece together a semblance of the story of what is happening in it. Who are the two men? What are they doing? Where is it? Why was the artist drawn to capturing this moment in time? What did the artist want people to get out of it? In all honesty, I am not entirely sure as to why I am drawn to this piece. There’s a story or something deeper lying in every piece of artwork, and I will most likely never truly know what the artist intended to say with this piece, but I can piece together what the art is telling me. It tells me anguish and hard work and determination and exasperation and aspiration and just-getting-by and this-is-life-and-it-is-okay. I think it is partly because I am who I am and that I write what I write. I don’t do super crazy fiction stories or fantasy or abstract. I do grounded and realistic and in your face and there is more to what I am saying. That’s what I felt from this artwork. On the surface, you understand what is most likely happening, but you keep going further and further into the work itself and the smallest aspect of the art means something. Writing from this piece would be me removing myself in the sense that maybe it isn’t a personal narrative that I am telling, but instead, someone else’s narrative that I am telling with personal conviction and connection. - Winnie Blay, Junior Managing Editor

Whenever my eyes used to come across “Milkmaid” by Eryka Goldsworthy, it struck a familiar chord. I’d find myself staring at all aspects of the painting, the way the wood contains small looped circles and the bread reflects the light coming from the window. I believe that this painting resonated with me because it focused on a small action, something simple, a snapshot of milkmaid. The inspiration for this painting had to have come from the oil painting by a Dutch artist in 1658, also called “The Milkmaid”. The biggest differences between the two paintings is notably the setting. The painting done by Eryka is much more modern, the milkmaid is pouring milk in ceramic bowl on the edge of a stainless-steel sink. From the hues to the Milkmaid’s expression, there is no question that the painting is organic. It illustrates an overall feeling of home coming from a creator. I believe that any entrepreneur, cook, farmer, writer, painter, can relate to feeling radiated by the painting. Writing takes places first in the home and when I look back at my earliest memories, some of my writing took place while watching my mother cook in the kitchen. Paintings like “Milkmaid” exhibit a feeling grounded in the roots of any culture. Writing involves reaching into memories to explore more about oneself, whether it was a good or bad period in our life. It is a good feeling to know that the emotions behind a piece are true, and they can be true to anyone. One of my poems describes how I used to watch my family work at the back of a restaurant, elbow grease and all. I think that “Milkmaid” resonated because it reminded me of an actual memory at a very young age. Paintings that take me back to a certain point in life inspire me to create something from nothing. Personally, “nothing” is a state of mind or a plateau for an artist.  Creating something out of nothing is when my best ideas take place. Last year, “Milkmaid” pulled me out of a plateau with writing that I was going through and inspired me to create a creative nonfiction story about the milkmaids of Colombia. I have found myself always writing about small actions in my daily life, mostly because it amazes me how differently I can experience them. The Elan literary magazine publishes nothing but organic work. Our paintings like “Milkmaid” exhibit a profound candid expression. The action of the milkmaid is a lot similar to other pieces that Elan publishes, it makes writers like myself reflect on a memory to create something memorable. - Evelyn Alfonso, Poetry Editor

