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When I went to Writers' Fest in 2018, I had the pleasure of meeting and being taught by George Saunders. When we had this last Writers' Fest, Saunders was getting ready to circulate his new book, Lincoln in the Bardo. After being taught with examples from his short stories which were nothing short of excellent, I was very keen to hear him speak on craft, and to share with us his insight into the cognition and execution of the creative impulses surrounding the short story. His seminar was indicative of what his students must experience at Syracuse. To have that intimacy and opportunity for interaction with the learning process was something that would be inaccessible from a traditional, large scale seminar, or a auditorium experience. Saunders spoke in depth about his creations and the process of developing meaningful components like characters and action within short fiction and how they can move the story forward through immediacy. Through this immediacy, he and my teachers claimed, was the key to authenticity and how readers could be brought into the space we as writers need them to be in. Following his presentation and lesson, which was the most advertised and awaited, we were brought into a rotation of smaller seminars and lessons by other writers with an even smaller class, or group to create with. Each writer brought their specialty, or technique to be brought into a classroom setting for distribution, possibly for the first time. We were being given access to what so many people needed to hear, and what was so inaccessible otherwise. Another one of my favorite lessons was from Yvette Angelique Hyater-Adams. She brought with her a “braided story technique,” something that was entirely foreign to me at the time. Through her workshop, which focused on bringing two stories together and intertwining them to create a central narrative, I created my next portfolio story using the technique. This concept of using two influences was echoed in a later workshop where I learned “the jazz method” of writing poetry. This was by far my favorite workshop, and I still use the technique today when writing poetry. The process calls for the integration of a concrete narrative, or predetermined sequence of words or phrases that could be written together to create narrative. This concept of adding arbitrary constriction on the creative process to ignite and instigate new ways of creating is something that I have since praised as the greatest way to access creativity. My mother’s company is built upon the ideas of treating those with brain injury with creative instances similar to those with restrictions similar to that from the workshops. I wrote most of my poems from that year using some degree of predetermined sequencing in order to “write around” the problem, thus creating something entirely new. I will take with me forever into my writing processes the lessons learned form the elite writers procured by the Writers' Fest administration. Their insight into craft, and suggestions regarding creative approaches to the issues of the common writer were something that is simply not available outside of that setting and opportunity. For that reason, I am incredibly excited about seeing such talented writers return to our space again and impart more wisdom for the class to execute on. - Sheldon White, Junior Fiction/CNF Editor

I am two years past my first Writers' Festival and the experience still heavily influences how I write as well as how I view myself in the scheme of the literary community. I went into the day worried that I would be distant from the writers. I’d have to elbow through adult strangers just for the chance to brush Tracy K. Smith’s garment... then maybe, just maybe, I would absorb some of her holy knowledge. This was not an accurate prediction. Every writer, from alumni to local favorite to headliner was dedicated to making connections with the attendees of the festival. This along with the festival's intentional design made for an incredibly intimate experience. The writers took us in as their own students and brought us powerful lessons that not only shook my approach to writing, but had me leaving each workshop with a new piece of writing. The writer I was anticipating the most in the months leading up to Writers' Fest was Jessica Hendry Nelson. Like all of the featured writers, she is wholly unique. In my freshman year our class read "Rapture of the Deep" for a lesson in creative non-fiction. From there I began reading her book and just fell in love. She wields language in a way that does not wring meaning from tired syntax. In creative nonfiction I found myself constantly trapped in the cycle of retelling mystery then adorning it with sparkling language and colorful images. This method is like beautifying a corpse before burial. Jessica does not just clip pretty pieces to a dead thing. In her workshop she taught us how to extract vivid details from our experiences. We received practical instruction on how to use specificity to reveal a deep, meaningful reflection of each moment. She taught us how to avoid vaguely reflective narration and instead allow carefully selected details to advance the physical and emotional