It was about this time last year that our very own Bryon Cahill wrote a lovely Happy Birthday article for George Orwell, that great British writer who brought us 1984, Animal Farm, and many, many political essays. If you want to learn about Georgie on his birthday, check out Bryon's article here. If you want some good, sound writing advice, keep reading.

Though I like Orwell, his fiction never really spoke to me in the profound way it has for so many readers. However, about two years ago I suffered a painful spell of writer's block. That's not good news for a student majoring in fiction writing. A great professor of mine gave me an Orwell essay entitled "Why I Write" for inspiration. It really helped. So, I've decided to illegally excerpt it below. I hope you enjoy Orwell's wisdom as much as I did. And, once again, Happy Birthday, Georgie Porgie.

"Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are:

1. Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get your own back on the grown-ups who snubbed you in childhood, etc., etc. It is humbug to pretend this is not a motive, and a strong one. Writers share this characteristic with scientists, artists, politicians, lawyers, soldiers, successful businessmen -- in short, with the whole top crust of humanity. The great mass of human beings are not acutely selfish. After the age of about thirty they almost abandon the sense of being individuals at all -- and live chiefly for others, or are simply smothered under drudgery. But there is also the minority of gifted, willful people who are determined to live their own lives to the end, and writers belong in this class. Serious writers, I should say, are on the whole more vain and self-centered than journalists, though less interested in money .

2. Aesthetic enthusiasm. Perception of beauty in the external world, or, on the other hand, in words and their right arrangement. Pleasure in the impact of one sound on another, in the firmness of good prose or the rhythm of a good story. Desire to share an experience which one feels is valuable and ought not to be missed. The aesthetic motive is very feeble in a lot of writers, but even a pamphleteer or writer of textbooks will have pet words and phrases which appeal to him for non-utilitarian reasons; or he may feel strongly about typography, width of margins, etc. Above the level of a railway guide, no book is quite free from aesthetic considerations.

3. Historical impulse. Desire to see things as they are, to find out true facts and store them up for the use of posterity.

4. Political purpose -- using the word "political" in the widest possible sense. Desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other peoples' idea of the kind of society that they should strive after. Once again, no book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude."

The following blog entry was written by Sarah Solomon, an intern here at READ.

When most people hear the word sonnet, they automatically think of William Shakespeare, and for good reason. However, the sonnet was around way before Shakespeare was born, and continued to be modernized after his death.

What makes sonnets different from other types of poetry is their distinct structure. Sonnets have a set number of lines and an organized rhyme scheme. However, there are different types of sonnets, such as the English sonnet, the Italian sonnet, and other variations.

Shakespeare usually wrote English sonnets, which have 14 lines and a rhyme scheme of:
[ABAB CDCD EFEF GG]
Each letter corresponds to the last word of each line. So the first and third lines will rhyme, the second and fourth lines will rhyme, etc.

But you have probably already seen many Shakespeare sonnets. Here are some other ones you might not have seen. Sir Thomas Wyatt was born in 1503, and wrote sonnets way before Shakespeare. Here is one, entitled "Farewell love and all thy laws forever"

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

There are other structural elements to sonnets, such as the literal structure of ideas (like an essay) and the rhythm of the words (enunciation). But that would be a whole other story.

Try writing your own sonnet!
It's harder than it looks!

-By Audrey Gamble, Grade 9

I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white
Startlingly clear and blue sky peeking through
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

Drifting up, a hot air balloon takes flight
All its colors flying so bold and true
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white

Flawless peace, it's free of hatred and spite
Images that I mistake and construe
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

The sun is so warm, comforting and bright
Drying away all the damp morning dew
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white

I'm breathless at such a beautiful sight
Crisp fresh air and a warm summer breeze too
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

Such a great day makes me fearful of night
But I feel content as I say adieu
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

The following blog entry was written by Sarah Solomon, an intern here at READ .

Today is Maurice Sendak's 80th birthday, so let's take some time to admire the illustrious illustrations he has done.

Maurice Sendak was born in Brooklyn on June 10th, 1928. As soon as he saw Fantasia by Walt Disney when he was 12 years old, he knew he wanted to become an illustrator.

He started illustrating other authors' children's books, and learned how to adjust his style of drawing to the other authors' writings. After a while he started writing and illustrating his own books. His two most famous works are Where the Wild Things Are (1963) and In the Night Kitchen (1970), both children's books.

Both of these books have a common theme. The protagonist, a young boy, is bored or fed up with his waking life so he travels to an imaginary place.