Of all the beautiful artwork published in Élan, the piece that resonated that most with me is probably Slow as Molasses by Isabella Gardner. Not only are the aesthetics of this piece incredible, but the different meanings that could be behind it, how it connects to the pieces on either side of it, and how it connects to Élan as a whole are all amazing. How this piece looks visually on the page is both intense and beautiful. While it’s drawn completely in black and white, the contrasts between the woman, the wall behind her, the bee, and the molasses dripping from her head allows for a lot of interpretation about light and color, even without those being present in the piece. The details of the woman’s lips and eyes allow for a lot of interpretation about what’s happening in the work; while the bees, which are often seen as symbol for discovering personal power, and the woman’s facial expression, which looks somewhere between self-discovery and pain, she’s also drowning in molasses, something incredibly sweet. Despite bees having stingers, the woman looks as though she’s being awakened as she’s being drowned and stung, and despite its ambiguity, the piece allows for a lot of personal interpretation. I personally see the work as a representation of how we often drown in our own vices and pleasures. The piece also pairs incredibly effectively with the pieces around it. Altar Serving by Jaclyn Berry explores a girl finding pleasure in a time of intense emotional pain and stress, and Recipe for Baked Potato by Noland Blain explores themes of suffocation and the painful, unhealthy aspects of something delicious. As well as being one of the most thoughtful and beautiful pieces we’ve ever published, I think part of the reason it stands out in my mind is how it complements the writing and brings out themes in all three of the pieces that may not have been clear without the pairing I also feel as though this piece epitomizes the message of Élan. We try to select pieces for our books that we feel are not only thoughtful and aesthetically pleasing, but also pieces that invoke an emotional reaction in the reader and that explores themes deeper than what’s merely on the surface. This piece allows for a vast amount of interpretations, is beautiful on the page, and totally fits in with the theme of the entire spring 2017 edition. - Oona Roberts, Senior Layout and Design Editor

As the Junior Art Editor of the Fall 2017 issue of Élan, one of the pieces I reviewed that resonated with me the most would be “Wind Up Boy”. Stylistically, one can see how it can catch a viewer’s gaze. The artist very masterfully creates a face for the portrayed character, immediately drawing attention to the rest of the piece and its meaning. The color scheme and the position of the boy also work to add a layer of depth to the message. To fully understand the striking aspects that the artist is able to convey in this piece, it must simply be seen through its original medium, as I do not believe a recreation of it through words will be able to truly illustrate its traits. Though the meaning may vary for others viewing the piece, I believe the most resonating intent to be pulled away is the idea that this boy keeps having to wind himself up again to function. However, considering how his key is in his back, I am led to believe that it is someone else he depends on to turn this key for him. In this, he is unable to motivate himself to be productive unless another he relies on keeps him standing and walking forwards in a thoughtless, mechanical manner. When all of the turns of the key are used up, the boy simply falls again in exhaustion. He possibly contemplates never standing again. In this, I believe specific image can strike many viewers in a meaningful way. I find this piece to not only be well done, but to be carrying universality as well. I believe the reason this piece is so intriguing to me is because I feel I can relate to the boy in this period of my life. As an upperclassman in high school, I realize the looming responsibilities following graduation and the possibilities of further education. Not only is there a decision to be made, but there are also obstacles of others expectations for you and the thoughtless mistakes of your past holding you back. Currently, in preparation for college, I have found myself swamped in activities inside and outside of school. This is done in order to further accomplishments that may be listed on my college applications. Often times, however, after I work so hard on something with no immediate result, it can become exhausting to continue. Whether it be a supportive friend or a good coffee, I find that I am often in need of something or someone to simply