Search Results

When I was a high school freshman, I came to the Douglas Anderson Writers’ Festival with pens packed in my pockets. With each step I took, the paper from my empty notebook clashed against my fingers. I remember rubbing my eyes because the night before I stayed up and re-read each author's bio over and over, re-read pieces I already analyzed because how could one choose a workshop to attend with such an abundance of good writers? I remember being beyond eager to take a “real” workshop from published writers and college professors. Schedule in hand, I had messed up the times and ended up in a poetry workshop. I thought to myself, “Poetry. Yeah, right. The only thing I can do is write nonfiction.” My palms sweat, my stomach clenching, I sat down. This wasn’t any poetry workshop; this was the workshop of Patricia Smith, the woman who could make Hurricane Katrina beautiful, all through fresh lines packed with imagery and diction. Ms. Smith stood at the podium moving the hair out of her face. What I didn’t know at the time was that she was going to ask me to write the most difficult exercise I had ever done. To write a poem where the person you have had a difficult relationship with is dead in an empty room, laying on a marble slab, and you had to dress them. For starters, at this point in my life I had never written a poem I was proud of, or even considered writing something this complex. Ms. Smith just kept telling us, all we had to do was try. By the end, I had dressed my father in an Armani suit and leather loafers. Towards the end of the workshop, a couple of people shared what they had written, a couple of people cried. I didn’t write a great poem, or something that would make anyone cry, but I did write something real, something packed with emotion, and thoughtful decisions on why I chose the words I did. After the workshop I bought Patricia Smith’s book Blood Dazzler, and fell in love with the way her poems made me feel. She signed my book and, as I write this now, I look at it and am still as inspired as I was that day to become a poet. It reads: “Mary, I hope you find light here.” I realized that it wasn’t poetry I was afraid of; I was afraid of the journey poetry would take me on. Two years later, with several portfolios of poetry I am proud to say I have written, I look back on that day and am thankful for the exposure it gave me, as well as the inspiration. With the 2016 Douglas Anderson Writers’ Festival line up full of amazing writers, I anyone who attends can have the same experience I did, if they just try. You too can find light here. - Mary Feimi, Junior Editor-in-Chief

When I first ordered The Cage Keeper by Andre Dubus III, I wasn’t expecting what appeared on the first page. With a title such as this one, I expected the book to be a linear set of stories about human trials and tribulation. The book opens with a short story called “The Cage Keeper,” which I assumed would be a tale of finding a heart for criminals who were misinterpreted and prejudged. However, I was taken for a complex journey encompassing human interaction, violence, sorrow, loneliness, and desire. Dubus has a gift for crafting short stories that embody multiple themes without crowding the piece. As an aspiring writer, I enjoy when an author has the ability to open a story and instantly put you into a setting or character mentality. Since Dubus uses strong, authentic imagery, I was fascinated to see this didn’t affect the pacing in a negative way. In my own writing, I typically have a challenge with adding imagery that adds to both pacing and theme. I admire the fact that he could utilize extended metaphors and symbolism to explain such dark and uncomfortable themes. He also uses flashbacks to expand on how or why a character has been placed into bizarre situations when you first start reading the piece. It adds depth and engagement to characters you may have assumed were simply protagonists or antagonists. Another thing that interests me about Dubus is that his short stories are long, but still keep you invested through the dynamics of the characters he creates. I haven’t come across a character in his stories that is cliché or unforgettable, which is something I’m also attempting to work on as a writer. In the short stories “Mountains” and “The Cage Keeper,” first person narration is used. First person narration is usually a risky point of view to use since it can make your story sound cliché or overtly limited to the perspective of one character. However, in both short stories, this perspective guides the reader through the plot of the story and helps the reader care about every character in the story. In fact, I don’t know that these pieces would have worked in any other point of view since second person would have felt too inclusive, and third person would have felt distant and absurd. First person added a humorous take on the daunting situation of being held hostage in “The Cage Keeper,” and made you laugh even though you knew how serious and dangerous the situation actually was. Ultimately, I applaud Dubus for the risks he incorporates in his writing. His writing is fluent with societal issues that many of us refuse to acknowledge or act on out of our own fears and guilt. As a reader you become challenged to think about the “what if’s” that are presented in his pieces, whether they are what society deems good or bad. I’m ecstatic to workshop with him during Writers’ Festival and learn about his writing process, how he creates characters that are both engaging and thought provoking. During senior fiction, I wrote a portfolio from first person narration in hopes of stimulating the reader to engage alongside the character instead of as an observer or a character themselves. I hoped to mimic Dubus’s style of engaging the reader from the first minimal character description that he typically utilizes to set a tone for the story. I was surprised by the results, and anticipate that it’ll be fun learning how to perfect this craft even more. -Christina Sumpter, Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor

I’ve always taken change in my life as signals for new beginnings. Just recently, I switched from Junior Poetry to Junior Fiction. At first, I was wary. How dare this get in the way of my poetry! Where shall I get my critiques and inspiration now? Ew, fiction. At the beginning of junior year, I held the same mindset towards Junior Poetry. I thought, how dare this get in the way of my fiction! Where shall I get my inspiration now? Ew, poetry. You see, I ended sophomore year with poetry, and I wanted a chance to revisit fiction after half a year. I knew I was rusty with fiction, which is why I was eager to come back to it. To me, my poetry was fine enough. Oh, how wrong I was. It took one day of Junior Poetry to revitalize me. One class period, one homework assignment, and one talented teacher for me to say, “Yes, poetry!” I was immersed. I shaped my poetry into a narrative style, and improved my skills on descriptive implication and developing speakers and settings. I gave and received critiques, and actually enjoyed the process. Lessons further tightened my grasp on poetic forms and structures, and I had plenty of opportunities to try out my brand new knowledge. So of course, I came to my senses after a few minutes. Fiction will offer the same enlightenment that Junior Poetry did. I have an equally-talented teacher, and lessons which are just as useful waiting for me. Soon I’ll write fiction portfolios and develop my dialogue skills, and practice on interweaving setting, plot, and character. I’m ready to switch gears, but that doesn’t mean my poetic skills will languish for the rest of the year. -Seth Gozar, Junior Fiction Editor

It’s the beginning of the new year and that means we at Elan have begun our preparations for the Douglas Anderson Writers’ Festival. We’ve been collecting excerpts from our distinguished guest writers and posting these with their biographies on the Festival website, dawritersfest.com. All of the reading I’ve been doing for the Festival excites me, as it does all of my peers, all of my teachers. Reading the work of a new writer is always exciting, but it’s even more exciting when you know that the writer is coming to your school and reading the same pieces to you, discussing how they were written and how you can write better. It reminds us that the Writers’ Festival is part of a great tradition that generations of Creative Writers have taken part in. Margaret Atwood, Joyce Carol-Oates, Billy Collins, and Richard Ford have all been keynote speakers in past festivals, and now we have the privilege to hear from more amazing writers. For the first time in Festival history, we have two keynote speakers—the nationally recognized educator and novelist Ron Carlson and President Obama’s own inaugural poet, Richard Blanco. We’ve entered a new era of the Festival, where we’re big enough to expand the stage for speakers. I am reaching the end of my time at DA, but I am able to be part of the Writers’ Festival this one time, and being part of its beginning is almost enough to make up for the pain of leaving it all behind. -Jacob Dvorak, Senior Fiction Editor

