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The most comfortable I've ever felt has been in a field full of strangers. Sweat burning its way through my clothes. Sun beating down a steady rhythm on my scalp. Though it might not sound too enjoyable, it is one of my favorite places to be. Its rare to find a group of people who all find pleasure in the same exact things and then on top of that, be able to get them all together for a music festival. This opportunity was something i had never experienced on such a large scale. After my first concert, I realized that it was something I needed in my life. Everyone has their own version of this experience. Whether it be in the church pews or an empty bedroom. It's so important that everyone, especially teenagers, take time to find the places in life they feel comfortable. It offers a way to discover yourself in a freeing and safe environment. I lived for most of my life feeling different, less impactful moments of comfort. Being tucked into covers fresh from the dryer. Feeling my father hug me goodnight. Leaning back in my seat after eating until my mouth was tired of chewing. All of these moments are ones I wouldn't trade for the world. However, time makes these moments seem less important. There are still days where I crave those quiet intimate moments. But now that so many years have gone by, I find more comfort in being cradled by a mass of strangers than I would in being cradled by any single person. Whatever you find comfort in, don't be afraid to find new, different ways of being happy. Try painting, sculpting, go somewhere you've never been before. Eventually, you will find something so different, so new, that you will never be able to look at the rest of your life in the same way. -Savana Pendarvis, Junior Creative Nonfiction Editor

The first image my mind jumps to at the words “warmth” and “comfort” is a plate heaped with fried chicken, pepperoni pizza, and macaroni and cheese. It’s tempting to keep rambling about unhealthy foods I’m craving at the moment—eating them satisfies me with a warm buzz to the stomach. The next is my laptop perched on a soft, blue blanket. Netflix waits with its lopsided smile. This is also tempting, since I can go in-depth about the shows I’m really into and hopefully win them new fans. But I’m not going to dwell on either of these, because they only provide temporary contentment. The warmth and comfort that sticks to and infuses a sense of security within me comes from the words and actions of my friends and family—the special few I’m not ashamed to care about. “I love you” is already such a direct, soul-baring statement, but there are so many other ways to verbalize it: “Are you hungry?” “Did you put your seatbelt on?” “How was your day?” Questions like these show affection and care, and when I’m asked these I feel a little twinge of happiness and reassurance. Trust me, I’m being 100% honest. Physical contact is another aspect that really comforts me. I love being a touchy-feely person: hand-holding, back-rubbing, hugging. In addition to the heat they literally create, they also warm me up inside with—you guessed it—comfort. I guess it’s an animal thing to crave touches. There’s the shallow, fleeting comfort that unhealthy foods and TV shows offer and the lasting warmth that the love family and friends offer. It wasn’t really hard for me to choose. -Seth Gozar, Junior Fiction Editor

If you drive down 103rd in Orange Park, you come across a small apartment complex just off the road right next to a convenience store. If you pull up to the gate it screeches as its long arms go to expand for you, and most people drive in cautiously, looking up at all the tall uniform buildings. In building ten, on the second floor is Apartment 201. Apartment 201 is special for several reasons. It is where I went every other weekend, and select holidays, for six months when my mother left her husband. It is also the first place I saw my mother genuinely laugh. Though the apartment stayed empty for most of the time we were there, housing only a couch, a cot for my sister, a television, and my mother’s room that was piled with all the things she could take from the old house, some remaining unpacked, looming in her closet like giant monoliths, I was happy. At first we were all quiet, staying to our separate spaces in the small enclosure. My mom in her room, my sister on the cot, and I chose the porch. My mom never put lawn chairs out there and it remained bare, the concrete ground was rough and had a mysterious gouge near the center. Every night I would lay out on that porch, or stand, grasping the flaking railing, white paint peeling back to show raw wood. I listened to the summer crickets and cicadas create an orchestra. It was the most peace I had in a while. The humid air, and the streetlights and their orange glow. I pressed my forehead to the bars of the railing, and brought my knees to my chest, comforted to watch the people who came and went but never stayed in the late night parking lot. Then Holidays came around and we cooked in the tiny kitchen all day. I smeared pumpkin pie over my mom’s face, and instead of yelling she laughed and dipped her finger in too. We sat on the couch, plates in our laps and ate while watching a chick flick, something my mother’s husband hated. In December, when my mother stepped out to feel the cold I watched her take in a large breath of the crisp hair, her chest inflating and expanding as she let it flow through her. I saw a smile crack on her face. She began to laugh. This laugh was free and loud and full of snorting, something my sister did as well. I remember laughing with her before we went inside to huddle in the house, our hands wrapped around mugs of hot chocolate. -Zoey Carter, Junior Art Editor

