It's been a stressful couple of weeks.  Final exams are looming large and near, and my schoolmates and I have been fretting over term papers and tests.  However, this weekend my school hosted a "Relay For Life" event to benefit the American Cancer Society.  Students form teams (ranging from a handful to hundred people) and take turns walking around the track to show support for cancer victims and the search for a cure.  The event lasts 24 hours, and the goal is for each team to have at least one member walking around the track at all times, even in the wee hours of the morning.  I signed up to take part back in February, when I had no idea it would be such a busy weekend for me.  Now, the day of the event, part of me wished I didn't have to go, and yet I thought of my day-care sitter Jeanie and our dear family friend Karen who both passed away from cancer, and I knew I had to do something to honor their memories.  So I tore myself away from my desk and headed across campus to the track.    

Well, before I knew it, an hour commitment turned into three hours, then four ... walking around the track, I met new people, made new friends, and listened to cancer survivors -- some of them my age! -- tell their stories.  Indeed, being involved in the Relay for Life really put everything in perspective.  In the big picture, worries like term papers, tests -- and writer's block! -- seem trivial and insignificant.  What really matters is spending time with those dear to you, and striving to make the world a bit better place, one step at a time.

Writing-wise, getting involved opens your eyes to new experiences and ideas, if only in that it is a way for you to  meet interesting and inspiring people to write about.  As I was finally tearing myself away from the Relay for Life to go back to my room and get back to studying, volunteers were lighting candles to symbolize cancer victims, survivors, and a hope for the future.  Everyone who had been somehow touched by cancer lit a candle and carried it around the track.  I saw this ceremony through a writer's eyes, mirroring the way experiences illuminate your writing hopes and dreams -- and also how as a writer, you can touch people with your words and give them hope for a brighter future.

For more information on the Relay for Life and the American Cancer Society, please visit www.cancer.org.

Two weeks ago,  Gregory K. Pincus, a writer in Los Angeles posted an invitation on his blog GottaBook. He invited readers to write "Fibs" - six-line poems that use a math formula called the Fibonaci sequence.

The pattern is like this - each line must have a certain number of syllables which equals the sum of the syllables in the line above. Before you think it's too complicated, here is the basic six-line pattern:

1
1
2
3
5
8

Within a week, news of this invitation had spread like wildfire across the Internet - and more than 100 blogs were linking to GottaBook--and piles and piles of Fibs were pouring in. The New York Times even wrote an article about this! 

Here's our Fib:  

This
Blog
Calls for
A round of
Applause from all you
Dedicated fans out there.

Want to post a Fib on WORD? Post a comment.

Hello, Word-sters! I'm Meredith, a health reporter and writer who works here at Weekly Reader with Bryon and Sandhya. This contest offer showed up in my e-mail inbox this morning and I wanted to share it with you all:

What's the REAL DEAL on Growing Up in the Age of AIDS?

Who can enter? Anyone 13-18 years old living in the United States
What should you write? A story or script dealing with HIV/AIDS (up to 10 pages)
When is the deadline? June 13, 2006
Where can I get more information? www.ScenariosUSA.org/contest/
Why? It's been 25 years since HIV and AIDS first emerged. This means you're the first generation to grow up in this era--for you, AIDS has always been around. How do you feel about it? This contest gives you the opportunity to share your thoughts with the world.

Scenarios USA is an organization that helps teens make films, BET is the cable network Black Entertainment Television, and the Kaiser Family Foundation is a nonprofit health care organization. They've all teamed up to give teens a chance to talk about the impact HIV/AIDS has on their communities, relationships, and lives. Submit a story or a script of up to 10 pages on the theme, "What's the REAL DEAL on Growing Up in the Age of AIDS?" and you could win the chance to have your entry filmed by a Hollywood director and shown nationwide on BET in 2007.

Put on your thinking cap and get busy! You can submit an entry by yourself, with friends, or even as a class. There's an application and more resources for you and your teacher at www.ScenariosUSA.org/contest/, including a "Mini Creative Writing Workshop" to help you get started. Good luck!