narrative. Jessica Hendry Nelson moves memoir through brilliant bursts of syntax like a flash of light. Striking the eye unexpectedly and leaving you momentarily blind. Forcing you to blink your way to insight. After her workshop I feel I am a step closer to doing the same. At the end of the day I was able to personally express my gratitude to her and she responded with a hug. I very poorly concealed how overwhelmingly ecstatic I was. One can not overstate how impactful Writers' Festival is to the young writer. It is an opportunity to (in many cases literally) brush shoulders with what could be their future. The organizers of Writers' Festival do such a masterful job of showing writers with incredibly diverse styles at different points in their careers creating in very different ways. For me it was a powerful push of encouragement confirming that at heart I am a writer and no matter how that manifests itself for me there is a place for everyone in the literary community. - Ashley Chatmon, Senior Marketing Editor

I had my first Writers' Fest sophomore year. Admittedly, I didn’t know what to expect. I was still developing my craft during that time and hadn’t broke through that creative surface. I struggled with accepting my writing as my own, creating stories and stories that didn’t entirely tell my truth. When I arrived on that early morning, I was cold and tired. It hadn’t dawned on me that I was about to be in the presence of amazing writers who wanted to share their expertise with my classmates and me. I hadn’t accepted that this event was for me; I really hadn’t accepted that I was a writer. I had made notes about workshops that I was interested in and took notes while I was in those master classes, but the experience didn’t really hit me until I attended a workshop with Ira Sukrungruang. I went to his workshop, originally, because I enjoyed his personality on stage when all of us creative writers were introduced to the authors. He was bright, funny, and incredibly genuine. I wanted to see how he was able to be himself since I struggled with doing that – in other words, I was seeking out personal truth. I didn’t know this was what my creative brain was reaching for, but looking back, that is exactly what it craved, subconsciously. In that master class, I learned about the depth of creative nonfiction – a genre that boggled my mind because I hated writing anything about myself. I was exposed to a bigger issue within myself. I was closed off and felt unworthy of expressing what pained me and what made me happy. I wanted my stories (both fictional and not) to have nothing to do with me; many of my stories told of the fantasies I wanted my life to be filled with. Writing, for me, was always a very solitary and self-fulfilling practice in those years. I never thought about the reader; I was my only reader. I never wanted to express the journey of my characters because I knew, somehow, it would get too personal. As I have gotten older, I have realized how damaging this can be to one’s craft and one’s own journey of healing. In that master class, Ira told us to write something true. Something that affected us deeply. He said no one had to read it but you. That was the first time I ever wrote something honest about my insecurities. After we all took that time to write, he allowed some people to share what they put down. That space became incredibly vulnerable. He even asked if anyone of us had nervous habits; I opened up about how I picked my nails or cuticles when I was sad, angry, or nervous. Overall, that entire experience was shocking; the things I shared surprised me. I had always been uncomfortable with vulnerability because I had been so used to bottling my problems, but that experience taught me to let yourself live; to allow truth a voice. By allowing your writing to capture a personal lens, the reader can relate to it. If not for the story or nonfiction piece, in the very least, do it for yourself. That Writers' Fest, yes, taught me about writing, but it mostly taught me about humanity. I lacked so much humanity and understanding in my life because I was taught it didn’t matter. I was used to keeping it to myself because my pain didn’t matter; what made me live and hurt didn’t matter. I am happy to say I consider myself more of a writer than I did, then. I am a lot more mature, vulnerable, and I understand the importance of personal truth. I try to live by my truth every day; I am more myself because of it. By allowing myself access to my humanity, I have been able to connect to the humanity of others, even if it’s just for a laugh or moment of empathy. I strive to be as genuine as Ira and it has helped me grow tremendously. I am not as scared to be myself, anymore. Granted, I still struggle – there is always doubt when I decide to write something that puts my vulnerability out there. I know there is a reader, though, who may resonate with what I say; maybe through my words, they will find their own. - Reece Braswell, Senior Art Editor