In Where the Wild Things Are, Max gets in trouble with his mom and is punished by being sent to his room with no supper. There his bedroom turns into a forest, and he travels to where the wild things are:

Both of these books have distinct illustrations with ferocious colors and beautiful drawings. Check 'em out!

- Elizabeth Porter, Grade 12

People always talk about how the youngest child is the spoiled one, gets all the attention, so on and so forth. But what they don't tell you is if the youngest kid comes out less perfect than the first one, they get tossed to the wolves. This is how it always was with me. You would think, being the youngest daughter of the royal family, I'd be treated as a lady of grace, with suitors craving my attention - no such luck. I was far too short and scrawny to be considered 'elegant', and my mud brown hair and dull brown eyes hardly caused any men of the court to lose their breath.

But my sister, three years my senior, was tall, whimsically built in proper proportions, and blessed with hair the color of pure gold. Whenever she entered a room, it lit up from the luminescent glow of her pure white skin. But Adelle, that is, my sister, was not blessed with intelligence in any sense of the word. You could barely hold down a conversation with her, since after two minutes of talking she would forget what was being talked about. Often, she had to be calmly retold what was going on around her, or else her sudden loss of understanding would send her into a childish fit of hysterics.

For a long time I resented my sister for this debilitating feature, but as I grew older I only felt pity for her. She simply couldn't understand and remember things. I decided to do my best to take care of her, and essentially I demoted myself to become her handmaiden, so that I could always help her when need be. Sometimes she appreciated my efforts. Other times she became annoyed with my presence, unable to remember why I followed her around - but I never minded. I grew to love the sister I had so long been jealous of, and we became the closest friends.

When our mother decided that the time had come for Adelle to marry, Adelle had no idea what that even meant. But I did. It meant that Adelle would be thrown into a new court where no one knew of her special needs, where she would be scared and confused, and then forced to marry a man she'd never met. I had to protect her. So I instantly volunteered to go with her as her servant.

"But Pel," said my sister (my name is Petronilla, by the way; another curse my family laid upon their disfavorable child), "you don't have to go. Why would you want to leave home?" I couldn't tell her how I needed to be there for her without upsetting her, so I just said I wanted a change of scenery.

A fortnight later, the two of us packed all of our belongings onto a packhorse and rode off for Adelle's fiance's kingdom. Although it was only a day's ride away, the heat of the day bore down on us the whole way.

After a while, my sister halted her horse, a fairy mare named Falada, and whined to me, "Pel, will you go get me a drink of water?"

Now, I may take care of my sister, but I don't baby her. I insisted that she was capable of getting the water herself, and should do so. She pouted a bit, but eventually gave in and went to the stream herself. Falada, a wise creature with the ability to speak, praised my firm handling of Adelle. "Her parents coddle her too much," said the mare. "She has to learn how to do some things for herself."

Adelle returned and we again set off. But it was not long until Adelle again wanted some water, and again I told her to get it herself. She whined, and even wept a little, but I remained firm. At last, she went to the stream herself, returned, and we moved on.

As the heat of the day increased, Adelle again asked me to get her a drink of water. This time I lost my temper a bit. I told her to act as a twenty-year-old should and get her own damn drink. She flew off towards the stream, crying. I regretted my words instantly. I hated upsetting my sister. When she returned, her face streaked with tears, I suggested we rest for a while and play a little bit of a game. Her face brightened instantly.

"Oh, Pel, I know! Let's play dress up!" she exclaimed, jumping up and down. With what, though? I asked her.

"Well.we could dress up as each other! Trade cloths and see how we look!"

So she took off her beautiful blue and gold gown and traded it for my simple green frock. She spun around in my rough dress, giggling with delight. I, however, felt awkward wearing her fine gown.

But she laughed at me, "Oh Pel, you look so pretty! You should wear that for the rest of the day. It looks so good on you!" I smiled. She always knew the sweetest way to make me feel better. So I agreed to wear the dress, and she insisted on wearing my frock as well.

"It's so much more comfortable than those giant dresses!"

So we continued on our way. It was dusk when at long last we reached the castle gate. We announced ourselves to the guard, and soon Prince Kaden himself arrived to welcome us in.

But that was when everything started going to hell.

The Prince turned to me; "Sweet Princess, it brings me the greatest joy to welcome you to my home - your new home, my beautiful bride." Adelle took no notice of these words, but my face blanched. He had us confused!

"N-n-no - " I stammered, but the Prince cut me off.

"I know you are nervous; as am I. But do not fear! As you settle into your new quarters, everything will seem better. Here are your new servants - they will assist you." Instantly I was surrounded by a crowd of serving maids, and they herded me off into the depths of the castle, leaving Adelle alone in the courtyard, dazed and confused at my sudden disappearance.

