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When working within a publication with as long a history as Élan, it’s easy to forget how complicated and interwoven tradition is. For 30 years, this magazine has collected and judged student writing and art under the supervision of teachers and students. There have been dozens of print issues, ranging from handwritten construction-paper projects to typewriter printouts, from small wads of paper custom-printed for Extravaganza to professionally produced full-color journals. Hundreds of staff members have worked on the magazine, and thousands of authors have given their work to the custody of the advisors, the editors, and the staff members of Élan. It’s easy to forget. You work on only the most recent content, the newest poems, stories still in such rough drafts that writers will change entire plotlines when asked to. For those submitting work, it’s the same concept. Writing is new—it’s unique, it’s singular for the person creating it. Even if a long tradition of writing exists for a form or a character type or a style, the work feels like it only exists in a moment. Still, over time I realized how much my own writing had benefitted from the ideas and works of other authors—never from my contemporaries as much as from long dead authors who had been all but forgotten in the modern day. It was thinking about tradition that made me want to investigate the history and lineage of Élan. To understand my role in the publication and the role of the work we were creating, I knew I had to look to the past and see where we had come from. It started in 1986 with the first edition. Élan began as a letter-size stapled magazine, supervised by the English department with advisors that included Ms. Lynch and Mr. Lipp. Each piece was type-written and Xeroxed into the actual magazine, often with strange but eye-catching layout and almost always accompanied by illustrations, not by contributing artists but by the staff members themselves. The cover is blocky, grungy, impressively raw. The art is black and white, simple, almost primitive in its action and emotion. But the most impressive part of the first edition is the writing. One would think that writing so unpolished and unprofessional, so unguided by the structures of a formal department, would be hard to read—spiky, sharp. And one would be right—the poems often rhyme, the stories are simple, and the style overall is what one would expect from any high school, not an arts magnet. But the honesty of the writing still shows. An essay from an English class, strange as it would be in our Élan, feels like it has a place in the first edition because it was written with care and passion. Passion sums up the first Élan. It was simple, it was D.I.Y., but the people making it cared about writing. They cared so much that they started a magazine. It’s our job to continue that tradition of caring and passion—even if it feels rote and mechanical, art began and still begins in a place of creative excitement. -Jacob Dvorak, Senior Fiction Editor

Èlan Literary Magazine is celebrating its 30th Anniversary. In honor of our longevity we are posting work from our editorial staff alumnus, which includes biographies, Q&A’s, and excerpts of their pieces. How did your experience at DA influence your current artistic development? It gave me the discipline to endure as an artist in the collegiate world. It gave me a home to fondly look back on, and gave me the strength to continue writing. Trailer Park Aubade (From Èlan 2013) Last night your smile has a yellow haze of “good old days”, the sunset over the drugstore making out by the dumpster, our initials scrawled on the belly of a metal beast fed on empty beer cans. This morning Stevie lyrics bring back memories beneath barnyard cobwebs. A slow dance to the hum of moths orbiting florescent moons. You touch my hair, nibble my ear and I I shake you off an indefinite hangover. We stare out the window. A series of white trailers stand at attention like rusted submarines, and you salute then with your naked frame. A pink tricycle wheel still spins. A mutt chews Last night’s take out. A patriotic bird house with chipped paint is vacant. Poet’s Drive (Performed at the Èlan 30th Anniversary Alumni Reading) Anne Sexton says it only matters how I remember him. The man he actually was is irrelevant. Sexton curls her knees to her chest and reads Stanislavsky. She drives down Tennessee Street, a dream catcher and a rosary hanging from her rear view mirror. I drive by her in a 1987 Ford Ranger we miss each other in our hurried passing. I’m in a chapel cleaning windows. He asks me how many windows I cleaned. I mumble about the pollen. He doesn’t know about all the poets driving around in this town. How we call each other late at night from the cold side of our pillows. Instead on the couch he tells me my poetry is my music. He doesn’t know Anne Sexton is a method actor at the podium. She says by the time she is at the last line of her work she is a naked woman. Her voice becomes small and exposed. I drive away from his house blasting my actual music so the last pieces of me can bleed into his life as he closes the front door. I roll down the windows open the sun roof at night pretend there is a texture to the air in this town. There is mystery in this fluorescent neighborhood. I park my car outside my apartment. Anne is writing from my third floor bedroom. She is writing my shadow against a dimly lit ballad. I am on repeat driving him home, watching him slide out of the car almost always pulling him back. What do you wish someone had told you about the experience of being a creative writer at DA when you were a student? (Think about things you wish you’d appreciated more when you were here that you now realize brought you value). My teachers always said, “Never again will you have a community quite like this,” and they were right. And I have been a creative writing major at FSU. I hope to be in a poetry MFA program one day. But I was writing with my peers at DA (most of them) since I was eleven. We were learning to read, and write- we were forming what language and art meant to us for literally the first time. And realizing that is key, but something that doesn’t come fully until you have the perspective of leaving.

