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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

As a child, without even realizing it, I grew up to find that writing was my passion. It started by writing small stories in class to having a small journal, to later auditioning to Douglas Anderson my freshmen year. I never personally had my work ever checked, so I went out on a limb by going by my own terms. When I auditioned I later found out that I did not get accepted, and when someone gets rejected because of his or her writing, it puts a lot of negative thoughts into their head. I lost in touch with my inner voice and my writing, because I lost the confidence that I had in the first place. My work never being judged, the first time hurts. I always thought “man this is it, there’s no point anymore,” but as freshmen year started to go by, I still found myself making notes on random pieces of paper. Usually it was little poems, and sometimes it’d turn into stories. That’s when I realized that this is what I want to do, and this is the way I stay in contact with my emotions. I was never the kid to tell someone how they felt because I always felt that I did not have a strong voice to make a statement, but in my writing I did. I remember clearly that I got made fun of for having a journal or being into books. And I find that funny because as years went by, now it’s “different”. Again over time, when I entered sophomore year for this school, that’s when it really hit me. I’m not trying to sound like a typical student that says, “oh, it changed my life,” because I did the changing but having classes that finally explored more regions for me, helped. I started to view things more creatively and studying more people on the way they behave. Ideas for writers spark anywhere, and for me it was; think different, write different. I'm glad that I did not give up on it. I experience a lot of emotions with detachment and hurt; with writing that’s how I stay sane. I take what I know and how I feel, and turn it into a piece that I know when I grow older, I will look back at. A writer can have their times where they leave their writing, but it’s in our blood. It controls every aspect in our life, and that’s what makes us different. -Elma Dedic, Co-Marketing/Social Media Editor

Almost mid-way through my sophomore year, I just lost writing. I felt no want or even a need to write and the work that I was producing I didn’t care about. Having lost this practically innate feeling that had always been a part of me was strange and I wasn’t sure what I was doing wrong. Can there be a wrong way of writing? At this time, in our creative writing class our teacher, Ms. Bundy, had us studying Magical Realism, which I didn’t really like anyways, so I blamed my not-so-enthusiastic attitude towards writing on the fact that I just couldn’t write Magical Realism. It was denial in its finest form. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write, but that I just couldn’t. Or this is what I told myself. At this time, my life was the epitome of a teenage movie. I bathed in my teen angst. Writing seemed trivial in comparison to everything else happening because it seemed like everything was happening to me and I had no way to stop any of it. In the spare time I could wedge into my day, I used to write. I carried my journal with me everywhere I went. And now, my journal laid haphazardly in the space between my desk and my bed, mocking me, so I hid it underneath schoolwork and that was my new excuse; I was too busy with school to write more than I already had to. I kept coming up with different excuses to defend the fact that I just could not stand writing. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. Writing became a chore. I watched episodes Criminal Minds, instead of revising a story or a poem, and I saw no problem in this. I went on like this through a good portion of the second quarter because it was fine. Ms. Bundy didn’t comment on how my pieces were lackluster or the fact that my notes turned into chicken scratch. It wasn’t really until winter break when I realized how much I missed the act of writing. I missed having the drive to want to sit down and write anything whether it be amazing or absolutely horrendous. Winter break meant that I had an excessive amount of time on my hands. With winter break came a tsunami of various emotions, ranging from joy to desperation to anger. I felt heavy from everything I wasn’t writing. So, I forced myself to journal. Every day, I made myself sit down and write. It didn’t matter what I wrote as long as I was writing. Honestly, it was a chore and I loathed it, but I still did it. I still sat down with my journal and wrote. Slowly, it began to feel familiar, less mechanical. I felt light again. I had to learn how to love writing again. Winter break ended and I worried that I would fall into the same habit of creating excuses to not write and slide back into the same funk I was in. I refused to make writing my New Year’s resolution because no one ever commits to those and I needed to commit to writing. Making time for writing is hard and I don’t write every single day and I wish I could say that I did, but that’s not how it is. For me, writing is a way to take a weight off of myself and put it onto paper. If I could weigh my journal, it would weigh 2000 pounds. There are nights where I choose writing over sleeping because I know I cannot carry that weight anymore, which is okay. Writing is a matter of making life easier because that is the only way I know how to. -Winnie Blay, Junior Managing Editor/Submissions