I’ve always dreamed of being the Red Ranger from Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. He led everyone and sought wisdom whenever he needed direction. Though brash at times, he did whatever it took to protect and enlighten his fellow rangers. But what happens when the morpher isn’t working? What happens when the megazords and ferocious monsters leave the screen? Finding superheroes beyond the screen was always a challenge since I wasn’t as avid of a reader as I am now. I skimmed over Shel Silverstein’s poetry, knew every shade of Brown Bear, and scarcely remembered Dr. Seuss’s intricate rhyme schemes. But in middle school, I encountered Jacqueline Woodson’s Locomotion, a book about a young man that used poetry to talk about the trials of his life. After I read her book, I made it my mission to meet Lonnie. I looked everywhere I could -- on websites, social media, newspapers, but nothing ever came up. I eventually gave up and stopped looking for Lonnie since he hadn’t shown up. But about four weeks ago, Lonnie’s “mom,” Jacqueline Woodson, popped up. One of my mentor’s sent me an application for her workshop and I filled it out as soon as I got it. After waiting for my acceptance, I thought long and hard about Lonnie again, pondering. I wonder if Lonnie is her son or nephew or someone she knows. The curiosity grappled me again and reached a new peak as soon as I found out that I was accepted into her workshop. Finally, I thought, I might just get to find out about who Lonnie really is. During the workshop, Ms. Woodson discussed her past books, Locomotion, If You Come Softly, After Tupac and D Foster, and her recent National Book Award winning memoir, Brown Girl Dreaming. I became infatuated with her immediacy and connectivity with her work. She rattled off sections of her past books as if she were reading from the page. I couldn’t believe that she had memorized whole sections of a book. But I figured since it was her work that she ought to know it. One of the students asked her if Locomotion was real, and she said he wasn’t. I was a bit saddened but I understood when she told us, jokingly, that “Fiction is just professionally lying.” We laughed and continued to inquire about topics ranging from her books and suggestions for building a better story to even her friendship with her editor. After participating in the writing exercise, all of the other younger writers took pictures with her and dispersed back to their parents while I walked with her through the Ritz. Her eyes shone as she walked, analyzing everything that good old LaVilla had to offer back in the days. As we walked through the museum, she inquired about everything, even one of the tag-lines of a photographer. When we walked towards the end of the museum, we talked about one of Jacksonville’s greatest and unfortunate tragedies -- Ax Handle Saturday. As I explained the nuances to her, she looked with disbelief. She wanted to find more of the history that had been hidden in Jacksonville. I then told her about the Kingsely Plantation and a story that I had created from my last visit. She became so engaged that we even discussed the Gullah Geechee people and their relevance in the south and even possibilities for stories about them. Before she left, she signed my journal and took a picture with me. As I waited for my mom to pick me up, I realized that I was Locomotion the entire time. Lonnie and I starting writing and learned the power of words around the same time. I guess you could say that you become your superheroes when you look up to them long enough. That’s the best part about Fall -- the best things will hit the ground someday. We just have wait until they are ready. -Dwight James III, Senior Marketing & Social Media Editor

As a senior, this has been a year of lasts. Of leaving. Of using my last school supplies, running out of paper, and not finding a reason to buy a new ream. This has been a year of cardboard boxes. Wrapping college in tissue and duct taping the ends. Of new addresses. New homes. Throughout the last couple years at Douglas Anderson, poetry has become my way of breathing. I write what I don’t understand, what I want to know, what I want to forget, apologies. I write about mountains and rivers and trees and seasons. I write poems about leaving. Sometimes, I’ve found, that writing what is real is the most difficult to do. It’s been hard for me to accept the fact that I won’t be able to call my friends next year, tell them I am outside their homes and want to get burritos. It’s been hard for me to accept the fact that I won’t park next to their cars every day, walk to classes in the morning, steal their lunches. I’ve begun putting these feelings into poems—suffocating my fear in similes, worries weighing heavy on the words. Although I often feel lost in all of these lasts, I know that I have to appreciate them for what they are. I have to remember the last looks. The last bits of laughter. I have to remember it all and turn them into words. Into poems. If you’re feeling stuck and need some inspiration, here are my favorite poems about leaving, and remembering: Fifth Grade Autobiography by Rita Dove (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182222) Heavy Summer Rain by Jane Kenyon (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/238652) You Can Have It by Philip Levine (http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179090) -- Raegan Carpenter, Poetry Editor

This Vlog is being posted  a tad late, but check it out anyway! The Elan Staff couldn’t be more excited to share this new year with you.