I was able to go to Douglas Anderson’s Writers' Festival for the first time when I was in my sophomore year of high school. When I looked through all the authors and their workshops I had a hard time picking which ones I wanted to go to, as I found each one interesting. One that stood out to me immediately was Jim Peterson’s workshop called the Jazz Method of Poetry. The workshop was about connecting writing poetry to playing jazz, and I knew once I read the description that I wanted to go. Looking back at my memories of Writers' Fest, this workshop stands out the most to me. Peterson gave a bit of a lesson on how jazz is played and how that connects to writing poetry. Jazz musicians don’t know what they will be doing next when they are performing. This causes the music to become brand new, to become one of a kind. He connected this to writing and being able to go into your unconscious. To find something new within your ideas. I really connected with this idea and still find myself returning to it years later. We were then given an exercise where we were given a list of words, some of them being rifle, crouch, mockingbird, tin can, leash, and so on. We had to include each word in every other line. I remember being nervous about doing this exercise, like I was afraid of writing something bad with what I was given. Once I pushed myself to go for it I ended up finding it a really beneficial experience. What I thought would restrict me actually helped me go further in my writing and create something I didn’t expect at all. It was freeing to be able to do this and I'm so glad I attended this workshop. It wasn't like anything I had done before. Thinking about this one workshop makes me so excited for this upcoming Writers' Festival. It is such a special opportunity that us students get, as well as the Jacksonville community. Along with Jim Peterson's workshop, another special memory I have from the event was hearing every artist read some of their work at the morning sampler. It was the first thing we did and made me so inspired and excited for the rest of the day. That moment truly put into perspective how amazing it was to be there. Writers' Fest felt like a game changing moment for me. It was one of the first moments I felt like a true writer. At that point in my writing life, I had never felt more inspired by what I was surrounded with. Going into this year's Writers' Fest, I'm so excited to be a part of this again. Where I was as a writer in my sophomore year compared to my senior year is a big difference. I'm a different person than I was then, but I'm just as excited to attend this event. - Anna Howse, Senior Fiction/CNF Editor

As a freshman at Douglas Anderson, I experienced my first Writers’ Fest on a whim, oblivious to the work that goes into the event. Something that I did notice, despite my naive nature, is that the writers had a lot of interesting and thoughtful things to say. They spoke to me in few ways people do; they listened to my innermost questions when it came to writing, and provided answers I still use today in my work. One of those people, specifically, was George Saunders. George Saunders and Tracy K. Smith were the headliners that year, and I went to both of their lectures. Coming out of both, I gained valuable information that is universal to my work. George Saunders had a wonderful question and answer section, which let writers ask questions that matter to them, and lets them receive a response from a world-class, bestselling author. One of the questions that came up in the question and answer section was simple: what does writing mean to you? His answer, unlike many public figures in today’s world, did not try to avoid the subject matter. He took it head-on, thoughtfully, and left us with something deep to think about. Writing is not putting words on a page, it is communicating a message in a universal way, and benefits society in ways that few other methods do. It strengthens our bond with our own humanity, and creates new ones with other people. Not only does it do justice to the questions of our conscious, it implements a major rule in our lives: don’t hold anything back. Hearing this, the last few words reminded me of a poster that hung, and still hangs, in my creative writing classroom: “Go so deep into yourself, you speak for everyone.” – Galway Kinnell. Through this immaculate response, I now use this method and way of thinking about writing every time I pick up my pen. If it is going to be something more meaningful than a fun read or a stream of consciousness, it needs to hint at a deeper message. It needs to speak to people and let them leave with something meaningful. Good writing lets words jump off the page, and stick in the reader’s mind for a long time. Couple that with an important message, and suddenly we’ve made a monumental change in the world with only some words, some paragraphs, some pages. It fills in the holes we have as humans, and it lets us fumble without feeling we’ve failed. This is what writing now means to me, thanks to that simple question and a beautiful answer. George Saunders was not the only writer that made a meaningful change in the way I view writing, and, therefore, the way I view life. Other writers made meaningful comments and showed us techniques that I still use daily. It is through these conversations that I had with wonderful writers that made me the person I am today, and that is all thanks to the Douglas Anderson Writers’ Fest. Without it, I would never have gotten the opportunity to experience such wonder and skill. I am still thankful to this day, and with a new Writers’ Festival coming up, I’m looking forward to being there. - Jasper Darnell, Junior Layout & Design Editor