wind me back up. This way, I can again continue on my way towards the future I want by using the mechanical methods the key dictates. Though I realize it is an exhausting way to live, I still continue towards my goals in life. In a sense, this piece reminds me of this struggle and the fact that it is possible to move through it. Though exhaustion follows all your ventures, it is rare that you are left without anything to help one continue moving forwards. The artist of “Wind Up Boy” ironically demonstrates it as she clearly worked tirelessly to create this image of giving up, reflecting an emotion she must have felt before or during the creation of this piece of art. This piece can then, through its universality, possibly be able to reflect the states of artists submitted into Élan. Without the ability to be wound back up again and to continue work, we may not have made it as far as we have today. -Kathryn Wallis, Junior Art Editor

Being a writer, I am always looking for a sort of inspiration and depth; images that delve into the mind and explore the deepest desires within us all. This is exactly the reason I chose the piece Blank by Jasmine Hernandez as my favorite art piece. Not only does Blank split the idea of love open under a microscope, but the artist uses contrasting colors and vivid detail to engage the reader and tell a story no one else can. In it, I see the idea of human connection. The heart, which has always seemed to embody the emotions hiding within us, is in the exterior bringing into question a subtle battle between external and internal that I am too familiar with as a writer. This conflict is what I always seek for in my writing. I use my character’s desires and needs to fuel the piece, allowing them to tell their own story, and that is what I feel that this piece does. I fell in love with this art for the same reason I fell in love with writing; having the ability to craft something new and give readers something to think about. Here we are viewing the struggle between an exterior world and interior emotions, which is both individual and universal, striving to strike a chord with all who see it. I believe that the piece also represents Elan in this way as well. The art gives every person a voice by expressing the “heart” within us all, and I believe that this is also the mission of our literary magazine. We strive to make artists voices heard and express the emotions found within each and every one of them. As a team, we put a book into the world which holds something that cannot be recreated and is all new. After being on the Elan staff for almost three months now and finally experiencing what it feels like to upload a finalized issue, I can say that the book feels just like the heart in the piece. The art and everything in the book strive to evoke new emotions and with each twist and turn there is something lying under the surface you didn’t expect. To the staff, Elan is our heart and it is something which we hope to share externally in order to captivate an audience within. I love this piece and Elan because they allow for the exploration into the self without confinement; they bring emotions to the forefront and speak not only about our emotions, but also the connection of our physical being and the things we feel. -Lexey Wilson, Junior Editor-in-Chief

One of my favorite art pieces from the Fall 2017 edition of Elan is “Tranquility” by Kaylin Hillman. Coincidentally, it happens to be the first piece of the art in the book, which I think was a great choice. This piece is generally a very visually appealing one, especially with the blend of colors, but I think it represents much more than that as well. This piece is important to the current events going on throughout the world, all rooted to the connection of humans. There are so many human rights movements and huge decisions being made in the community right now that I think this was a perfect piece to be accepted into this issue. All of the artwork in our current issue is astounding, but I connected to “Tranquility” immediately, which I think is a huge part of the piece and its message, the universality. The first thing I noticed was the colors, and how beautifully they blend together. The pastel colors stand out against the dark background and caught my