Tomorrow is April Fool's Day. Woo Hoo! In honor of this silly day, I've written a story for you. It's not exactly an original. Have you ever heard the story of The Emperor's New Clothes? Well, this is just an updated version of that. Hope you enjoy! Happy April Fools!

The Emperor's New Digs
- Short story by Bryon Cahill

Many, many years ago there lived a dude. The dude’s name was Calvin but everyone called him the Emperor. He obtained his self-proclaimed royal nickname when he won the lottery. But it wasn’t just any lottery. Calvin won the largest prize money in the history of legalized gambling. After taxes, he took home a little over $14 billion.

"Dude," his best friend Roy said upon hearing the news. "Did you say billion? Like, with a B?"

"Totally man, billion! Fourteen of ‘em!" Calvin was in awe of himself. "Oh, and don’t call me Dude anymore. Call me… The Emperor."

"OK dude… I mean, The Emperor." Roy didn’t care if it was ridiculous. His friend was a billionaire! He’d address him as the Pope if that’s what he wanted to be called. "Well what do you want to do with the money first?"

"Roy," the Emperor said as he looked around his cramped and ugly studio apartment, "I gots ta get me some new digs."

"Right on, man. Definitely!" Roy said and high-fived The Emperor.

After a brief, idiotic display of air guitar and head-banging, The Emperor came back to his senses and dug the phone book out from under a pile of garbage on the floor. He flipped through the yellow pages and looked under H for House Builders. "Wait, house builders? No, man, look under C for contractors!" Roy stated proudly, as if it was the first three syllable word he had ever uttered.

The Emperor called up three contractors before he realized that first he needed an architect to draw up a design. He then called up three architects before he realized that he first needed to know what kind of a house he wanted. "A big one." He shouted into the phone, "A really really big one!" But the architects he was dealing with were not professionals. They needed more to go on. They needed ideas and The Emperor had none. "What are we going to do?" The Emperor asked Roy. "Who would have thought that winning the lottery would be such a bummer!"

"What you need is someone to make your decisions for you," Roy said. "That way, you could just sit back and chill and not worry about a thing."

"That would be sweet!" The Emperor said. "Roy, I appoint you as my royal decision maker." Calvin certainly wasn’t royalty, but Roy didn’t split hairs. He saw his opportunity and he seized it. His eyes were hazed over with the green green of money money.

"All right then, The Emperor, leave everything to me." Roy spoke with a sinister grin on his face but the Emperor did not notice. He was too busy not having a thought in his head.

Sunday, March 26 was Make Up Your Own Holiday Day. We were so busy celebrating WRITING magazine day (we took the day off!) that we forgot (oops!) to post the fantastic ideas for made-up holidays that we received from you, our dear readers. We feel terrible about our state of discombobulation, but perhaps we can convince you to celebrate today as Make Up Make Up Your Own Holiday Day ... and Forgive Your Tardy Editor day?

Read on. Today, we're featuring some of the most intriguing holiday ideas that we received.

by Taylor Masterson, Grade 7

What you do on this holiday is celebrate your name by bringing in a meal that starts with the letter of your name.  Since, my name is Taylor; I could possibly make tacos, tamales, or even toasted raviolis. When you arrive at your Name Day house you set down your dish and start talking about the origin of your name or why you received it.  So for example I would say, "Hi, my name is Taylor and my dad chose this name for me because it was the name of his favorite golf club, Taylor Made." After that you will all enjoy dinner. While you are doing that you will guess who made it depending on the name of that dish.  The person who guesses the most dishes right, will win a gift certificate to a restaurant that starts with the same letter of their name. Finally, everyone will leave and go back to their house.  While they are there you can think about how special you and your name really are.

By Michael Schwendeman, Grade 7

This is a day when kids across the world are praised for their hard work in school and in life.  All of the kids across the world ages 18 or below (sometimes the kid/young adult will decide) get to choose everything and anything they want to do this day.  All of the parents across the world have to listen to their kids and do what they say no matter what the kids want to do.  If the kid wants to go to the amusement park for the day, they the parents have to take them there.  Of course, all of the amusement parks and putt-putt courses and restaurants will be "kids ride free" or "kids putt free" or "kids eat free".  Everywhere will be kid friendly and welcome kids in whenever they want.   The hours of this magnificent day will be from 12:01 AM to 11:59 PM.  All of the kids across the world will be able to enjoy a school-free day and be able to relax.