This year, being a senior the phrase “New Beginnings” brings a certain series of images to my mind. That is, moving boxes and masking tape, college acceptance letters, graduation, moving out, and moving on. All the talk of universities, plans for apartments, and big cities makes me break out in hives internally and makes me think a little less of myself because I don’t know if I want any of that. While I see all of my friends buying cute towels for their dorms and anxiously going to the mailbox every day I always ask myself if I am doing the right thing. Is it ok that I don’t have a desire to move away? Or go to a university just nearly four months after I’ve graduated? Is it normal that I am very much content living at home and going to community college for the first two years? I ask myself these questions almost once a day and sometimes those questions feel like they eat me alive. And when anyone asks me where I am going to school next year is it ok that I’m almost ashamed to say? These questions are ones that I only know the answer to. And there is no right or wrong ones. And I have learned that over the last few weeks. I have learned not to compare myself to others as much even though it’s a true struggle. I have learned that everyone has different goals and different plans. And most importantly, I have learned that my choices cannot be made just to live up to the standards of others. So instead I have decided to hustle hard, think good thoughts, and be a goal digger. And as my friends may sit in a campus library across the country, I can only hope that I won’t regret the decisions I have made. -Madison George, Social Media Editor

As the poetry editor I don’t focus a lot on fiction. In fact, I stay far away from it. I like to stay in my little poetry bubble with metaphors and ambiguity. Recently I have been having trouble in my personal writing. I’ve been trying to write poems with stories too complex for their lines. Believe me I tried narrative poetry and it didn’t work. I had hit a creative road block all because I was stuck on a form. The simple fact is that some ideas aren’t meant to be poems. Some stories are meant to be told in prose or in novels. A while ago I told myself I was a poet and restricted myself to just writing poetry. At the time I didn’t realize that language cannot be restricted to one form. Language talks back. Language will tell you when it doesn’t like what it is. During second reads I read fiction pieces. While reading the stories I realized that maybe some of my poems were meant to be something else. So I decided to go on a journey with my language. I sat down with my poetry and asked it what it wanted to be. Some said poems and others said that they were fiction. The only thing I could do in the situation was comply with my pieces. Nothing is worse than making your pieces be what they don’t want to be. All it does is result in a lot of hair pulling and unhappiness. Through the process of reworking my pieces I started to appreciate fiction more. Fiction has a lot of the same techniques as poetry. Fiction is just poetry with a lot more characters and a more complex plot. I found that fiction isn’t all that bad and I stopped being scared of it. I found that language is its own beast and I shouldn’t try to tame it. -Grace Green, Poetry Editor

Community has many definitions. It is defined by Merriam-Webster as “a unified group of individuals,” “a group of people with the same interests,” or “a group of people with the same interests [or backgrounds].” These definitions are not mutually exclusive, but extremely varied. First appearing the late 14th century, from Latin, the word was primarily used to mean “a body of fellows or fellow-townsmen,” but also had additional meanings, including “a community of relations or feelings.” The word, in layman’s terms, implies a unification, whether due to geography or interest. People form and join many communities over the course of their life. Dunbar’s number, which is a limit to the number of true friendships or relationships a person can keep track of, is 150. 150 complex, intricate connections and the emotional ties that come with them. The average classroom has 30 or so students. If each of those students has 121 friends (150 minus the 29 other students in the classroom), those students combined have 3,630 friends. The human ability to be so multifaceted that one person can be connected to 150 people is remarkable. Sitting here writing this, I can’t count 150 people I know, much less 150 friends. It is mind boggling that I have that many connections, and it makes me wonder about the people I am connected to, about who of the 150 will stay with me. It makes me wonder about connections I have made and then forgotten. But mostly, it makes me grateful for the ability to share rare, beautiful connections with others who are willing to count me as their 150. - Zarra Marlowe, Junior Submissions Editor

