- Poem by Rushi Shah, Grade 11

Stars in sky, seas on earth

Luster of light emitted

Reflecting in the sea

Reminding me of who I am.

My identity, I am just me!

A baffled person not knowing

Where he wants to end up.

Such an immense world

What can I do?

Did I ever realize I can help someone?

Help myself.

Even help the world.

Vacillating on what I have to do

Will I have a vocation?

Do I have an aspiration?

Assuage my fear and illuminate it,

With bright light

Shining down from stars in sky.

Happy Birthday, John Steinbeck!

Born on this day in 1902, Steinbeck wrote many novels that became classics. You may have read Of Mice and Men in your English class. If you did (or if you read it on your own), then you have had a glimpse into Steinbeck's style. He is a writer who believes in the power of friendship and the unbreakable bond of family. He looks lovingly at the lower class and is constantly exploring their seemingly eternal struggle.

If you are interested in Steinbeck and have yet to read Of Mice and Men, I suggest you start there. It is a sliver book ... meaning it is quite short and full of dialogue. You can probably finish it in less than a day, if you are devoted enough.

Once you have finished, you are going to be on a Steinbeck rush. You're going to want more immediately. When that happens, let me know and I will send you a copy of The Grapes of Wrath I have two). Of course, I can only send one copy out so we're going to have to make a contest out of this. Here we go...

Steps to winning a free copy of John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath:
1) Read Of Mice and Men (If you have already read it, you don't need to read it again. Skip to Step Number Two)

2) Write us at word@weeklyreader.com and tell us, in an essay of no more than 1,000 words, how much you loved Of Mice and Men (or hated it) and why you did. (Of course... if you hated it, we'll be less likely to send you the book.) Be sure to include your full name, grade, and email address. Deadline for all entries is April 1, 2006.

3) We will contact the winning student via email and publish your essay here, on our blog.

4) You will receive your copy of The Grapes of Wrath within 4 weeks.

5) Upon receiving The Grapes of Wrath you will dive right into it and become amazed at the power of Steinbeck's writing. You will go on to buy all his other books on your own including East of Eden, The Red Pony, and Travels With Charley.

Steinbeck rulz! Love the Stein. Word.

OK, so I promise this will be the last entry on William Shakespeare for awhile (probably).

In the news this week...

A death mask discovered in 1842 England is now believed to be that of Mr. Shakespeare. It bears the date of 1616, the year in which the playwright and poet died. Also, according to New York Times reporting, it appears to have the same "high forehead, prominent nose, and beard associated with Shakespeare."

Hmm... what do you think?

Too close to call, right? WRONG!

(Warning: unauthorized editorial approaching.)

It is him! Forget science, forget tests, forget all logic and just jump on in. The water's fine. There's too much debate surrounding the man. There has been for too long. People wonder whether Shakespeare was really Shakespeare. Maybe he was some other dude named Christopher Marlowe, maybe he was Sir Francis Bacon (mmm Bacon), maybe he was a group of writers pulling a fast one over centuries of readers ... I'm not going to get into all that here, we pretty much covered it already in READ issue 12. All I want to say now is ... come on, let's let the great one rest in peace and give him back his good name.

The death mask looks like him to me, and frankly, I never needed proof. From the first time I picked up Romeo and Juliet in middle school all the way up to last weekend when I saw a surprisingly strange and silly slapstick performance of As You Like It, I've always believed that Shakespeare is Shakespeare. No matter how much the naysayers nitpick, I will tell you, Shakespeare is Shakespeare. Just as you are you and I am preaching too much.

(Rant over. Probably.)

Anyway, to get back to the point, this is a pretty cool story. You can check out the facts without my idiotic ramblings here.

Have a great weekend.
Word.