eye. After that, I took in the message of the piece and the way the people have come together as one, no matter how different they are. Because this book deals with posing a lot of questions about humanity and ourselves, this was the perfect piece to open with because it visually offers the ideas that are laced throughout the issue. Another reason I really liked this piece is because it literally brought a sense of calm and tranquility over me. A part of this is definitely because of how aesthetically pleasing it is, but another part was also because it made me think about my own life and the actions I take. Instead of being hateful or avoiding problems that don’t pertain to me, it’s important to speak up and act. As shown in the piece, we can come together peacefully and create beauty. The color of the two-people’s skin may be different, but the shades laced throughout their skin are the same, their shape and bodies are both the same and living. They both exist and in peace. Even if I don’t speak up act, it’s still important to connect with others and be there for people, because we’re all human and need someone from time to time. This piece is a great representation of Elan. Not only does it represent the work and vast spectrum of what is published, it also shows the people who create the work published. Elan publishes work from all over the world, who create art and writing that differ in many ways. This piece shows a bit into the diversity and range of people published throughout the years of Elan, whether that be the artists themselves or the people found in the artwork. I think this piece is a beautiful mixture of Elan’s current mission and goal as a publication, and what it strives to grow to be. -Kinley Dozier, Senior Managing Editor

As artists, it’s easy to get stuck in a rut of our own art form, and forget to look at the other ways people can express themselves. An aspiring actor might go to plays, but never visit any art museums. A filmmaker could attend dozens of movie premiers but never pick up a novel. Sometimes, the best cure for stasis in our own art form isn’t to continue to immerse ourselves in it. The best cure can be to remove ourselves completely, and experience artwork that’s completely different. While we were compiling the fall edition, I got a chance to see some really beautiful artwork. I was amazed at the talent displayed by these teenage artists, some of whom were even my peers. I’m not going to pretend that I know anything about visual art, but in some ways, that makes my reactions even more pure. I have no knowledge about art composition, or any of the technical terms associated with the craft. When I respond to art, it’s purely based on what it makes me feel. Several pieces stood out to me, but one that really resonated with me was Comfort of the Holy Mother, by Victoria Sherwood. Everything about this piece just drew me to it: the vibrant colors, the clear focus, even the details of the background. In my writing, I’m often guilty of being too concrete. I can bog myself down with meaningless details and pointless asides. I’ll spend paragraphs describing something that ends up not being important to the plot. It’s hard for me to let go of reality and move into the abstract, and this is something I envy about a lot of art that I love. Comfort of the Holy Mother portrays a girl, surrounded by a green aura, floating in the night sky. No other context is provided. Even my interpretation could be incorrect—maybe she’s not in the sky. Maybe she’s in the ocean. The title of the piece gives a little background information, but not much. It’s enough to pique your interest, but it doesn’t reveal too much. And in a way, that’s the point. There doesn’t have to be an explicit intent. Everything doesn’t have to be explained. Art has value simply because it is art and it is beautiful. That applies to visual art, yes, but it also applies to other forms, including writing. Sometimes as writers we think that we have to express our ideas in ways that other people can easily understand, but that’s not true. There’s something appealing about complexity, about a little bit of mystery. In Elan, we have a variety of work, from a very diverse group of students. The topics covered in our magazine span from difficult familial relationships to the struggles of growing up, and each piece explores life a little bit differently. We are all a little removed from reality, floating through space on our own journeys. -Meredith Abdelnour, Junior Layout-and-Design Editor