One of the most meaningful workshops I went to, was accidental. I had heard from one of my classmates that an essayist was going to be in a room upstairs and across campus, when I had gotten there, a small sign on the door told me she was moved downstairs and back across campus. With two minutes left to get in a class and me, being a small anxious 9th grader, didn’t want to walk into a workshop late, have everybody’s eyes on me and leave a bad first impression. So, I turned around to the next door, hoping that there was a workshop going on in there. It was Teri Grimm’s workshop, a local poet, who I hadn’t paid any attention to before that very moment. Much of the workshop consisted of us, me and the other people in the room, picking a small stone from a bag, with our eyes closed. And then, with our eyes still closed, we wrote how the stone felt; the stone I was holding was small, no bigger than the pit of a peach, but it was fairly heavy, like a few quarters in my hand, and it was smooth and very cold, I tried to warm it up between my palms. Then, she wanted us to open our eyes and write what it didn’t obviously look like, mine was grey in an obvious way, but if you were to look closely there were streaks of whites and somewhat purple colors, to me it looked like the rolling clouds of a thunderstorm, or a water cup murky from paint, less pretty but more accurate. The workshop could be described as ‘odd’, but it could also be described as ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’; before going to the workshop I didn’t realize how important it was to focus your detail and attention on other sensory details, rather than what is obviously being seen, that a whole world isn’t really created without smell, taste, touch, and sound. If you give the reader, or even yourself as the writer, only what you see, you only paint a picture, something they can look at, they are never really there with you without being able to hear what you hear, and how you hear it. – Zoe Lathey, Junior Editor-in-Chief

The first time I engaged with the inspiriting vulnerability, the transient warmth of Yvette Angelique Hyater-Adams, I was wandering Douglas Anderson’s 2018 Writers' Festival. It was my sophomore year, and I, a naive and craft-study-suckling, self-proclaimed “poet” had willingly been at the mercy of an artistic puberty that most creatives know all too well— beginning to feel changes, such as my eyes sharpening to find real-world images, metaphors, poems, and noticing more and more often a prick in my heart that felt something like bee teeth: in those moments leaking the sticky, honey-esque sealant that bound me (hostage as a house guest!) to the unconditional love of Writerhood. Though I’m not particularly sure what inclined me (our shared name? my infatuation with essay writing and all its intrinsic intimacy?) to sit in on her workshop, “Plaits and Weaves: The Braided Personal, Place, and Social Justice Essay”, the experience would prove to be one of the most impactful moments of my creative life. With my pen and journal—an old diary with a small spiral notepad taped outward on the back cover— anchored in hand, some friends and I made our way into the theater where Mrs. Hyater-Adams (who would now likely roll her eyes at that formality!) was presenting her workshop. Beside her, the projector she used was not unlike a fireplace, the glow of front-and-center slides lighting the dim space with words that warmed and thawed us then to our most vulnerable roots. I most distinctly remember Mrs. Hyater-Adams showing us there an excerpt from Claudia Rankine’s essay, Citizen: An American Lyric— a piece about living as a marginalized racial identity that translated this experience through a second person, internal musing and the braided use of prose poetry, descriptive vignettes, lyrics and lyrical essay. Being the little biracial, lyric-obsessed writer that I was/am, the entire excerpt had me both hungry and fed. At the time too, my inner poet’s puberty had me lusting for the sweet push of my thoughts pressing against boundaries— for personal truth, and making paint from the velvet blood of my deeply cut vulnerability. Afterwards, Mrs. Hayter-Adams gave us a range of different sources to write from— one of which was an early 2000’s song that everybody knew (but I can’t really remember the name of…) that prompted me, for the first time ever, to write about my dad. After sprawling out the now vivid memory of my dad and I speeding late at night to the liquor store, windows down and the car’s music bass boosted, I slowly let myself crawl into using my words to explore our complex relationship: by my senior year, I’ve probably written eight or nine poems about him. I’ve definitely cried twice that in doing so. Out loud, I shared that image with the workshop group. A year later, Yvette Angelique and I would cross paths again during a therapeutic poetry workshop that I was monitoring and she was invited to teach at. At first, we laughed about our