Poem by Tom DeLay, Grade 10

Squirrels scampering out of the way

As a singular car

Speeds down the lonely avenue

The crack of a branch

Breaking

Awakens a rabbit

White fur enhances its appearance

The Gabriel of the morning

Calling out for all to hear

That the night has been ended

Raccoons race into hiding

Nocturnal birds soar through the sky

Fighting to get back into safety

Into a fortress of darkness

So evasive to the light

One streak comes out from the heavens

A small overture

For those who are already moving about

Beginning the day's work

Out the pores of the heavens

Come the beams of life

Containing within them the power

To bring to life all that has

Hibernated through the night

Trying to escape their scope

The amoeba of light

Envelops the entire avenue

Tentacles of joviality touching all they can

And showering everything in the celestial glow

Of the new beginning

The day is here

At last

Have you ever wanted to take a writing course but didn't have the money or the time?  Believe me, I can relate -- sometimes it can be hard to find time in your busy schedule to write for fun, much less enroll in a writing class!  But I've found that just writing for a few minutes each day can really add up to pages and pages of writing -- and a writing class provides structure and ideas to help you stick to your writing goals. 

If money's an issue, there are plenty of writing classes out there that charge minimal amounts, or even nothing at all.  My personal favorite is the program created by amazing teen writer Elisabeth Wilhelm at www.learning.absynthemuse.com.  If you're between the ages of 13 and 22, you can go on the website and enroll in writing courses for *free*!  :) There are all sorts of topics available, from finding your own writing voice to promoting your work to the class I am teaching about writing short stories. 

If you're interested in my class, there are still spots available, but act quickly -- the registration deadline is this Saturday, February 25, as the class starts on February 26 and runs for six weeks.  The key code to register for my "Writing the Short Story" class is "lightening bug."  Feel free to e-mail me if you have any questions!

Geez. That's one of my biggest pet peeves actually and I do it all the time. "Finding the Write Mood". Oh how delicious! Do you see what he did there? Instead of "right" he used "write"! It's oh so clever you see, because he is writing about writing and not righting! Oh jolly good. Chuckle chuckle. Grr. Anyway...

I'm not in the right/write mood. I'm working on a play adaptation of... something that will come out in a future issue of READ... and as much as I stare at the book in front of me or hover my fingers over the keyboard, I just know that anything I attempt will come across as unpleasant and sub-par. I didn't even want to write this blog entry about it. That's how much I'm spacing right now. Heh. spacing.                           Get it?

Anyway, something good must come out of this. Someone must help me. Surely you know what I'm tallking about? You have deadlines in school that have to be met. Do you ever sit down to write a paper and soon find yourself face first in your book? Or slamming your forehead into your desk? Or screaming internally? The phase passes in time, but as you stew in it, it seems as if there is no end to the non-creative pit of doldrums you slog about in. Is it laziness? Sure it is. It's also a normal part of being a writer (or any kind of artist for that matter). There will be good. There will be bad. And God help us, there will be ugly. When you're pressed with a paper's deadline or due date and you're stuck in the awful land of nothingness, try something like this.

Just write.

Forget the paper and spout out all your bad feelings. Write about how you can't write. By the time you're done with your tirade, you might actually find that you're rejuvenated and ready to go. Then again, you might feel worse. If that's the case, walk away. Go for a run. Watch bad T.V. Eat a cookie. Eat twelve cookies. Turn up the music and dance on your bed. Play catch with your Dad. Play frisbee with your dog. Go shopping. Buy me something nice. Read a book. Call a friend. Do a handstand. Ride your bike. Take a hike. Eat a snickers. I hear they really satisfy you. Think of new and better slogans for existing products. Post a comment on this blog. Tell us how you can't stand writer's block. How it pains you. What you do to overcome it. What you do when you can't overcome it. Pick a star out of the sky and name it.

Start all over again.

The mood isn't always there and you can't always find it and you can't always fight it. But at least you can write about it. Right? Right?!?!

I dunno. Let me know.

- Short story by Jonathan Miller

The following story was a runner-up in Writing Magazine's Take It From the Top contest last year. The first line of Jonathan's piece "124 was spiteful." was taken from the top of Toni Morrison's Beloved.