Every year, as hundreds of people flock to Douglas Anderson’s Writers’ Festival, writers and fans alike ask themselves the same question: How can I possibly see it all? The answer, unfortunately, is simple — you can’t. But part of the magic of these festivals is just that, and the pressure of choosing between two great workshops forces festival-goers to make the most out of what they’re allotted. At any given time, there will be four or more workshops covering a range of topics like developing intention, setting, humor, and more. With all the options available, it’s no surprise attendees new to the event’s structure are left at a loss for how to manage their time. What it comes down to really depends on what you’re there for. Often students flip through the pamphlet, find the workshops best tailored to what they struggle with in their own writing and go there. Getting that focused time to craft that skill is often one of the most valued elements of every good convention, and Writers’ Fest is no different. But even the most prestigious, seasoned writers enjoy writing conferences like Writers’ Fest, the AWP, and Dodge Poetry Festival because they allow for exploration and communication between creators. These writers may no longer need to hear tips on forging plot but it’s the collaboration of each writer’s process, the proximity to other creative-thinkers that draws the most out of everyone that attends. I went to my first Writers’ Fest as an over-eager sophomore just beginning to grasp the basics of the craft, so I attended lectures work shopping style, plot, and characterization. Now, I’m a senior with a clearer grasp on those things, but now as I’m figuring out how my voice should sound from the page, I’ll be at the workshops that encourage exploration of theme and identity. Whatever your goal is, following these general rules will help you get the most out of your Writers’ Fest experience: RESEARCH. I skipped this step as a sophomore, and as a result missed out on incredible workshops with Dorianne Laux and Patricia Smith, two of my favorite poets now. Learn from my mistakes. You can find a complete list of the authors on the DA Writers’ Fest website along with bios and samples of their work. Mark where you feel a connection. REFLECT & DECIDE. Think about where you are in your journey as a writer (or reader). What lessons can you benefit the most from learning? Taking into account your immediate goals and desires, compile a list of techniques you find yourself stuck or struggling in. COMPARE. If you’re lucky, the authors you were drawn to will have workshops that tie into what skills you want to develop (a list of author workshops is also on the DA website). If not, try to leverage your desires as a fan with your needs as a writer. Make a decision and stick to it. OTHER TIPS BASED ON MY MISTAKES: **Do not be afraid to attend a lecture alone! I missed the aforementioned Dorianne Laux workshops for a lecture my friend wanted to attend. I still had fun, but I walked away from it knowing I couldn’t apply what the workshop sought to teach. Similarly, if two lectures you and your friend want to attend are scheduled to happen at the same time, don’t hesitate to split ways, attend both, and compare notes later. Bottom line, working together can make or break your Writers’ Fest experience. **Writers need to make a living, too! If you meet a writer you really connect with, don’t hesitate to buy their book. Douglas Anderson will have a small store featuring all the writers’ collected publication for sale. They’ll sign it! **While I can’t speak for all our writers, most of their lectures will not involve sitting around a table helping you hammer out your third draft. Instead, bring a blank journal and pen and try something new. Take good notes! **Don’t freak out if you can’t attend every workshop on your list. Plans change; workshops get moved around, etc. Just remember to breathe and know that you’ll probably get another chance to see/hear/learn from them soon. After all, it’s supposed to be fun! -Tatiana Saleh, Community Editor

I am not someone who tends to be particularly taken by imagery in poetry. Most of the time I am excited by narrative, powerful connections, and precise word choice. Lee Ann Roripaugh does all of these, but she also has a very specific hand at crafting images that are as moving as they are beautiful. I was not expecting to be so empowered by her words, but I find myself in awe of her construction of story and description. I had not heard of Lee Ann Roripaugh until I read her bio on the Douglas Anderson's Writer’s Fest website.  I was not surprised to discover someone new who I loved through Writer’s Fest---the same happened to me my freshman year for several authors (Rick Moody, Dorianne Laux, Patricia Smith, etc.). But I am not someone who typically reads poetry for fun. It is not because I don’t enjoy poetry, but because I am not driven to consume it in the way I am driven to read fiction or nonfiction. Lee Ann Roripaugh changed that for me. Her poem, Transplanting, completely surprised me not only in its construction but in the way her images pushed me through the poem. The numbered sections were effective in the way they fit perfectly into the construction and her descriptions of her mother spoke to my own experiences (though not with the same event). I am incredibly excited to meet Lee Ann Roripaugh, but even more excited to learn from her workshop. -Zarra Marlowe, Junior Submissions Editor