shared name— hers with a Y, mine with an E, but it got us to start talking on a more meaningful level. There, she invited me to her summer writing intensive for women, Narratives for Change, which I participated in over the summer with seven other women whom I developed an unbreakable bond with. In Yvette’s program, I wrote about my sexual assault for the first time in my life. My last day there, Yvette hugged me tight and safe in her arms while I cried… what I’m trying to get at, I think, is that I met Yvette Angelique Hyater-Adams at Writers' Festival and now I’ve adopted her as a mother. She was the person who sat down with me and helped me make a list of colleges with undergraduate writing programs that would be supportive of my mental health when I was in the midst of convincing myself that I’d never be able to get into, let alone handle college. She told me that I had an undeniable talent for writing, that I had passion, and that she wouldn’t let me let that go to waste. I would have likely never had the opportunity to develop such a meaningful relationship with her if not for Writers' Festival, and I am eternally grateful for that. Not only that, but the entire experience of the festival filled me with a general feeling of worthiness as writer: there, I got to choose my own destiny— I was in total control of what I got to engage with (the possibilities of which were many), and so I was able to tailor the experience into what would be most meaningful for me. In having that chance, my creative life was able to jump from that ledge and experience a breathtaking sort of butterfly effect: all of the pieces adding up to span outwards from me into a set of wings, a post-cocoon body grown with memories that would forever remind me that yes— from this high up, it is undeniable now. I am a valid writer, and I don’t ever want to let that go to waste. - Evette Davis, Senior Web Editor

I was really inspired by "Icarus Drowning" by Isabella Tolbert. I just love how she took the story of Icarus and expanded it. She took the story and ran with it and at the same time kept the natural authenticity. Everything explored in the poem went along with the story. Nothing felt out of the blue. It's very important when you’re completing a myth or writing an ekphrastic piece of work to put yourself into the story or the story's mindset. Tolbert clearly placed herself inside the myth of Icarus and Daedalus she was exposed to and carefully developed the rest. I’m particularly impressed with the point of view of the speaker. If she was referring to the myth, then it’s only natural she kept the third person omniscient point of view. However, if she was inspired by the painting of Icarus drowning, I wonder why she didn’t use another point of view for example, the point of view of Icarus or Daedalus. I wonder what else she could’ve explored if she used a different point of view. Throughout the poem the voice of the narrator was very consistent and strong. I enjoyed how the narrator lightly sprinkled in detail till the final moment, which punched me in the stomach, “This childhood fascination/ Of the sun wasn’t the only thing/ He needed to be afraid of”. I love the use of line breaks Tolbert used in her poem. Her use of line breaks worked in her advantage when it came to controlled ambiguity. For example: “Falling, he reached out/ For his father, too far/ Ahead to hear his son calling out to him”, And: “The weight of an entire lifetime/ Left to live. Hours pass, / Minutes lingering on like stains on satin sheets,”. Tolbert really did a great job executing craft in this poem. I was engaged throughout even at the last line I wanted more. This poem inspired me because I was connected the craft. I’m also inspired by Madonna and Child by Larry Fullwood. This painting is so eye grabbing. I love the basic colors he used to compliment each other. The blue in the background gives off an innocent/ angelic vibe for the baby and Madonna. What particularly caught my attention is the people in the painting are African American. This piece is depicting them in a positive light, and that’s why I like this piece so much. It inspired me to write a positive poem about the African American community. There’s a great selection of art and writing out in our Fall Edition I’m sure you’ll easily find a piece of writing and/ or art to inspire you so feel free to explore. - La'Mirakle Price, Junior Managing Editor

"Portrait with House” by Marin Hart is a short eleven-line poem that packs heavy emotion throughout each description. I am fascinated by the use of hanging indentation, how it switches the perspective in a noninvasive manner. The poem opens with a strong line, using the verb “invade” to describe the events. Already, readers get a sense of what type of actions we’re going to read. The entire poem, though it is short, reminds me of a distant relative or friend who I still haven’t come to terms with for their actions, and now I have to face them. I must confront them like the speaker. Each line either utilizes figurative language or direct imagery, neither of which fall short. The poem itself is its own metaphor, liking the house to a creation or idea that the “she” has ruined. I find this to be intriguing, often