Recently published in the Fall 2017 edition was “Crossings”, a story by Douglas Anderson writer Rafael Pursley. This whole edition, in particular, had a number of pieces which struck me deeply for their power in creating and enlivening images, bridging an emotional gap between the natural world around the more interior, personal conflicts. As an artist with a passion for science, particularly environmental and natural disciplines, I was thrilled to see such pieces filter through our reading process. “Crossings”, in particular, manages to sum up the distance, the closeness, the power of the natural world on our human lives often deemed entirely separate. The range of imagery struck me from the first time I read “Crossings”. It has one of those near-perfect balances of the gritty, nasty and all too real of a mucky wood pond, but also the ethereal, the breathtaking of a solar eclipse. As someone who is constantly trying to fit her all-consuming connection to the natural world into her writing, I found the accuracy of these images exciting. It can be so difficult to represent both the beauty and the obnoxious about nature in writing. The story didn’t just use physical description, however, it fit the adjusting landscape into the conflict of the story. This was one of the most impressive qualities of all: managing to demonstrate a threaded-throughout dynamic and interaction with nature to a shifting personal dynamic. Too often, I find myself trapped in making nature one-dimensional. It’s either all beautiful, or all destructive. The ups and downs represented in “Crossings” were not only more accurate, but also managed to create a more real, immediate emotional conflict for the reader. Within the story, a narrator explores their complex and changing feelings towards an old friend. The eclipse is a sort of climax to their tension filled relationship. Only when the two are set in the midst of something gorgeous can the narrator see in sharp relief the built separations between themselves and this person they aren’t sure whether to love or to hate. That eclipse isn’t just a random, outside factor. Much of the short fiction I read today possesses a sort of skepticism and mistrust of the world around us. Characters are doubtful of anything that is supposed to be beautiful, unwilling to see or believe in the reality in front of their eyes, and they rarely tend to change. “Crossings” seemed to catch this world, to understand it, without being isolated in this behavior or out of it. It recognized both sides, and in that, captured a growing cultural divide between the total immersion in a human-built world, and the need to exist in what is beyond human. I’m constantly thinking about this divide, trying to find ways to place my fiction on one ledge or the other, usually failing and landing somewhere in the easily categorized “nature” art. “Crossings” has inspired me, given me valuable insights into how to innovate my own fiction, my own attempts to capture a personal understanding of the world in my art. In this way, “Crossings” represents Elan as well as any piece we’ve published. Elan, being a student literary magazine, is all about finding ways for young thinkers to express the world they inhabit, a world often forgotten because adults are the voices of our culture. By capturing some growing, new cultural divides which teenagers must try to navigate, “Crossings” speaks to the modern teenage experience, wrapped in skillful writing, lively use of imagery and insightful mixing of the emotional world and the physical world. - Ana Shaw, Senior Editor in Chief