Before this year’s planning for Writers’ Fest began, I’d never heard of Tom Paine. As Élan’s Junior Fiction Editor, I’m quite ashamed knowing I missed out on his work for so long. After some internet digging to find one of his short stories, I can confidently say I’m ready to attend his Writers’ Fest workshop. In addition to the excerpts found in Paine’s profile on the Writers’ Fest website, I also read a longer piece of his titled “Oppenheimer Beach.” I really enjoyed this story for its introspective and explorative narrative. The protagonist is a war photographer named Hugh, and he’s tired of life—so tired he drags his son (pulling him from a prestigious school) and wife (despite their rocky relationship) to a vacation in western India. While away from his family, Hugh runs across a young native boy who helps him look deeper into his emotional state. Immediately into the piece, the first three characters above are quickly defined. The son, Magnus, stays inside on his iPad. He’s established through dialogue as someone who can’t relate well to his father, rambling lines like, “If he sees me use it on some of his nature, if he sees what it can do even out here, then maybe he’ll want to try it, and we can use it together on our trip. I just think he needs to see it work on what he likes, like a local tree or unusual bird or something...” Hugh’s wife, Alfhild, is also shown as a contrast with her laid-back parenting approach and naked yoga stretches. Through dialogue, it’s revealed that her and Hugh’s marriage is falling apart: “I get that you have foolishly burned all your bridges and given up your photojournalism career... And I get that in six months or less, having completed this forced ‘end of the world let our child see it for the last time odyssey,’ we’ll return completely broke to New York, Magnus will be a year behind in his studies, we will probably divorce, and I will find a wealthy new lover, younger perhaps and more limber, who likes to play computer games with my son, and doesn’t walk around drowning in guilt...” Hugh himself is the most complex, with his vacation-decision and overall disconnect towards his family. He’s obviously wound up with repressed emotions, relying heavily on beers and joints to pass the days by. He’s further defined by Oppie, the native Rastafarian boy. It says a lot when their interactions are more natural and equal compared to Hugh and Magnus’s. Oppie is essentially a foil, but even he is characterized with motivations and experiences: “You can tell everything about a person by how they respond to looking into the black eye of a squid, or how the squid respond to them.” “Oppenheimer Beach” is so well-crafted in the way character relationships and deeper concepts are established through minute details that pile up on each other. Everything in the story matters, from the ambiguity of Oppie’s true family to the fate of Hugh’s marriage. Even the ending itself doesn’t resolve much, but stands as a symbolic representation of Oppie’s closeness with a reef, away from tourist-tainted land. -Seth Gozar, Junior Fiction Editor

There are some authors who are committed to only one genre, meaning that they live and breathe that genre and any other type of literature is beautiful to read but too scary to write. I assure you that Rilla Askew is not one of them. Raised in northeastern Oklahoma, Rilla draws on the rural setting she was surrounded by in her childhood, as well as her birthplace, the San Bois Mountains; even though she didn’t spend much time there. The essay that blossomed my love for her work, The Tornado that Hit Boggy, is cemented in not only her roots, but also the people and town that collectively raised her. The essay describes the tornado that hit Boggy, Oklahoma and her family. Rilla wasn’t born at that time but the stories she’d been told by family members were engraved in her brain, like the devastated path the tornado left behind as it danced up the mountain to get to their small town. She tells of her aunt who survived but was left with scars and emotional trauma that was evident in her reaction to a dark sky (“Oooooh, I’m scared of storms”) no