For days I neither heard nor saw anything of Adelle. Over and over I tried to tell the servants that I was not the Prince's bride, that the other girl was, but no one listened to me. I tried to find Adelle, asking all over the palace where she had gone, but no one knew who I was talking about.

About a week later, I wandered down into the main courtyard, and found a small passageway that led to the fields behind the castle. Traveling down it, I beheld a horrific sight - the head of wise old Falada, the fairy horse, mounted on the wall. I fell to tears, for Falada had been a dear friend to both myself and my sister. But the head, still blessed with fairy magic, spoke to me.

"Petronilla," she said, and my heart nearly stopped. "Petronilla, you must find your sister. For a time she was quite well - these people had her herding the flocks of geese. But this boy, Conrad, who was sent to help her, frightened her into using her royal magics to control the wind. I fear that the boy told the King of this, for this morning I saw his Majesty follow Adelle out to the fields. He is a stubborn and senile old man, Petronilla - I'm sure he will be hard on her. You must intervene!"

I ran off at once, bidding Falada farewell as I rushed back to the palace. Dusk was falling, and there was little time before my handmaidens would again try to shove me back into my chambers. I flew through passageways, down corridors, and up staircases, looking into each room for signs of my sister. After what seemed like hours, I came to the Western tower and collapsed at the foot of the stairs. It was then that I heard the sounds of weeping. With my heart pounding, I clambered up to a doorway along the staircase. The door was locked, but now I could clearly tell that the crying was in fact Adelle; my poor sister, locked in a tower chamber! I knocked gently on the door so as not to frighten her. "Adelle? Is that you? It's Pel."

"Pel! Where have you been? I'm so scared Pel - the old man wanted to know how I knew royal magics. He yelled at me and called me a thief - and he's sure to come back! Oh Pel, help me!"

"Adelle, listen, I'm going to try and find the King. I'll clear all of this up and get you out of here, alirght? Don't be scared, I'll be back soon!"

I ran further up the staircase, frantic to find the King and finally set this mess straight. To my luck, the King was in a sunroom chamber atop the tower, conversing with one of his advisors. As I approached, I heard him say something about "the Princess"; I paused to listen at the door.

"The girl was completely hysterical when I spoke to her before, you know, that peasant girl who came with that Princess. But I'll get the truth out of her. If I know anything about women, it's when they think they're all alone, they spill their guts out to the open air. As if talking to no one will ease their conscience!" The King laughed in a despicable sort of way, thinking himself so clever. "So," he continued, "I'm simply going to sit here and wait for the sounds of her confession come floating up the chimney stack!" He laughed again, and the advisor laughed along, to humor this strange old man.

But I struck upon an idea from the King's absurd theory, and hurried back down to the room where Adelle was locked. I told her what to do, and she repeated it back to me several times until I was satisfied. With my plan set in motion, I calmly left the tower, praying that Adelle would remember exactly what to say.

The next morning was the day long celebration of Prince Kaden's engagement to 'his Princess'. As my servants dressed me, I continued to insist that I was not the princess Kaden was meant to marry, but as usual I was ignored. Once I was gowned and ready, I made my way down to the courtyard to the feast, alert and watchful. After a few moments of searching the crowd, I at last found her - my dear sister Adelle, properly gown of palest pink and silver, sitting and laughing with the Prince at the banquet table. My plan had worked! The King must have overheard Adelle's 'confession' about how she had traded clothes with me, and thus she was the real Princess. At last, everything was set right! And from the looks of things, Adelle and Kaden were getting along well - now that I looked at them, they did make quite a handsome couple.

But I wondered - why had no one informed me that I was no longer the one marrying the Prince? They must be announcing this soon, or else Adelle would not be here.

I looked to the King. He was talking with some of the members of court. But when he saw me looking at him, he turned his focus to me. He called, "Princess, we are discussing matters of treason. What do you think; if a servant betrays their royal master, what should their punishment be?"

Such a simple question!

"Well, in my country at least, the punishment for such treason is death. In some cases, severe forms such as being dragged by a team of horses through the street in a barrel full of nails were used." I shuddered at the thought; the royal family is required to watch public executions, but I certainly never enjoyed such events.

"Then, treacherous maid, that shall be your fate!" cried the King.

Instantly I was surrounded by guards, and the entire celebration erupted into uproar. I was flung to the ground and hit my head on the flagstones; somewhere in the distance I heard Adelle screaming, "That's not what I said! That's not what I said!"; other women were wailing; men were jeering; three guards hauled me to my feet, and began pushing and pulling me back inside the castle.