larger metaphors are drawn out, require more time to be understood, but this poem doesn’t need elaboration because of the language given. The speaker of the piece is certain of their own actions and what the “she” is doing. I felt connected to this piece due to the sense of familiarity it brought. Though I am not in situation per say, I can imagine or recall a time where the events described feel like or mimic a moment in my life. The sense of individuality and universality with this piece is well calibrated, and I encourage readers to use this poem as a prompt, to use something mundane and compare it to a larger, more emotional topic. Mexican from the Corazón by Britney Garibay is a beautiful visual piece that I personally feel connected to through the emotional ideas being conveyed. Though I am not Mexican, I know the feeling of pride of where one comes from. It is love for the motherland, their background, their culture. I am in love with the depiction of the flag in front of the girl, showing absolute pride and no shame for their background. I think it’s important for viewers, no matter where they come from, understand another’s love or honor they feel from their native/homeland as depicted in the piece. For me, as I grow and learn what being an immigrant means, I find myself more and more connected to depictions of honor. The visual is beautiful with its wide perspective and vulnerability shown in the close-up of the subject. I’m glad we decided to make this piece have its own two-page spread as it adds to the piece’s larger emotional purpose. Garibay’s depiction of pride, specifically pride of one country/people that have been victims of extreme prejudice, is stunning and defies whatever words or ideas are thrown at her. There’s a sense of gravity and longevity that is exuded by the subject and what is in focus: nothing but the girl and her flag.  I encourage viewers to look at this piece and ask themselves: what in this can I learn from? What part of me am I proud of? Mexican from the Corazón is an engaging piece that illustrates youth and their pride. - Alexa Naparstek, Senior Poetry Editor

It is so rare that a poem leaves me with questions that I don’t mind asking. When I read Marin Hart’s “Portrait with House” during the initial reads process, I was shocked by the delicacy and precision with which the impulses were executed. I finished and wondered what exactly I had just experienced, as this poem is one of those that is felt before it is understood. Hart’s masterful display of ambiguity is a genuine treat—it leaves us with a number of implications, it keeps us invested, and, most importantly, it conjures the kind of atmosphere that is impossible to forget. The nuances—little moments that make more sense than they linguistically should—sharpen the mood into a very evocative little dagger of feeling. This poem summons “an ancestor real like wind,” and it is in its own right real like wind. The moves and turns are swift and not themselves seen, but they are deeply internalized. By the final, sinking line, we understand clearly that this poem is a well-oiled, complex, highly efficient machine with a sum greater than its parts. The lines depend on one another in this way: they all do work together, and they do it so cleanly that we’re left wondering what we missed in the equation. I was very excited to showcase this poem because it communicates subliminally the raison d’être of Élan so well. Youth writers, in their own way, are making art that demonstrates craft in the traditional sense that deserves voice. A thing I love about Élan is that there is no aspect of the publication that feels “teen” at all. However, we don’t mind donning that tag—even if it is a misnomer of the work inside—because we understand how special and beautiful it is to be teen and art-making and alive. The gift in this poem is that it truly means something different to every reader, and few poems have the ability of universal transference while retaining their power and sparing nothing. What a quiet storm this poem is. - Conor Naccarato, Senior Poetry Editor

Emma Flaire’s piece, Henry presents a depiction of an aging man with a sense of dignified wisdom and resolve. The man, presumably named Henry, is depicted with an intimacy that of which could only be derived from a knowledge so innate with detail and history as one in the immediate, is presented to us with poise and respect-demanding form. The piece’s composition draws into the folds of flesh that composes the countenance of the subject. These ridges and caverns carved into his face are not ones of disfigurement, but of vulcanized character. The galvanization of age is shown upon the rendition of a man at ease. The oils of piece accentuate age, and the dynamism of the face’s natural contours ebb toward a culmination of character evident upon the gaze emanating from the piece. As a writer, I am drawn to the subject of the piece itself. I used this piece, and another submitted by Emma Flaire in a generative exercise based of derivative origin in my own productions. I found my impression of reserved platitude, and the implication of a lifetime of labor to be of great potential for exploration. I focused, in my generative ventures, on the way