matter if a storm was forecasted or not. Yet, even Rilla knew that her recount of the tragedy was only possible because of people like her Aunt Sissy and Eula, exemplified in a line from the essay featured in the TriQuarterly, “From her I learned that it’s sensory details that paint the picture, and also that one needn’t be present to bear witness—it’s enough to have heard the story told vividly from the living witness’s mouth.” Rilla Askew’s mastery doesn’t stop at personal essays. Her proficiency also transcends into the world of fiction, which can be seen in her plethora of recognitions like the American Book Award and The O. Henry Awards. One of her books, Harpsong, is an example of how she can take real events and integrate fictional characters that seem so real to the reader. The atypical love story follows two homeless people in love. Harlan, a harmonica player and Sharon, his fourteen-year-old wife, force their way across the Great Plains in the Great Depression-era. The novel is nothing short of unexpected, but exactly what you’d want and expect from a writer as complex and impressive as Rilla Askew. I’ve always had trouble writing stories that take place in Florida, where I was born and raised, but she makes it appear to be effortless yet interesting. It’s been said that there is an element of fiction hidden in all truth and an element of truth in all fiction. This is no different than scraping the build-up of grime that sticks to a dirty pan. It takes getting beneath each layer to get to the bottom, to get to the truth, or maybe to get to just another story. I never really understood what that meant until I came into contact with Rilla Askew and her personal essays and works of fiction. I’m so excited to meet her at Douglas Anderson’s Writer’s Festival this year. In the aforementioned essay she says, “I’ve tried writing it in fiction, but the story won’t bend for me. The details are too fixed, the story at once too confined and too large… Writing fiction, I can intuit how many details are just enough. I can change them. But when the story is true, I can’t seem to find which of the complications to leave out.” I’ve learned that some truths are ours to turn into stories for others, but some truths need to just be told and shared as the truth. -Chelsea Ashley, Junior Website Editor

The theme of racial identity has been frequenting my writing as of late. Being biracial half-Mexican and half white, I have gone exploring my heritage in both my poetry and fiction. Of course there many joys in being of mixed race, such as having the opportunity to claim and celebrate both cultures. However, for me a sense of inadequacy always resurfaced, that is concerning my inability to satisfy a certain racial identity. With that there sometimes came the alienation, feeling out of place, and as though I belonged to neither parent’s side. One of the many poets coming to Douglas Anderson Writers’ Festival is Lee Ann Roripaugh who explores this theme. This confusion, and hurt is peppered throughout her work but especially prominent in the poems Snake Song and Transplanting. When I read these poems I thought of my own struggle with claiming my father’s identity. There were times I was insulted and openly made fun of by Spanish speaking strangers at my hesitant use of the language. Several times I drifted apart from that crowd frustrated, embarrassed, and trying to create distance between myself and my father’s culture. Likewise in Roripaugh’s image driven poem Snake Song she captures rather perfectly being torn between two identities, and struggling to navigate both through the metaphor of the snake, and her birth. Here she especially targets how she communicates through both English and Japanese. “I was born in the year of the snake and maybe this is why I speak with a forked tongue. …when I open my mouth to talk, a strange song, not mine, comes tumbling out. Ai-noko, half-caste, I tilt my head in the mirror first this way then that–Horikoshi cheekbones, Caucasian nose, my ojii-san’s serious eyebrows feathering like ink strokes … My blood runs hot and cold.” In her poem Transplanting Roripaugh plays more subtlety with her isolation, and estrangement.  In this poem she talks of how her sneeze is different from her mother’s and the unexpected distance and criticism that breeds. Sneeze My mother sneezes in Japanese. Ké-sho! An exclamation of surprise—two sharp crisp syllables … Sometimes, when ragweed blooms, I wonder why her sneeze isn’t mine, why something so involuntary, so deeply rooted in the seed of speech, breaks free from my mouth like thistle in a stiff breeze, in a language other than my mother’s tongue. How do you chart the diaspora of a sneeze? I don’t know how you turned out this way, she always tells me,” After reading these poems, I was in awe of Roripaugh’s approach to such a highly personal subject. Indeed, reading it gave me flashbacks of my own experiences and my own questioning and confusion. Yet she can’t help but touch on the importance and beauty of Japanese culture to her identity. In my own life I’ve made peace with my Mexican identity, and Caucasian identity like Roripaugh.  I’ve realized they are both an enormous part of me, one I have to learn and love on my own terms, despite what others say. Inasmuch, I’m excited to attend her workshop at Writers’ Festival, and glean some inspiration and technique to further my exploration of identity and culture. -Aracely Medina, Senior Poetry Editor