124 was spiteful. 132 had big ears. 111 picked his nose. 117 couldn't count very well. 128 drooled. 113 couldn't remember his number. 130 bragged too much about his ability to read Dr. Seuss. And 131 kept a secret.

It had just been one year since they stopped giving people names. No need, they said. Better organized then frivolously creative. This year's first grade class had no need to make the transition since they had given everybody numbers in their kindergarten years. Although the government was said to have been looking for an excuse to help standardize everybody, the court case, which brought it on, involved a simple parental fight over the naming of a child. From seven hours before the child was born until he was sixteen years old, they absolutely could not decide on a name for baby "X." Finally, a lawsuit was filed against them for not naming their son, which went to the supreme court. There, it was decided there would be no more names, just numbers.

It's a crazy crazy winter here in Connecticut. We had one of the warmest Januarys ever last month and very little snow. Oh, except for the Noreaster that brought in over 25 inches this past weekend. That was wild. Currently, it is raining out. But the air is springy and fresh. It's the kind of air you want to breathe, you know? It's as pleasant as a rainy day in February gets.

But you didn't come here to get the weather report. Like the season, I'm just warmin' up. Boo yah!

Heh. Um. I'm just in a good mood. It's Friday and it's warmish out. Most importantly, I'm going to see Shakespeare tonight at a somewhat local college. Ever since I interviewed him for READ (see issue 12), I've had an itchy hankering to see one of his shows. Last weekend, I almost went into the city (of the New York variety) to see Twelfth Night. But something came up, as things tend to do.

Through the magic of the Internet (seriously, how did we ever do anything before the Internet?) I found another Shakespeare play being performed this weekend. It is his comedy As You Like It. I had never read this one before so I took it on the past couple nights. I read the first 4 acts, leaving the 5th and final act a surprise for tonight. Shakespeare is never an easy read, no matter what anyone tells you. In fact, the playwright himself told me that his plays were never intended to be read but to be performed for audiences. So I fretted not upon reading and re-reading and re-reading scenes over and over again. In fact, in this way, you can get a better sense of the action, of the players, of the plot, of the gorgeous language, of the time, of the whole of the essence of the words of the play. But that's just the page.

Tonight, Shakespeare comes to life and I'm so amped for it! Yah! And if you're sitting there rolling your eyes at me... come on... you know there's a part of you that wants to run away and go sing songs and dance and live in the forest. Sound tempting? You can read Shakespeare's As You Like It here.

- Poem by Everett Gunther, Grade 6

Flitting and fluttering over the snow,

Flies the terribly haunting crow.

To and fro it flaps its wings,

Glossy blotches those specious things.

It knows it is a sign of dread,

It makes you toss and turn in bed.

Those hollow, deep, blackened eyes,

Look for food to feed on as a prize.

Inside the dark, wretched bird's nest,

Sleep the ones that will feed on the rest.

Hot off the press: This personal essay contest on Merlyn's Pen starts accepting entries today: 

Guys in the Media Age

So. I don't have a significant other. This isn't something I usually dwell on or even really think about - except, of course, on Valentine's Day. 

Some of my non-writer single friends buy themselves chocolates and flowers and watch sappy chick flick movie marathons. Always a fun option, but I like to take things a step further. Every Valentine's Day, I write a love letter ... to myself.

Before you think I'm crazy, let me explain. Many of us - especially writers, who are constantly editing their work to make it better and receiving writing critiques from others - tend to naturally focus on our insecurities and what we are trying to improve about ourselves. This is good in that it helps us strive to become better individuals, but at the same time can be damaging in the self-esteem department. So this Valentine's Day, I challenge you to take a few minutes to reflect on what you really *love* about yourself. List all your wonderful qualities and talents - maybe you are an incredible ballerina, or know how to play an instrument, or visit senior citizens at a nursing home every week. Perhaps you pride yourself on being honest, or compassionate, or always being able to make people laugh. Instead of only focusing on goals you want to accomplish in the future, think for a bit about all the amazing goals you have reached thus far. You're a pretty neat person! I can't think of a better time than Valentine's Day for the most important love of all: self love.