As artists, we all reach stages in our writing where we feel like our work is the worst we’ve ever created. We put our hearts and souls into personal pieces only to find the harshest criticism comes from ourselves. This doesn’t only happen to famous authors, it happens to all writers. As human beings, our confidence is like grains of sand; it slips between our fingers and completely leaves before we even know it. December of last year, I felt like the tiny amounts of grainy confidence I had finally was blown out of my palms. I had been involved in a project produced by the Elan staff called Coffee House. It’s a performance put on by the students that go to our school and the pieces presented are all original work. This includes poetry, Spoken Word, short plays, musical bands, and singing. To get into the performance, you had to audition and then be chosen by the staff in charge. I had written my piece, performed it, and was picked by the judges to be in the show. As I went to rehearsals and worked on making my piece better, I began to get this feeling that maybe my piece wasn’t all that good. Especially being surrounded by so many beautifully talented artists, who before the age of 19 are already extremely skillful, I found it very hard to maintain the pride I had in my work before. I had to keep telling myself that they chose me for a reason. The judges liked my piece, and they thought my message was important enough to be in Coffee House. The fellow members who heard my piece also enjoyed it, and encouraged me every day at rehearsal to not hold myself back on stage. Other people told me I had created good work, but it didn’t really help me feel any better about it. It’s important to recognize that as artists, our confidence can only rely on ourselves. We nurture our work, fall in love with it, and sometimes even share it with others. The reason we love writing isn’t just because we love how it makes us feel afterwards, but because we appreciate ourselves more when we put ourselves through the struggles and challenges of finishing work. I remember that even on the night of Coffee House I felt like no one in the stage would like or even understand my piece. But when I finished performing and took a deep breath, I realized that I loved my piece after all. It didn’t matter if people hadn’t clapped and given me support. What matter was that it felt right to have gotten my piece out into the world. What truly helped me love my piece again, and what I use most of the time when I feel like I’m falling out of place with my writing in general, is thinking about the reason I started writing something in particular. What motivated me to write it down and work on it? What do I like about my writing? It’s also important to ask myself why I don’t feel like my writing is good. Whether it’s just one piece that maybe isn’t where I want it, or it’s over time where I feel like all my writing isn’t nearly as strong as I want it to be, I like getting down to the core reasons why I don’t believe it’s where it should be. Good work needs patience and attention. Good work needs time to breath by itself and time to stand on its own. Writers, be kind to yourself. Be kind to your work and your passions. -Valerie Busto, Fiction/Creative Non-fiction Editor

My​ ​first​ ​year​ ​in​ ​a​ ​creative-writing​ ​intensive​ ​program​ ​came​ ​as​ ​a​ ​shock​ ​in​ ​many,​ ​many ways.​ ​Not​ ​least​ ​was​ ​the​ ​pure​ ​amount​ ​of​ ​writing​ ​we​ ​were​ ​instructed​ ​to​ ​complete,​ ​the​ ​way​ ​each piece​ ​came​ ​with​ ​specific​ ​mentions​ ​of​ ​goals,​ ​elements,​ ​techniques​ ​were​ ​were​ ​supposed​ ​to understand.​ ​I​ ​had​ ​been​ ​writing​ ​for​ ​as​ ​long​ ​as​ ​I​ ​could​ ​remember,​ ​but​ ​always​ ​sporadically,​ ​always on​ ​my​ ​own​ ​schedule.​ ​I​ ​liked​ ​the​ ​idea​ ​of​ ​novels,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​tried​ ​to​ ​expand​ ​and​ ​expand​ ​my​ ​characters, ideas,​ ​settings.​ ​I​ ​had​ ​no​ ​idea​ ​how​ ​to​ ​write​ ​towards​ ​an​ ​intent,​ ​and​ ​especially​ ​not​ ​how​ ​to​ ​apply craft,​ ​to​ ​revise​ ​my​ ​piece​ ​and​ ​actually​ ​improve​ ​it.​ ​Writing​ ​shifted​ ​from​ ​a​ ​hobby​ ​to​ ​a​ ​confusing obligation,​ ​and,​ ​finally,​ ​a​ ​boring​ ​chore.​ ​Craft​ ​still​ ​seemed​ ​like​ ​a​ ​total​ ​mystery​ ​to​ ​me.​ ​I​ ​couldn’t understand​ ​how​ ​characters,​ ​plot,​ ​syntax,​ ​or​ ​theme​ ​worked,​ ​so​ ​I​ hated​ tinkering​ ​around​ ​with​ ​my words.​ ​My​ ​love​ ​of​ ​writing​ ​had​ ​fizzled​ ​away. And​ ​then​ ​came​ ​Raymond​ ​Carver.​ ​In​ ​particular,​ ​his​ ​short​ ​story​ Cathedral.​ In​ ​it,​ ​a​ ​rather obnoxious​ ​narrator​ ​has​ ​an​ ​awakening​ ​with​ ​the​ ​help​ ​of​ ​a​ ​blind​ ​man,​ ​whom​ ​he​ ​had​ ​spent​ ​most​ ​of the​ ​story​ ​despising.