Key is excellent at producing a smile or one of those laughs that slip out unexpectedly. His work has that quality to it that grandparents, or an older relative contains in which you want to know everything about their words and their stories, and that essence is especially strong in his memoir: The World’s Largest Man. Within his memoir, Key recalls growing up with family from the Mississippi and breathing in Memphis—and all the unusual characters that make up his life. He shows us his “questionable” family make-up and his ponderings regarding if the universe had gotten everything wrong and he actually belonged to a different family. It’s relatable, yet the fictional progression of the story leaves you yearning to know about Key’s particular set of circumstances. Creative nonfiction is an overlooked medium of writing, though Key has made me appreciate the form again. I’ve recently gone back to my fiction roots, and I’m learning new elements to the craft and I adore how much of it is intertwined in Key’s work. I knew that creative non-fiction and memoirs could be compelling when done right, and Key has me itching to write some of my own childhood memories and left me wondering what’s going to happen in my future that I can painfully and comically write down. I only was able to read excerpts of The World’s Greatest Man and I’m completely surprised at how it has changed my perspective and sparked an interest in type of writing I thought I didn’t need. That’s what writing is supposed to do though. I constantly forget that the written word can change your perspective which is something funny and “shocking” to say, considering I am a well, writer. But I think that when I do have these realizations I’m once again amazed and I fall in love with writing and I can be in awe of its magnitude. I am so happy I got to experience, even if just a taste, of Key’s work. The diction itself is enough to keep one compelled. There’s a bluntness in the words, as well as a child like wish to know more tangled in with that slight dissatisfaction and fondness of life. It’s complex, even within the first few pages. The specificity of the details drive the memoir forward, as if Key was trying to grasp every piece of his memories to make them as cohesive and beautiful as possible. I think that I also try to achieve a similar voice within my own work as Key and that’s what drew me in deeper to his own story. Even into the acknowledgments page, the voice there is in ways who I saw before and very, truthful, and it’s poetic too. I think in our heads, there are specific genres and it’s hard to see the elements of others mixed up in it but it makes me so happy I perused writing because it’s a constantly discovery playground. Key has the wit and cleverness to make anyone turn up the corners of their mouth, it’s bound to happen and it cannot be denied and it’s so perfect to know that in every way that someone can still do that to you when you’re wrapped up in the mundane aspects of life. -Kiara Ivey, Junior Layout Editor

In poetry class my Junior year, we recited poems we found intriguing or moving in order to practice our oral interpretation skills and bring us closer to the work of other poets. Before I knew who Jamaal May was or heard he would be attending Douglas Anderson’s Writer’s Festival, I recited his piece "There are Birds Here," a piece of his which is dedicated to Detroit. Previously, I read it as a jab to critics who tried to put symbolism and emphasis into every poem they read, but today, understanding who he is as a writer, I see it as him asking people not to sugarcoat what is real and true. This piece connects to his other work, where he writes to show what he sees as true and does not attempt to hide it under any circumstance. In every piece he builds up cohesive images and ideas until the final sentence where he adds something impactful, something you didn’t expect when reading about a boy whacking fireflies with a stick. In poems like "Hum for the Hammer," there is a more industrial focus that involves more tactile imagery like in the line, "May sandpaper be the rough hand that rubs you smooth," and still captures this