The 2006 Winter Olympics are here! Well... not here exactly, they're in Turin, Italy... but through the magic of television, it feels like they are here.

Today is just the third day of competition and already, American athletes have had their share of ups and downs. Arguably the biggest story this weekend was figure skater Michelle Kwan's decision to withdraw from the Olympic games. After straining a groin muscle during practice on Saturday, Kwan realized she was not at 100% and sadly gave up her dreams for Olympic gold.

"I respect the Olympics too much to compete and I don't feel I can be at my best." Kwan said. Emily Hughes will be Kwan's replacement on the American team.

In men's downhill skiing, bad boy Bode Miller came in 5th in Sunday's downhill race. Before the games, Miller was the subject of some controversy and made it onto the cover of Time and Newsweek magazines (just to name a few). Now, Miller is going to have to put his first event behind him and ski his heart out in upcoming days in order to get onto that podium and bring home a medal.

One athlete that did live up to the hype was snowboarder Shaun White a.k.a. "The Flying Tomato". White found himself in unfamiliar territory when he failed to qualify in the first trial round. Whether it was nerves or lack of attention, his board came down on the lip of the half-pipe after a jump. Going into the second and final qualifying round (only the top 6 snowboarders from each round would go on to the finals), White nailed his routine and went on to destroy the competition in the finals.

"I wasn't really that nervous, but just before I was about to drop in, my heart kind of fell," White said. "Then I remembered that this is what I do and I just did my thing."

The Olympics will continue through the next two weeks. Who are you rooting for?

Are you watching the Olympics? Do you have a favorite athlete? Write about him/her and send it to us. Click on "Submit Your Writing" in the right hand column. We'll post the best of the best here.

Yesterday, I promised to tell you what Babar and Curious George have in common. OK, here we go:

• Both Babar and Curious George are French. They were born (i.e. created) in Paris, France and ended up in New York.
• Both Babar and Curious George had close calls with extinction early on in their lives. Back to Babar's story. As for Curious George, he may never have been if his creators Hans Augusto (H. A.) and Margret Rey had not managed to smuggle sketches of him out of Paris during WWII? The Ryes traveled far and wide, before settling down in New York City. Read more about the "Journey That Saved Curious George."
• Both Babar and Curious George are roughly the same age. Babar turns 75 this year and Curious George turned 65.
• Both Babar and Curious George are in the news this week. The author of the Babar series won a prestigious award  yesterday -- and today, the new Curious George movie hits the big screen. It features Will Farrell as The Man with the Yellow Hat and music is by one of my favorites, Jack Johnson. Watch the video of "Upside Down."

If you've seen the movie or plan to, click on the <<Post Your Comment>> button below to leave us a review.

Have you ever noticed that when you're thinking about something a lot, you see many things related to it all around you? It happens to me all the time. I'll be thinking about going to Florida and I suddenly start spotting lots and lots of Florida license plates on I-95 while I'm driving to work. ... (I bet you have tons of examples from your own life to share. Click on the "comment" link below to help me make a list.)

So, elephants have been on my mind for the past couple of days. The next issue of Writing has a fun image of an elephant on a red bicycle on its cover ... (Why? you ask. Well, you'll just have to wait and see!) ... and I've been reading and re-reading a pretty cool poem about a spotted pink homeless elephant (The poet shall remain nameless until April, when you crack open our magazine). 

Anyway, I was reading The New York Times today and bumped into a story about Babar, my favorite literary and seemingly immortal elephant.

Did you know?

• This year marks the 75th anniversary of Babar's creation.
• Babar is French.
• "Babar might have passed away prematurely when his original author and illustrator, Jean de Brunhoff, Laurent's father, died of tuberculosis in 1937, six years after bringing the popular character to life. For almost a decade, Babar was in literary limbo. But at age 21 Laurent, who studied art at the same Paris school his father had, decided to resuscitate Babar ..." Why? Read the full article to find out.
• Babar does yoga.
• Author Laurent de Brunhoff is receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award from Child magazine tonight in NYC.
• Babar's latest adventure has taken him on a World Tour. Check it out.