Ashley, Grade 7

So, you get to make up your own holiday?  Why not a National No Homework Day?   Whenever you come home from school and you have a ton of homework, the first thing you say to your mom when you walk in the door is, "I wish I could just kick back and relax".  Well, this National holiday says that you can!  Every March third is now called National No Homework Day.  For one school day each year you can just put your backpack, full of books, to the side.  You finally get the chance to relax and not worry about anything, even though you have an assignment notebook page filled with things for you to do. So, just remember and wait for National No Homework day every year and wish that everyday was March third.

by Bob, Grade 7

National Ice Cream Eating Day would obviously be a day where everyone in the country gets free ice cream! Everyone would be off of school on this day. There would be ice cream stands set up all over town and kids would ride their bikes from stand to stand and try all of the flavors. 
   At the end of the day everyone able to come within the USA would gather at Queeny Park for an ice cream contest. I'd be the judge since National Ice Cream Eating Day would be held on my birthday March, 24th. The winner who made the best ice cream would get a $1,000.42 cash prize. There would be a bunch of attractions at Queeny Park, it wouldn't just be a Holiday it would be a national celebration. There would be rides, slushies, ice cream (of course), funnel cakes and a live demo from Tony Hawk, Rodney Mullen, Bam Margera, Mike Valleley, and Ryan Sheckler (pro skaters), and we'd keep adding people annually to skate. Afterwards they would sign autographs and the ramps would be free to skate by anyone who wanted to. (That's a lot of people!!!)
   At night time around 9:00pm we'd have a huge 20ft tall birthday cake for me every year I'm alive and then there would be fireworks and of course ... ICE CREAM!!!!!!!

It was on this day in 1952 that the classic childrens' novel Charlotte's Web was published. The book by E.B. White has received many awards and praises over the years, but none can match the bright eyed enthusiasm of a young reader flipping these pages for the first time.

I read Charlotte's Web when I was in the third grade. I remember that I read it from cover to cover in a matter of five or six hours while my babysitter was downstairs watching her stupid soap opera and eating Oreos (it has been awhile and perhaps my details are flawed... they may have been Girl Scout Cookies... probably Thin Mints).

It was the first book I had ever looked at that could hold my interest for more than a fleeting moment. I devoured it. I was in tears by the end of the book. Whatever, I was 8. I was allowed a little emotion. Anyway, to make a short story shorter, the book rocked my world. And yet, for some reason, I haven't picked it up again since.

This weekend I shall remedy that. Care to join me? You won't be sorry. If you've never read this book, you're in for quite a treat. ... I suppose I have to buy Oreos now, too. Sheesh!

A short by Garrick, Grade 10

Cotton candy clouds lazily cross the baby blue sky. A gentle summer breeze lightly caresses a sea of grass as my baby brother laughs with sheer joy flying his bright red kite which flutters in the wind, a soaring phoenix. I watch him and silently chuckle to myself, "Not a care in the world." I lean against a great oak, the shade protecting me from the smiling sun, when from above a blue jay's song drops to earth and sings along with the chorus of life.

Today I attended the Celebration of Teaching and Learning in New York City. It was an all day event in which educators from all over came to share their love of what they do... and get free stuff.

One of the highlights of the day (and there were many) was getting to hear Frank McCourt speak about what it means to be a teacher and writer. Long before Mr. McCourt won his Pulitzer Prize for his novel Angela's Ashes, he was an English and Writing teacher in New York Public schools for over 25 years!

McCourt was born in Brooklyn and his family moved to Ireland when he was very young. There, he endured grim poverty, witnessed horrific illnesses, and suffered an alcoholic father. One of the reasons McCourt is such a respected writer is that he illustrates who he is and where he comes from with such shameless honesty and humourous bravado that, in reading him, you feel as if you are walking alongside him through his life.

When he returned to New York from Ireland at the age of 19, McCourt set out to become a Writing teacher. After a few bumpy years of rooting out the teacher he so wanted to be, McCourt began to light his students' creative spark by asking them to pen the pages of themselves. "I tried to show my students the significance of their own lives which they sometimes thought insignificant," McCourt once said. "I hoped they'd realize the value of their own lives, that they were good enough to write about. So they took the plunge and they wrote and some were willing to read to the class and I think they were glad they did."

That is what makes an effective writer of non-fiction, my friends. When writing about your life, hold nothing back. Be unafraid to delve into the deepest sections of your heart--so deep that even you have yet to find them. You can discover the most wonderous things about who you are, once were, and who you aim to be, just by writing. And it can be as secret or public as you like. You can write your innermost fears and desires in your journal and lock it away under your bed... or write what makes you happy and share it with all your friends and family... or write what makes you different from the rest of the world and submit it to a popular magazine--perhaps one that has a blog (wink wink :).

However much you care to disclose is completely up to you. Just remember to never be ashamed for who you are and never ever lie about yourself when you are attempting to get at the real you in your words. You're in there. Don't deny it. Write it.