human feeling as naturally as his childhood and community-centered poems. Upon reading more of Jamaal May’s work, I’ve also come to admire how he can bend a narrative into poetic format. As a writer who leans more towards the fiction genre, creating poems focused on single emotions or moments without full flourishing sentences and thoughts is extremely challenging. Yet May manages to pull off this poetic vibe even when there are long sentences, like in his piece "On Metal," published through Gulf Coast Journal. Despite there being a whole narrative focus, there are still poetic elements, abstract ideas, a meaning that could only be provided through the poetic format he gives it. Balancing between gritty textures and light or sometimes religious imagery, Jamaal creates statement pieces about the state of the world he grew up in and the one he lives in now, including both man, machine, and sometimes even God. His narrative pieces remind us as both writers and readers that there are no limitations in poetry and the poets that show us that are the ones that we should look forward to seeing again and again. -McKenna Flanagan, Senior Art Editor

In light of the Douglas Anderson Writer’s Festival approaching within the next month, I decided to take time to get to know some of the featured authors before working with them. Janice Eidus in particular stood out to me. She specializes in fiction, but has also written essays. In The Wanderer, an essay published in the New York Times that deeply explores the directions her life has gone up until now, she illustrates how shifts in her environment from her youth into adulthood fluidly, unraveled the milestones in her life and sparked endless imagination of her future, which continued beyond the end of the essay, off the page—as all of our stories do. Even before plunging alongside her into this moving world of crumbling staircases, alcoves, and music on rooftops, when I felt I knew her at least on the surface as an “honorary Jewish Puertorriqueña,” I found her fascinating. She was raised in the Gun Hill projects of the northeast Bronx, where she and her friends devoted themselves to the promise of an education, as well as the toughness of the streets. After college, she sought the Bohemian lifestyle which would infatuate her for years to come. I could see from the beginning how influenced she was by her surroundings, and realized the truth this holds for everyone, especially myself. I’ve mapped the universe around my neighborhood throughout my childhood, connecting it to the roads that trail out from my home in all directions, as if this minuscule slice of my city is right smack in the center of everything. I’ve caught myself carrying out internal monologues in the lyrical British of my best friend, whose accent molds seamlessly into her words and occasionally slips into her questions. I’ve spent long nights huddled on the floor of my bathroom, like Eidus when the walls of her studio apartment in Hell’s Kitchen proved too small, to sit with myself a while and breathe. As childhood friends vanished and a life-long love from a noisy walk-up on the Bowery appeared, Eidus saw more shifts. She named a new building her home, occupied with dancers and musicians and a woman who mothered her cats among other hobbies. She moved upstate and eventually found her way back to Manhattan. Unlike her, I’ve remained rooted in the same spot since birth. My parents bought our simple stucco home with a baby in mind, and while much of it has changed, the carpet is worn with wisdom and wandering feet like paws kneading on old pillows. Being so grounded, I’ve become significantly blurred by the present and its quick movement. It’s left me with little head space to dream of my future. But Eidus reminded me that dreaming is necessary and inevitable. So is the aimless wandering that is required of life’s destinations. I see them as plot points on a map, each preparing feverishly in a sort of time lapse for the moment you will reach them. She hopes for a stroll along the Promenade and an afternoon on the playground with her daughter, as I do for a sunroom cluttered with monstrous canvases and books. Her words encourage me to watch my present, the gasping whirlwind, with eyefuls of dreams and hope. She encourages me to peer out from the palm trees to the vast expanse of rooftops and mountains, and to wander there. -Alexis Williams, Junior Editor-in-Chief