Meredith is the editor of Current Health 2. You can check out her magazine online by clicking here.

A narrative story is a retelling of a personal experience that has had a significant impact on your life. I recently assigned the wririting of a narrative story to my 9th grade class. “But nothing important has happened to me yet,” my students moaned and groaned. I explained to them that determining whether or not something is “important” is all relative.

“25 years from now,” I told them, “moving to a new school district in the middle of the year may seem insignificant, but right now, at 15, it can be the biggest event of one’s life.” Once they looked at the assignment from that angle, their pens started moving. The topics students chose to write about varied a great deal and included everything from the birth of siblings to the loss of family members, from stories of their best friends to playing on sports teams.

Once the assignment was written, the students read them aloud to the class. Many were nervous, as some of their narratives were very personal, but ultimately, this turned out to be a wonderful experience for the whole class. Some students became emotional telling their stories. They were all very supportive of each other, though.

Before my students completed this assignment, I read them an example of a personal narrative of my own. It is about the 5 people I lived with in college. Although it was an experience my students had yet to have, I chose a tone and language that was appropriate for them. I believe that the story did reach them and even inspire them a bit. I even had a few students urge me to send my story to the friends I had written about, which I did. And now, I am sharing my personal narrative with you. My hope is that, by the time you are done reading, you will have a better understanding of the personal narrative and maybe even try to write one of your own! Enjoy!

      We couldn’t have known that this place would affect us so profoundly—the six of us. We couldn’t have known that this place would teach us anything about who we were, what we wanted in life, what we feared, how to love. The house was nothing special, just a faded blue ranch with a finished basement that always smelled like a swamp. It was small. It was ugly. It was ours, for one year. On a sweltering June day in one of the last years of the millennium, we moved into 88 Sunset Avenue, a little blue shack planted awkwardly in a cul-de-sac on a street a block away from abandoned train tracks. Our neighbors were made up of grouchy retirees, fellow college students, and a few folks who redefined for us the word “redneck.” We were walking distance from our college campus, but we never did seem to get up in time to actually walk there. Weekday mornings were often spent frantically running around looking for keys, books, and shoes in our disastrous living room. Weekend mornings were usually spent sleeping well into the day, then emerging from our rooms like vampires from their coffins, eyes averted from the sun, arms outstretched for sustenance. Sometimes others were there too, strewn about in blankets and sleeping bags, victims from the previous night’s escapades, but usually it was just us. We liked it that way, after all. We weren’t just six people living in a house, we were Sunset. A clan. A tribe. We spoke our own language and had our own rituals. Sure we had plenty of parties and visitors, but at the end of it all, in the wee hours of the night, the six of us shared a secret world.

      Have you ever lived with people who you are not blood-related to? It’s strange how seeing each other in your pajamas and sharing the same bathroom instantly creates a kinship between people. There’s a magic that happens between anyone sharing the same roof. You hear each other snoring at night. You drink out of the same milk carton. Your laundry finds its way into the same wash, underwear and socks all happily mingling together in a sudsy pool. There is something so intimate, so personal about a simple thing like laundry sharing the same basket.

      Make no mistake; we were all friends before we lived together—me, Kerry, Bryon, Dave, Dave, and Dave. Yes, three Daves in one house. Sharing that house, though, it changed everything. The word friends became too small for what we were, yet the word family implied that we were somehow forced to love one another, the way you are forced to love your mother’s great, great, Aunt Marie whom you’ve never even met. We had chosen to live together in that hideous excuse for a house, and once we moved in together, everything was somehow new. I never had a sister, so living with a girl who was not my mom was strange for me….and wonderful. On Wednesday nights at eleven o’clock Kerry and I discovered this little known television program in its very first season. It would go on to redefine lifestyles for single women in cities all over the world, but we just knew that it was our Wednesday night-bonding time. No boys allowed. Cocktails and facemasks and girl talk. I had never spent so much time with a girl who wasn’t my mom. Kerry was the older sister I never had, there to give me advice and build my confidence when I had none.