​ ​There’s​ ​this​ ​uplifting,​ ​brightened​ ​final​ ​scene​ ​in​ ​which​ ​a​ ​moment​ ​of​ ​human connection​ ​moves​ ​from​ ​physical​ ​to​ ​nearly​ ​spiritual.​ ​While​ ​the​ ​story​ ​no​ ​doubt​ ​has​ ​many interpretations,​ ​to​ ​my​ ​fifteen​ ​year​ ​old​ ​self,​ ​the​ ​story​ ​got​ ​at​ ​the​ ​heart​ ​of​ ​what​ ​it​ ​means​ ​to​ ​be human.​ ​It​ ​showed​ ​where​ ​our​ ​lives​ ​gain​ ​meaning.​ ​The​ ​structure​ ​of​ ​Carver’s​ ​story​ ​opened​ ​up​ ​to me.​ ​The​ ​detail​ ​choice.​ ​The​ ​characters.​ ​The​ ​dialogue.​ ​I​ ​began​ ​to​ ​comprehend​ ​stylistic​ ​and​ ​artistic choices:​ ​why​ ​an​ ​author​ ​makes​ ​them,​ ​and​ ​how​ ​they​ ​can​ ​be​ ​executed.​ ​My​ ​role​ ​as​ ​a​ ​writer​ ​moved from​ ​abstract​ ​and​ ​diluted,​ ​to​ ​understandable,​ ​with​ ​tangible​ ​elements​ ​of​ ​craft.​ ​Revision​ ​began​ ​to make​ ​sense,​ ​as​ ​I​ ​could​ ​connect​ ​the​ ​choices​ ​in​ ​my​ ​writing​ ​to​ ​how​ ​they​ ​built​ ​up​ ​a​ ​reader’s understanding,​ ​how​ ​writing​ ​could​ ​really​ ​impact​ ​a​ ​reader​ ​and​ ​illuminate​ ​parts​ ​of​ ​their​ ​life. In​ ​response,​ ​I​ ​set​ ​about​ ​crafting​ ​this​ ​narrator.​ ​She​ ​was​ ​meant​ ​to​ ​be​ ​the​ ​center​ ​of​ ​a​ ​story portfolio​ ​in​ ​my​ ​sophomore​ ​year,​ ​one​ ​of​ ​my​ ​first​ ​where​ ​I​ ​sat​ ​down​ ​and​ ​outlined​ ​just​ ​what​ ​I​ ​might be​ ​trying​ ​to​ ​show​ ​the​ ​reader.​ ​My​ ​story​ ​had​ ​become​ ​a​ ​function​ ​of​ ​creating​ ​connection​ ​and​ ​intent, a​ ​fascinating​ ​puzzle.​ ​The​ ​narrator​ ​was​ ​a​ ​young​ ​child,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​had​ ​to​ ​pay​ ​close​ ​attention​ ​to​ ​every word​ ​she​ ​used.​ ​To​ ​convince​ ​the​ ​reader​ ​that​ ​they​ ​were,​ ​honestly,​ ​reading​ ​from​ ​a​ ​child’s​ ​point​ ​of view,​ ​everything​ ​she​ ​said​ ​or​ ​thought​ ​had​ ​to​ ​be​ ​believable.​ ​Her​ ​interactions​ ​with​ ​other​ ​children had​ ​to​ ​be​ ​realistic​ ​for​ ​children​ ​that​ ​age.​ ​Still,​ ​I​ ​had​ ​to​ ​show​ ​her​ ​story​ ​in​ ​such​ ​a​ ​way​ ​that​ ​meaning could​ ​be​ ​gained.​ ​To​ ​accomplish​ ​this,​ ​I​ ​not​ ​only​ ​worked​ ​hard​ ​on​ ​voice,​ ​but​ ​I​ ​also​ ​used​ ​symbolism for​ ​the​ ​first​ ​time,​ ​adding​ ​layers​ ​to​ ​objects​ ​or​ ​gestures​ ​in​ ​the​ ​world​ ​around​ ​her​ ​to​ ​communicate​ ​the experience​ ​she​ ​was​ ​having​ ​in​ ​a​ ​richer​ ​way. I​ ​began​ ​to​ ​love​ ​writing​ ​again​ ​when​ ​I​ ​realized​ ​that​ ​the​ ​blocks​ ​in​ ​my​ ​hands​ ​weren’t​ ​just piece​ ​of​ ​wood,​ ​but​ ​they​ ​could​ ​be​ ​arranged​ ​in​ ​specific​ ​ways​ ​to​ ​build​ ​other​ ​structures,​ ​and​ ​that those​ ​structures​ ​depended​ ​on​ ​careful​ ​placement​ ​of​ ​every​ ​piece.​ ​In​ ​my​ ​other​ ​classes,​ ​I​ ​have always​ ​loved​ ​math.​ ​In​ ​a​ ​way,​ ​I​ ​had​ ​to​ ​translate​ ​writing​ ​to​ ​more​ ​mathematical​ ​context.​ ​It​ ​doesn’t sound​ ​particularly​ ​exciting,​ ​or​ ​artsy,​ ​but​ ​writing​ ​only​ ​works​ ​for​ ​me​ ​if​ ​I​ ​see​ ​the​ ​work​ ​as​ ​a​ ​puzzle, a​ ​structure,​ ​a​ ​complex​ ​combination​ ​of​ ​separate​ ​elements.​ ​Then,​ ​I​ ​can​ ​set​ ​about​ ​solving​ ​the puzzle.​ ​Finding​ ​the​ ​best​ ​combinations.​ ​To​ ​love​ ​art,​ ​I​ ​had​ ​to​ ​take​ ​it​ ​apart,​ ​and​ ​learn​ ​to​ ​focus​ ​on​ ​the parts​ ​in​ ​my​ ​hand,​ ​rather​ ​than​ ​get​ ​distracted​ ​by​ ​the​ ​big​ ​picture. -Ana Shaw, Senior Editor-in-Chief

Towards the middle of my sophomore year, I began losing my love and need for writing. I had exhausted the typical topics I was used to writing about, written about so many things I needed to write about, and worked out so much of my internal conflicts that I was… happy. So happy I was another cliché. Being in this satisfied place, I didn’t know what was next for me so I kind of just avoided that topic altogether, for a while at least. I figured it would go away, but, of course, it did not. I still had the rest of my life ahead of me, much less the rest of the school year and there were assignments due. While I was in this stuck place, lacking addiction I once had to writing, I wrote so many awful things about being happy. That’s when I began to think, “I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I don’t know if I am capable.” It wasn’t until I wrote a poem about new-found love, ironically the least cliché thing I’d written in so long, that I regained