Shifting into this awkward phase where I’m beginning to think about adult things like constantly being aware of money, yet I still laugh about the scribbling in the bathroom stalls is torture. I mean, that sounds really angsty, but it really is. I’m really disappointed nobody told me that all those high school movies are completely inaccurate, like me looking twenty seven at sixteen and definitely having my license by now (I don’t even have my permit). It’s reassuring as all my peers are going through the same thing too, the constant emails from all these colleges and the mail from universities I’ll never be able to even imagine paying for. Then there’s the part where I get to laugh with them about dorm life and dating all over campus and no parents! And then sometimes there’s those moments where I can’t help but feel absolutely alone when I’m looking at SAT and ACT registrations and when I’m wishing that my PSAT score was a little higher to offer some form of reconciliation. Mom of course says it’s natural to have these fears and I’ll get through it but constantly drowning (or more so flailing in open waters). Sometimes a boat will come by, offer help, and sometimes I’m an idiot and say no, and watch the boat fly off across the sea into the horizon. Sometimes boats ignore me, and then every now and again a boat stops and I’m not stupid and climb on. It’s strange planning campus tour dates and taking virtual tours of dorms, trying to decide the rest of my life. I know all adults are like: you still have time, but cut the crap, we really don’t. It’s like, college is probably going to be some of the best moments of my life, but if I mess it up, then it’s a huge blight looming over my life and you can’t get re-dos, just, I’ll try to clean up the mess. I’m just hoping I’ll get some awesome scholarships, and maybe a school will really want me to come to their school and debt won’t be a problem. I just want to get a job I love and pays amazing, but doesn’t everyone want that? Well, some people don’t but most people want that, and it’s in the form of that false American Dream or whatever people want to call it. But maybe, this end to my childhood, isn’t the end of me. -Kiara Ivey, Junior Layout & Design Editor

As I lay curled up in an armchair reading Richard Blanco’s third book Looking for the Gulf Motel, I was struck by his diversity and approach. In my personal life, when my writing suddenly shifted towards interactions with my father and references to Mexican culture- I housed a fear that I would be pigeon holed. Surely no one wanted to read ten poems all dealing with my father, and italicized Spanish words. However, words like chiles and tortilla popped up again and again, along with whole lines of dialogue in Spanish. Somehow,- it wasn’t enough, just to talk about my father and discovering culture. There had to be something else, a layer or theme hiding from me I hadn’t explored yet. Blanco poetry showed me just that. Knowing he was a Cuban writer, I expected unbridled praise for his culture, imagery upon imagery of joyous family gatherings, and ethnic dishes. It wasn’t quite what I imagined. Reading the poem for which the book is named, I realized there was so many other layers to exploring culture. In the poem he touches on the intricacies of poverty, shame and trying to exist in a society that is not completely forgiving. Amidst this, he celebrates, he creates the true immigrant experience of being out casted, a pariah, and in that humility rebuilding pride, but accepting the weight of practicing culture in different country. Blanco also explores how his sexuality relates to his culture. He does this in a poem about his grandmother suspecting he was gay, and what the cultural implications of that were. Knowing how the LGBT community is viewed from the traditional Hispanic lens, I felt for him. More than that, Blanco taught me that even though culture can be beautiful, and rich, you can walk the line of being an in-between, you can criticize it, and be fond of it. Most recently, with this nugget of knowledge, I’ve been exploring the difficulties of having mixed heritage, being Irish American on my mother’s side and Mexican’s on my fathers. For a long time I suppressed this desire to voice this confusion. Now I see I can, I have permission to celebrate, and express my identity and its intricacies. -Aracely Medina, Senior Poetry Editor