As a writer, a new year can mean finally writing that idea that has been swirling around in your head for a while or taking a closer look at the conventions you put into your pieces. Since January is the first month of the year, why not start working at the beginning on beginnings? The beginning of a story or a poem needs to hook the reader- but not like the hooks taught in elementary school English class. How you start a piece conveys everything about where the piece will or can go. In my work, I strive to make my openings memorable, and looking at what other writers have started with can be the most helpful thing. In Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen the prologue opens with the image of three people standing under a greasy awning. This image sets the tone for the lifestyle and events that are to come for the main character. It is probably one of the most common ways I and other writers start but it’s a strikingly simple mix of images. But some stories call for a more drastic opening. Albert Camus opens his novel the Stranger with the simple sentence “Maman died today.” This immediately grabs the readers’ attention. Who doesn’t want to suck a reader in with only three words? Sometimes the beginning of a piece of writing makes you stop and process a new outlook. My favorite poet, Jack Gilbert, starts his poem Falling and Flying with the line “Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.” It makes you look at the age old story of Icarus in a new light and before shipping you off into his insightful poem. With 2015 just beginning, why not stop and think about the beginning and maybe even put a more interesting spin to it. -Chrissy Thelemann, Submissions Editor #Poetry #AlbertCamus #Editor #JackGilbert #WritingTips #NewYears #SaraGruen #Beginnings #Fiction #Writing

Beginnings are weird. They stare at you, straight in the eyes and say, “Yeah, I’m here,” and they either excite or frighten you. Recently I have been staring at a big beginning in my life: starting college. This beginning does not only mark the beginning of adulthood for me but also the end of high school, the place I have found myself as an artist. Beginnings are scary in that way. They are the start of something but the ending of another. I think that’s why I have such an odd feeling when I think about starting college. It’s beautifully bittersweet. But every story has a beginning. Looking back on my writing, beginnings were never hard for me to write. If anything, the ending was hard. From the first day of freshman year I knew how to hook a reader with a quote or an interesting fact. I knew how to grab their attention with a character or scenario. I’m good at beginnings. Yet when I look at my future, I think of everything that is about to begin and I just turn into a big ball of anxiety. I can write the beginning of a poem or an article but I can’t write my own life. It’s so frightening when you think about it, because in your life you have control over a certain amount of things but at the end of the day you are not the one in charge, you are at the mercy of the world around you. Recently I’ve started to think of my beginnings this way. When I sit down to write something I don’t want to follow that formula I’ve had for years. Frankly, that formula is boring and I only use it for English class. Beginnings shouldn’t be generic, they should be interesting. In real life, beginnings happen all the time. High school doesn’t really happen until you meet the people that will shape your experience there for the next four years. The truth is, when I start college there will be a multitude of endings and a multitude of beginnings and I won’t even realize half of them are happening. So why should I write like I know when these things are happening? Beginnings aren’t definitive. You can start something but it doesn’t begin there. There’s always something arbitrary in beginnings. So the best advice I can give you is to start writing from where the story really starts. The beginning is never simple. Let it be complex. -Grace Green, Poetry Editor

This year is my first year on the Élan staff and I’m so excited to be a part of something so huge. I wanted to be put on Élan for many reasons but the biggest would be that I wanted to be deeply involved with the Creative Writing department. I had never really felt like I was apart of the department in the ways I wanted to be. I never helped with candy sells or anything that benefitted the department as a whole but the past year showed me that I really did want to be a part of this in any way I could. Seeing everything the Creative Writing department does for us, such as Writer’s Festival, I was able to realize that I wanted to give back in a sense. I’m willing to put my all into the department and see what comes of it. Last year I didn’t think there would be any way I would be put on the Élan staff because I had never really shown an interest in the department, let alone Élan but somehow I was lucky enough to be picked. I take great pride in knowing that I was one of the few lucky enough to be given this opportunity. I want to do anything possible this year to make my role matter. I want to learn and take in as much as possible because this is such a great opportunity and experience. I was positioned as junior poetry editor this year in Élan and I’m excited to see what I can add to that role to make the poetry section even better. Not only does this give me the chance to make it better but I’m also getting to surround myself with work from other writers. I have a deep passion for poetry and being given this opportunity allows me to grow as a writer as well as an individual. This is giving me the sense of responsibility that I have always craved and I’m excited to see how far that can take me this year. -Anna Dominguez, Junior Poetry Editor