the knowledge that I am a writer. I still did not feel like my normal, writer self, but after a talk with one of my beloved fellow writers and mentors, I made the decision to take the summer to stop, breathe, and stimulate my mind in other ways I had not; I needed the time to recharge and rediscover myself. I needed to stop over-thinking. I spent the time trying new restaurants, going to art museums, and going on long, hot hikes through nature. I did not read or write until one night I pulled out “If Only You People Could Follow Directions” By Jessica Hendry Nelson to loan to a friend. I decided to reread parts of it and sobbed in my bed for hours. Every emotion I had ever felt in my whole life came rushing back into my body and I thought about the first time I had ever read anything written by her. In the midst of self-discovery and freshman year the essay “Rapture of the Deep” was an in-class read. After that, it was like the marrow that had been sucked out of my bones was put back; I knew I was a writer. It was inside of me and there was no going back; I could never not be a writer. When I read Nelson again over the summer, it rekindled the sort of hunger we, as artist, feel in the bottom our chests to create, but also explore humanity. We are very curious human beings; we want to know. I want to know. Through my journey this far, I’ve come to realize that I can write about my situations or the things I am still struggling with in a way that is not sad or happy, but simply thoughtful. Writing does not amount to happy or sad; it amounts to the meaning of life or, what meaning you give your life. -Lex Hamilton, Co-Marketing/Social Media Editor

It was sophomore year of high school and it happened like this, I’m pouring poetry from my fingertips, filling my journal with more ideas than I can keep up with and then nothing. It just stops and suddenly it becomes painful to pick up my pen. It was the hardest year of my life, I called it “writers block” because I didn’t really know what else it could’ve been. But when the months slipped by and the motivation was still lost to me, I had the revelation that maybe the passion was gone. It seemed as though I was stuck in a pivoting black hole, not sure what I supposed to do from here and I was scared. I don’t think I’d ever been so scared. Six years of dedication wasted on something that was just going to leave without a trace, like a bad ex-boyfriend. The one you tell your grandkids about. Talking about it wasn’t an option because I didn’t fully understand what was happening myself. Not to mention the fact that no writing wants to admit they’ve lost their passion to practice their art because that in itself is a type of disgrace that’s hard to live down. Not being able to pick up my pen because of what? I just don’t have anything to say anymore. I don’t know why it happened either. It’s easy to blame it on stress, but a part of me wonders if this was my creative subconscious finding a way to tell to take a break. To stop forcing things out of myself that weren’t ready to come out yet. I wish I could sit here and describe some life altering moment as to when I finally got my passion back but the truth was, it just sort of happened. A moment I didn’t even realize was happened until I took a step back and realized I wasn’t scared anymore. I was lucky, because when this happened was when I needed it the most. Writing assignments were being handed out left and write, and there was nothing inside of me to give back and be proud of. Until that one night. It was around three am and I couldn’t sleep so I pulled out a book of old writing prompts I’d picked up from the thrift store. On and off I would pick it up hoping that one of them would spark and interest inside of me. Well, who knew a Thursday night could be so lucky. The particular prompt asked me to start each paragraph I wrote with a quote I liked. There was nothing special about this prompt, but I noticed that even though it was slow at first as I begun to write, pretty soon I couldn’t stop. I’d gotten to use to over the past few months only writing a few sentences before feeling drained. I suppose you can imagine how I felt when I looked down and noticed two pages of my journal completely filled. It was euphoric. -Sierra Lunsford, Website Editor