Man is not only made of skin, flesh and bones, but also of personal history. What influences someone to grow and shape himself or herself into the person they wish to be, is heavily affected by their experiences. Each of us has a story, some tragic and emotional, some simple, all equally as impactful. At the start of my teenage years, when I became far more aware of the world around me, I began to recognize the emotional depths of people, specifically my father. As a kid, seeing him upset always registered as something temporary, something he could mend with a good night’s sleep, and his favorite snack. Soon, I learned, it wasn’t that simple. I learned my father had clinical depression when I was fourteen and he was admitted into a mental facility for the first time. The weeks leading up to his admission, he had drastically changed. He lost twenty-five pounds and all the color in his skin. He had always been the kind of man who danced on tabletops in fancy restaurants and laughed loud enough for an entire room to hear. He empowered others with his wisdom and he was a role model. He was a man who, more than anyone else, loved the art of living. He was also a man who was fighting for his life. He didn’t experience another episode until the months leading up to August of 2015. The patterns remained the same. He lost weight and ambition and on August 6th, he took his life. Often times in dealing with death, people express the hurt in losing someone else. They describe the pain felt in never seeing them, hearing them, or being with them again. I felt a much different pain. Losing him meant losing my knowledge. He was the one who stayed awake with me at three a.m. eating peanut butter only sandwiches and discussing the history of the world. Losing him meant losing perseverance. He was the only one who always reminded me I was capable. The one who pushed me into the pool to prove to myself I knew how to swim. He showed me that words were art and that with them I was capable of changing the world. Losing him meant losing heart and passion. With any loss, other things are gained as a consequence. I’m waiting for those things and, slowly but surely, I am learning that they do come eventually. -Briana Lopez, Senior Editor-in-Chief

I made a best friend in first grade by falling on my face. I stumbled gracefully off our morning bus onto the concrete. My friend, Dorian, helped me up and sat with me every morning after that. He listened to me tell stories about my brothers, class pets, anything that came to me. Stories kept us interested for the hour-long bus ride, and it became a routine for us until my fourth grade year. He switched schools before I wrote anything down. This was before I had a phone or social media, so losing contact felt like losing a friend and my favorite audience. It’s embarrassing to think about what I did eventually start writing down, but I had to start somewhere. Until I became a part of the writing program at Douglas Anderson, I didn’t show anyone. Partially because I wasn’t comfortable with my work, but also because I didn’t think anyone would care as much. Since, I’ve become more confident. That probably has something to do with not writing like a first-grader anymore. Dorian and I have been catching up recently. And his memory is unbelievable. I almost wish he didn’t remind me of elementary school or where my stories started, but it says more than anything that they were memorable. I’m sure he appreciates the improvement, but we do talk about the cute stories and laugh. He is still great at listening, and more than anyone, my favorite to share my work with. -Jordan Jacob, Senior Editor-in-Chief

In the card department of any drug store there is a section called, “Mile Stone” that holds cards for 5 year olds, 13 year olds, 16 year olds, 21 year olds, and 50 year olds. It’s doubtful that you’ll find a card to give your seventeen year old, sort of mature but not really daughter or cousin. You might find one out of one hundred cards for a newly 16 year old, because someone at the Hallmark factory accidentally typed a seven instead of a six. That’s how it feels to be seventeen, not necessary and almost accidental. When I woke up this morning the first thing I thought of was the popular 1976 Abba hit, not the fact that I was a year older. I even avoided thinking about getting a year older when my dad sat me down during breakfast and told me that he was proud of the young lady I’d become and that I was so mature at seventeen. Seventeen, he emphasized the age like I was turning seventy and he was one of my kids describing how old I was. When you turn sixteen, there are more perks than not. You get to finally retrieve your license, unless you’re like me who waited too long to get her permit. You are officially a teen, a title many value and many more loathe. When I turned seventeen, I only thought about the cons. You’re one year older than a teen, but one year younger than a legal adult. You’re closer to being able to get a tattoo than you were at sixteen, but you still need your parent’s consent. I almost found myself wondering why we didn’t just skip age seventeen and let sixteen year olds just go straight to eighteen. Then I realized that fourteen year olds, eleven year olds, and forty three year olds probably feel the same way. Some of them might want to go backwards, while others want to fly into the future. These in between ages are a time to cringe about what you did when you were a year or two younger and dream about what you’re going to do when you’re older. In between ages are necessary, whether cards to cement them exist or not. -Chelsea Ashley, Junior Website Editor