Those of you who are smirking at my excitement about Babar: Hey, it's never too late in life to look at a picture book. Next time you are at a bookstore, go to the children's department and pick up a Babar book ... or one of your childhood favorites. Notice how a picture can sometimes convey a 1,000 words ... and how a few words can tell so much of a story. Both are great writing lessons for all ages.

OK, so that was a tangent. Reading about Babar made me start thinking about monkeys, which reminds me of Curious George. Tune in tomorrow to find out what Babar the elephant and Curious George have in common.

Sonnet by Molly Silverstein, Grade 9

The way the trees move makes me want to smile

Sun shining so brightly through growing trees

Swaying and sweeping forever and a while

Autumn leaves in the cool, blue rushing breeze

Sun shining over the blue expanse

Heat so hot it raises off the cement

Watching the heat move; puts me in a trance

Water on my body, cracking my laments

Sparkling white expanse shocks my numb mind

Cold air past my ears, ringing like a bell

Sunshine bouncing off, creates crystal time

Only for warmth to come and break this spell

Constant cycle brings beauty back to earth

Alive and dead and all starting from birth

Well well well... I must say it's been quite a productive day. After bouncing around the web all day, I came to find out that, guess what?, I hit every single page there is! That's right, I came to the end of the Internet! I didn't think it existed either. But it does.

Don't believe me?

Click here... if you dare...

Story by Amanda Walgrove, Grade 10

The heavy barricade suffocated her mind from all reality as it closed with a thud.  Her stomach dropped freely and with a quiet blink she saw the words "Stage Door" one last time.

"Break a leg, sweetie" and "You're gonna be great!" were phrases she had heard only seconds ago, yet they disappeared into another world once her eyes discovered the stage before her.  The other side welcomed her with a shock of icy air that could've come from a crisp winter day; she didn't care to remember that outside those four midnight walls, the sun was reaching its peak. The frosty breeze filled her mind and pumped warm blood to her heart which danced inside of her.  The contrast was invigorating. Her monologue became a catchy tune that jogged through her memory in preparation.  It drowned out the high notes that bounced off of the balcony of the hushed audience.  She told herself to have fun and enjoy the experience as if it was just that simple. When she finally came to peace with her thoughts, applause filled the auditorium and her heart kicked.  Her legs carried her center sage and when the bright red "X" was greeted by her toes, she lifted her eyes to the lights and sang her song.

Poem by Carol Kuruvilla, Grade 11

the river creaks through ancient city gates
falling in drops that kiss the dust
on the sun streaked marble

plains of my face that
hate the way you look at me as
if I hurt you with this white morning

lie on the water while the gondola
swings softly with the current
of splintered, unsteady ocean

waves that would shatter and curse the moment
I broke the light with my tempest
so strong I don't hate

you touch the sleeping water
and drown in the echoes of silence
that cry between our bridge of sighs

I've been putting this post off for way too long. I apologize for that. But it is certainly a topic that all of our readers should be aware of. It is about a controversy surrounding a man named James Frey and his book.

A Million Little Pieces came out in hardcover in 2003. It is the story (remember that word) of Frey's addiction to drugs and alcohol, his agonizing recovery in a Minnesota drug treatment center, and finally, his salvation. The book details, in graphic, gory detail, many horrific episodes in Frey's life. His strength and courage to beat his addiction down (in the face of terrible odds) touched many readers. One of those readers was Oprah.

Oprah Winfrey has a book club, maybe you've heard of it? Whenever she recommends a book to the world, the world reads that book. When she recommended Frey's A Million Little Pieces, it got the attention of millions of previously untapped readers. Everyone was shocked by Frey's life story. It was amazing. At one point in the book, Frey wrote that because of his drug addiction, he had to endure a root canal without novacaine. Readers squirmed and suffered along with the author. The connection was unbreakable. This man was an inspiration. His memoir was unbelievable. In fact, maybe it was too unbelievable.