the piece evoked a sense of demand for respect. The man in the piece gazes with authority at whatever meets his weathered gaze. I wrote extensively on the concept of virtue in labor and the continuance of genealogy through reproductive propagation. I find Emma Flaire to be adept at observing the qualities of an entire man, and the depiction of earnest and comprehensive depictions of the authentic. I encourage those viewing the piece to look within at their own reservations and associations with that of which they derive parallels from the work of Emma Flaire. Once I was able to divorce myself from the physical limitations of the medium of the visual, and look to find the memories and values within the gaze of this man, and other works alongside it, I was able to articulate and expand upon that which might not have been acknowledged without the assistance of a visual catalyst by which to direct my inner evaluation of those individualistic abstractions. A fantastic generative process by which I, and others have the potential to realize, is the disassembly of impressionistic conclusions as to the nature of the subject depicted in the piece, and the delving into the components of the derivative implication. The way the artist investigates the formlessness of Henry, and the sheer emotional intimacy evident in the care and detail put into constructing such a nuanced and specifically degraded face is the visual actualization of a memory, formulated from the impressions of a series of presumed interactions. She is, in a sense, immortalizing the impact the subject has on her through her close inspection of that which is common, and therefore making it evidence of a much greater understanding of universality in common interaction. Emma Flaire’s interpretation of this impression is evident in her apparent dismemberment of her memory’s account, and restructure of a far more connection inviting representation of a stranger, whose intricacies are plainly and eloquently given to us through his face’s austere gaze. - Sheldon White, Junior Fiction/CNF Editor

This year’s fall edition of Élan is something that I’m really proud of. This was my first time being a part of the editorial process as the senior Fiction/CNF editor and it was a really cool experience to play a big part in what pieces go into the book. Reading all the pieces that had been submitted and looking at the art was so interesting, as it always is. I think each piece is truly special in its own way, and each one impacted me differently. Two pieces that inspire me a lot are the CNF piece "Jew-ish" by Jake Shafran and the art piece The Whore, The Gunslinger, and the Guy Who Wrote Their Scripts by Nur Chodry. Both of these pieces stuck out to me in the editorial process and I am so happy that they are in the book. I’m going to start off by talking about the piece, "Jew-ish." Before I even begin talking about the piece itself, I want to talk about CNF. In my first year of Élan, the genre team made it a goal to include more CNF in the book. CNF is such a powerful form of writing and every reads process I am excited to see the CNF pieces that are submitted. This year, I had the same goal, and when I came across this piece I was immediately impacted. Writing CNF is so vulnerable in itself, and submitting it for other people to read is as well. "Jew-ish" is a very personal piece and I think most people can relate to it, even if they aren’t in that exact situation. The piece deals with feeling lost about what religion you belong to. It deals with those strong feelings of confusion, and I think most people can connect with this feeling. The reader gets to read this story about a young boy dealing with feelings. The reader feels close to the speaker, and it allows us to really be present in the pieces. We get to see him when he feels united with others and when he feels separate from them. It’s a powerful message and one that I connected to immediately, and I think the readers of Élan will connect to as well. Selecting the art for Élan is just as fun as selecting the writing. I’m always excited to see what people have submitted, and one piece that stuck out to me immediately was The Whore, The Gunslinger, and the Guy Who Wrote Their Scripts by Nur Chodry. Before I truly looked at the piece, the name of it grabbed my attention. I think the title in itself tells a story, and that’s important for something like Élan. We want the art to tell a story just as much as the writing. The piece of art itself is so interesting to me. The girl in the front grabs your attention first, and I think the way that her body has been painted is really beautiful. Once you see her, you then focus on the person behind her and how he’s looking slyly at her. It almost seems like she doesn’t notice either, by the way her eyes are looking up. The man behind her had a halo and she has wings, so that provides a aspect of heaven as well. As I said before, I’m really proud of this edition of Élan. I think the pieces that have been selected, both art and writing, are powerful in their own right. Each one has something special about them and I think the readers of Élan will be pleased with the writing and art coming their way. - Anna Howse, Senior Fiction/CNF Editor