My family’s house has never been the one that was decorated like a ginger bread house for Christmas. We are simplistic when it comes to the holidays. My mother may put up an artificial tree with enough ornaments to fan out over the branches. Sometimes she puts a velvet ribbon or two on the door. Whenever people come over, they ask why there presents aren’t under the tree, and my mother grumbles about how she waits until Christmas Eve to stuff all of the presents under the tree. Lately, I haven’t been wanting many presents, which has satisfied my parents as they close their wallets before everyone else. My simple request has been that I have enough money to buy what I want from Amazon. On the Christmas of my ninth grade year, I managed to persuade my mother into signing up for an Amazon prime membership. After we ordered our first package, it fascinated me how seeing a tan cardboard box, with black duct tape and the Amazon symbol, can give you so much glee. I became immersed in the American holiday tradition of purchasing with little to no restrictions, simply for the enjoyment of it. For whatever reason, the idea of sitting down at a computer screen, dabbing at the corners of my eyes in between each flash of green that appears after they notify me that they’ve received my order, couldn’t be more satisfying. I crack my knuckles before alternating between keys on the keyboard, searching for new items that I’ll probably forget about when a new box crowds the porch. My eyes glimmer like a child’s when they meet Santa Claus for the first time at a crowded mall with other children attempting to shove their way towards him. I greedily carry the package off to my room and rip apart the box, tossing the remains of it on my bed. I don’t know why I have such a fascination for the many terrains the box traveled just to get to my porch. Every time I order something, I like to see the location it’s coming from. Sometimes it says something as nearby as Atlanta, Georgia, or somewhere as far away as Rhode Island. I like opening the box and imagining that the person who packaged it wondered what type of person I am and why I admire that particular item. I’ve made the decision that my favorite Christmas colors are not green and red, or silver and gold. In fact, they’re tan and black. -Christina Sumpter, Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor

Winter represents to us the traditions we love and the beginnings we create. This year, we welcomed an almost entirely new staff, and learned as much as they did in the process of making the first book. We built from the framework that was laid previously, and are proud to represent the publication in its 30th year. At this point last year, I was terrified of this position: responsible for every part and piece coming together by deadline.  I was confident in my ability to contribute, but not to run the show.  Teaching a completely new group of staff members made the task more daunting. In reality, the situation was ideal and allowed for us to take the publication in any direction we wanted. I allowed myself to be comfortable with all aspects of growth, including starting from the ground. I’m proud of what each member of Élan accomplished this go-round, and honored to have the opportunity to watch their growth, as well as the magazine’s. -Jordan Jacob, Senior Editor-in-Chief

Oral tradition is defined as “a community’s cultural and historical traditions passed down by word of mouth or example from one generation to another without written instruction.” In other words, everything we know about our parents (and their parents, and their parents, etc.) we learned from stories told through what they wore, what they drew, and what they made. My mother tells me stories about the crazy 80s fashion she went to high school with, but my father tells me about growing up in east Eritrea with dirt walls and no roof. Writing these stories down lends privilege to the lives we’d otherwise forget. Textbooks take down facts, writers take down the heart. As we close in on Élan’s 30th consecutive year in publication, it’s important to remind ourselves why we have made it this far and why we will continue to publish in the future. Through writing, we get to see what others left behind, and through our own writings we do the same for the readers who come after us. No one was there when the world began. I will never see my mother’s crazy 80s fashion and my father’s dirt walls. We have unanswered questions about how the world began and why we’re here. We’re all born into our own reality (our own truth) that’s continuously shaped by our experiences. With each story told, we chip away at that Truth. Élan does so much more than share the works of young writers. It keeps tradition from slipping through the cracks. It shares the stories we love hearing and forces us to listen to ones we don’t. Storytelling helps us cope with the unknown. It finds joy in those questions. Sharing our stories makes us a part of a larger one, and while we may never put our Truth into words (perhaps we were never meant to), storytelling makes that Truth accessible. In the last three decades, Élan has held onto those values. We have been a consistent, reliable, and important source of stories for the last thirty years and will continue to be so in the future -Tatiana Saleh, Senior Layout & Design Editor