To be a writer does not mean that that piece of you is always going to be accessible. Sometimes, you can go weeks or months without feeling the need to put anything of value into this outlet. Often times, it is a certain circumstance that takes this fire from you. Ironically, this becomes a cause of misery that works as fuel to start back up again on the individual’s journey as a writer. Personally, the experience that made me temporarily quit writing was when I got my first speeding ticket. It was not the ticket that really took my motivation, but the fact that this fine resulted in me losing my car for several weeks. In addition to this, I had to work to gain the funds to pay for it. Without this transportation, I realized how much freedom I didn’t have before I gained my license. This confinement resulted in me remaining indoors, wasting my time with sitcoms and the drawn out plots of video games. While this may sound like a pleasurable alternative to leaving the house, as it usually is, it quickly became lonely when none of my friends could be reached through anything other than text and the occasional phone call. I lost my motivation to try to do anything. It seemed that with my loss of freedom came the loss of responsibility and admiration for the kind of life I was on the path to living. As I noticed more frequently how far behind I was on the lives of those I once cared about, I decided something would have to change. I found the old bike that I had once been closely acquainted with before the introduction of a car. The wheels weren’t deflated yet so I kept riding north until they gave out to the sand they met. I seemed to have forgotten how close the beach was to where I once lived. By this time, it was nearing sunset and the sky lowered its eyes to cast shades of violet, grey, and pink along the thin space between the sea and the sky. I sat beneath an abandoned life guard chair as people left the spectacle of the shore behind. I remained stagnant, moving the sand gently over and under my toes thoughtfully. As dramatic as it sounds, I felt so filled and peaceful then that it only felt appropriate to pull out the notebook that followed me everywhere and its accompanying pencil; I had to write. Though what I wrote wasn’t anything incredibly eloquent or beautiful, it was enough to make me feel as if I had rejoined the untied ends of my disconnected attention together. From there, I suddenly began to turn back to my methods of using writing as a form of release. This practice allowed me to gain peace with myself and my decisions. As an appropriate accompaniment to this rejuvenation, the next week was the beginning of school. The reconnection with my friends and a well-planned schedule made it much easier to remain consistent with the art I practiced and how often I produced it. Since I have begun again, I feel as if I am reconnecting with an old friend. Though I am behind, I am confident that writing is something that will follow me through everything, despite its ebbs and flows. In my experience, it is the most underappreciated foundation of the human temple. I hope to one day not neglect this pillar as often as I have, as I clearly see that this practice only truly has a positive impact on the life of the writer and, if the writer is successful, the reader. -Kathryn Wallis, Junior Art Editor

I remember at any social event; my mother would tell everyone I had my own imaginary friend. This made me feel stupid of course, shy even to get to know people. At such a young age I created a bubble, separating the outside world from my own imaginations and desires. My mother thought my imaginary friend was something I could see and hold on to. I never considered this imaginative being a physical entity or a way to escape my social encounters. It never had a name either. I communicated with my imaginary friend in the form of little sentences in a glittery journal I got for Christmas because I was too nervous to speak. Always confused with Spanish and English language, I was scared to mess up in front of my friends. I didn’t want them making fun of me for not knowing English. I spent up until fourth grade with speech difficulties and I resorted to writing my conversations down to pass my classes. I fell in love with writing as a form of communication first and then it just disappeared. At the end of my childhood and especially during late stages of my preteen years, I was mad at writing. In the sense that I was betrayed, writing left me for a while. Like an old friend, writing just moved on from me and it left me feeling extremely bitter. My family was going through financial difficulties and I was still confused about my growing body. I’d thought about what I wanted to say when writing came back. “Hey um, you pretty much left me at my lowest point in life. Thanks, I hate you”. At that age, I told myself that writing left me, like it was something it could ever leave. I was defensive. I left writing. After my trip to Colombia for a summer, I had recurring night terrors of not being able to speak. One morning I woke up to a dream that a man from Bogota removed my eyes as I was walking down the street. My experience in a third world country made me realize my fortune in the United States. The hot water, the air conditioning, the equality. I never realized how free I actually was. My dreams of Colombia’s brutality pushed me to write until the sun rose, and if I was tired, I slept in a closet where no one could see me. Instead of being afraid to speak, I was afraid to step outside. I wrote long poems, poems that had two lines, and poems that tasted like hot dogs they sold after church. I wrote when I told my grandmother I hated her in front of a mountain that stretched all the way to Venezuela. Sometimes I painted with my neighbors when there wasn’t any money for paper. It was the strangest feeling when my old friend came back. We were both familiar with each other and it was almost like we picked up right where we left off. I was still bitter at my old friend but I never stopped coming back for more. Today I realized that I am addicted to writing, addicted to communicating how I feel on paper. The only way I got over my fear of speaking was to write about being afraid. -Evelyn Alfonso, Poetry Editor