Before I reached the gate I glanced back; Adelle was weeping into Kaden's chest while the Prince himself tried to reason with his father - but the King was unmoved, and did not even acknowledge his son's presence.

Adelle looked up, and her eyes met mine. With tears streaming down her face, she cried out, "PEL! Pel, please forgive me!! I never called you a traitor; God, please, I'm so sorry!!"

She fell to her knees, weeping and wailing, praying to God.

That was the last I saw of my sister. I hope that she can find happiness in the comfort Kaden can give her; he seems a good man. Tomorrow they are to be married - just four hours after my execution.

The following blog entry was written by Sarah Solomon, an intern here at READ.

Poetry can be read for pleasure, but have you ever heard of poetry being used as punishment?

25 partygoers in Middlebury, Vermont hadn't heard of that either until they were signed up for a mandatory poetry session as punishment for breaking into Robert Frost's house at the Homer Noble Farm. Breaking into a famous poets’ house is usually not a good idea.

A 17-year-old employee of Middlebury College thought it would be fun to hang out at Robert Frost's house, so he decided to throw a party. Over 50 people showed up, and by the end of the party there was broken china, broken windows, and a chair tossed in the fireplace. The total damage to the house was estimated at $10,600. That's a lot of money!

As punishment for those who wished to wipe their criminal records clean, two sessions of "Frost Instruction" were administered, each lead by Jay Parini, a professor at Middlebury College.

Parini used Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken" to teach the students a lesson. Parini said that in this poem, the speaker is deciding between making one of two choices. Parini believes that this applies directly to the students' behavior – each must make a choice as to how they want to live his or her life.

The Road Not Taken
  - Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Actually, this poem is often misread. Most people believe this poem to be about making the right choices in life. However, Frost's underlying meaning is significantly different.

In fact, the speaker in the poem is relating to the listener that the choice he made just so happened to lead him to where he is now, and if he had taken the other path he probably wouldn't have ended up so differently. In the last stanza the speaker is implying that one day in the future when he is telling his story, he will try to teach a lesson and say that the certain path he took made all the difference, even though he might not believe it.

Click here to read the CNN article on the Homer Noble Farm break in.

It's Allen Ginsberg's birthday. He'd be celebrating in style, but he can't because he's dead. Instead, you should celebrate by reading some rowdy poetry. In case you don't know, Allen Ginsberg saw "the best minds of [his] generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked," or so he says in his famous poem, Howl. The 'best minds' to which he refers are presumably his cohorts of the Beat Movement. If you've forgotten who the Beats were and what they were all about, check out my blog post from back in the day (read: September) by clicking here.

Otherwise, enjoy one of my favorite Ginsberg poems, A Supermarket in California. In this surreal commentary on society and the literary world, Ginsberg finds two of his literary influences in the supermarket.

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles
full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --- and you,
Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the
meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price
bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and
followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting
artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel
absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to
shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in
driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you
have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and
stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

by Catherine Sinks

His unknown age
   a dark square house
      a couple of feet away
a white home waits
   far off in the distance
      divine thoughts run through his head

His face caught
   with a blank stare
His shadow 
   more than a shadow
His eyes 
      obscured

I can't even remember
the color of his eyes

His hands
closed

But they were
   always open to me.

Congratulations to Catherine. She was a runner-up in Writing magazine's Treasured Objects Contest. Students wrote about their favorite things in such insightful and powerful ways. Check back for the next two weeks to see more runners-up.

by Louis Varriano

Forever waiting
Never knowing Time
As it lies in its black coffin
On the dusty old shelf
Completely forgotten
And without any life

Until I feel
The occasion is right
To take it down
Open its case
And give it a voice
That cries out
To the world
And reaches the soul
In the deepest of places
And all time seems to freeze
As my ears begin to hear
The pure sounds of music
That emanate from the instrustment in my hands

It sings of the happy
And weeps for the sad
As my fingers fly
Up and down its shiny silver back
As I blow a breath of life
Into my once dead and soulless clarinet.

It is not I but it
Who grieves and babbles
And squeaks and roars
And answers and sings
And wails and REACHES us.

My finges stumble,
I no longer know the way
My clarinet's song and life are over
I clean it out with a quiet reverence
And let it sleep eternally in its cozy bed
As it waits forever
Knowing no time
Until another comes
To give it the breath of life
So that it may sing again.

Congratulations to Louis. He was a runner-up in Writing magazine's Treasured Objects Contest. Students wrote about their favorite things in such insightful and powerful ways. Check back for the next two weeks to see more runners-up.