One writer of Douglas Anderson Writers’ Festival 2016 who I cannot wait to meet is Harrison Scott Key. He has been published in an array of magazines, my personal favorite being McSweeney’s, and writes about what often feels like personal memories through a view of both nostalgia and hilarity. When studying hardcore literature, it is easy to forget the value of humor writing. Key’s work brings both literary value and laughs into the same world. For example, his piece “Fifty Shades of Greyhound” depicts the unsightly experience of riding a bus across the states in a way that is both creatively descriptive and hilarious. An example of this blend can be found in the following line: “It was his hair, though, that was most worthy of note, for his large sunburned head was home to two quite opposing hairstyles: the front hemisphere shorn to stubble, the rear running wild in thick fields of ripe, silvery wheat, the two halves divided by a perfect prime meridian of barbering, as though he had jumped from the barber’s chair mid-haircut, having been alerted of more denim in the area.” The word choice “alerted” is already enough to make me laugh pretty hard, but when combined with the preceding image, I felt like I was choking in a jovial fashion. I have shared the works of Mr. Key more than the works of any other writer, because while you normally have to match up someone’s personal interests with the works you recommend to them, everyone likes to laugh. I have even shared his works with some of my family. If you know me, you also know that I do not share anything with my family. The only work they see from me is the stuff that gets published, and even then I tend to stay quiet. But I couldn’t sleep on the works of Mr. Key. I immediately showed his piece “The Wishbone” to my father, who thought the piece was “pretty damn funny.” Still, the most instrumental thing toward my love of Mr. Key was my first impression of the writer. The first thing that I saw pertaining to Mr. Key was his profile picture on the Writers’ Festival website. (Upon later inspection, I would realize that this picture also takes up a majority of the home screen on his personal website.) The picture shows him holding a book and whispering into the ear of a massive animal, which is mounted to a wall and wearing a cool hat. The animal could be some sort of mutated cow, pertaining to his account of cows in the piece “The Imaginary Farm.” Regardless of exactly what the each component of the picture refers to, the picture is what first made me fall in love with this writer. I can trust a man who talks to taxidermy projects. -Logan Monds, Junior Social Media Editor

A few years ago I discovered the poet, Jamaal May doing a spoken word piece on Button Poetry, which I recommend checking out, "Movements of a Trapped Animal." I instantly became drawn to the rawness and honesty he achieves in the poem and knew that was something I wanted to achieve in my own writing. Hearing that he was coming to Writers Fest on March 5th was incredibly exciting and I really can’t wait to meet him and be able to learn from someone who has achieved the art of being able to do spoken word and write poetry really well while also keeping them in very separate worlds. He started out being better known for his slam poetry, being a member of six national slam teams, most from Detroit where he grew up and one from New York. He has won the Rustbelt Regional Slam three times and has been a finalist for many national and international slams. When I first heard his piece, "Movements of a Trapped Animal," I was just flipping through Button Poetry on YouTube. Listening to spoken word pieces is one of my favorite past times. I almost skipped past it because I assumed it was going to be about hunting or trapping and that didn’t exactly appeal to me, but I listened anyways. His presence on stage immediately eases you into the piece, welcomes you. He is comfortable and it allows you to fall whole heartedly into the piece, something many spoken word artists still work at achieving, something I still work at achieving. His purposeful hand gestures, full voice, inflection, and well-placed pauses force you to listen as he takes you on the journey of PTSD in Americans, not just war veterans, but everyone. Also on Button Poetry is his piece, "Sky Now Black with Birds," which he performs in his hometown Detroit at the Rustbelt Regional Slam. He walks us through the feelings of grief and the anger that comes with it and the eventual acceptance that one needs to forgive. "Forgive. I swear, the word has feathers. I want to learn to get its wings between my teeth before more retribution blots out the sky." I ordered his poetry collection, "Hum," online. It was the first thing I had read and enjoyed in a long time because it was something I was genuinely interested in. It wasn’t an assignment or anything, I read it because I wanted to. I want to be able to walk up to him at Writers Festival and tell him his poetry has made a difference in my poetry. I will also be able to tell him that I’ve spent the time I should have spent writing, reading and listening to his work. I hope he takes that as a compliment. -Madison Dorsey, Junior Poetry Editor