You can purchase and/or read an excerpt of Frank McCourt's new book Teacher Man here.

Short story by Michael Schonhoff, Grade 8

He carried a single, small bag with him, for that was all that he owned. He was wearing old cloth pants with holes at the knees. His shoes looked like they had been used for target practice, with holes almost everywhere. Through these holes his dirty, calloused feet were showing.  His shirt was much too big for his skinny body. It went down to his lower hip and bunched up everywhere. He had found the shirt in a rich man's trash; it was all white with a dark, brown coffee stain running down the middle. The white shirt made a deep contrast to his dark skin. His face was thin and narrow. His sharp eyes caught every movement, for he had needed them to when he was a beggar. He had curly, black hair that was not much longer than his finger length.

He did not know what he was going to do once he got there. He did not even know if they were going to let him in. He did not know how they were going to test him.  He only knew that he was headed for a better place--America. He had often heard stories about America as a little boy. As he had sat in the town center of the small village, he had heard someone talking about a county where money was infinite and everyone was happy. As a little boy, he had believed them. He had marveled at the thoughts of splendid food, nice clothes, and money. He had been a beggar then, as a little boy. People looked at his skinny, raggedly-clothed body, and they felt sorry for him. But in a country as poor as his, he rarely received any handouts. One time, he had received a whole Naira though, one time, long ago. 

But now he was on the boat. The boat--it was a horrid, cramped place. The decks were packed to the fullest with people like him, people looking for a better life.  He did not know anyone on the boat. He did not even see any other people who were Nigerian.

Hey, it's Spring!

Write something.

Word.

Going to college in a big city like Los Angeles, not only am I lucky to be surrounded by a variety of people and experiences to write about, but there are also unbelievable cultural and artistic venues right down the street.  I recently had the thrilling opportunity to see Billy Crystal's Broadway show "700 Sundays," which is now playing in L.A. at the Wilshire Theater.  Crystal is one of my favorite actors -- I fell in love with him the first time I saw the movie "When Harry Met Sally"  -- and I was blown away by his charisma and talent as an actor.  What impressed me even more, however, was the way he wrote the dramatic autobiographical script, weaving real-life events from his childhood together to create a poignant, funny, touching 2-hour play. 

Whether you enjoy writing fiction, poetry, nonfiction, or plays, I think all writers can learn from Crystal's example of the emotional power of bringing real experiences into your writing.  Even though "700 Sundays" took place in New York in the 1950s -- a time and place distinctly different from my childhood in California at the turn of the millenium -- I felt so in touch with the play's characters and their plights.  Why?  Because Crystal wrote his script from the heart.  When I write fiction, I try to do the same thing, and draw on my own feelings and experiences when writing experiences of the characters.  I think this emotional awareness in turn resonates with the reader -- and, like Crystal's play has stayed in my mind, your work will stick with your audience as well.  In the writing world, that's what I call a standing ovation! :)     

Calling all teenage girl writers, between 13 and 17. Here's a great opportunity to get published.

A magazine editor Amy Goldwasser is putting together a book of essays by teen girls. Here's a snippet from her call for submissions:

I want to work with the girls, editor at their service, with more attention than I’d give any overrated old professional writer. I want to put their essays out there because they’re great reads and need a proper place in literature, not because they’re some misguided grownup idea of what kids today are up to, keeping it real. This is a chance for them, as writers, to speak to a broader audience and with more staying power and legitimacy than the web allows.  ... So if you know any girls, age 13-18, who’d like to submit a piece of personal non-fiction for consideration, please pass this invitation onto them. ...

Amy is looking for absolutely any subject matter and the essay "may already exist (from a school assignment, from a blog, e-mail to a friend, anything) or be an original work." More details.

The deadline for submissions is Friday, April 7 and all correspondence should be sent to to amyg@earthlink.net with “my essay” as the subject.

Good luck!

There was a time when people believed that science could solve the world’s problems. Great science fiction stories gave us moving sidewalks, floating cities, and Star Trek. But somewhere along the line, the dream of a better future through technology became hazy.

 

Perhaps it was the Cold War (leaders using science to make weapons that could blow up the planet 1,000 times over). Perhaps it was the environmental crisis (global warming). Perhaps it was the disappointment of watching the millennium change without the invention of personal jet packs (or at least floating skateboards). Whatever it was, science lost some of its luster in our culture these last few decades. But I think it’s on its way back.

 

The U.S. is starting to pour resources into science education, and our nation’s students are proving to be extremely competent and imaginative researchers.

 

  

Shannon Babb, 17, won the Intel Science Talent Search this year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Witness exhibit A: the Intel Science Talent Search (STS). It's the most prestigious high school science competition in the country, and this year's winners were announced on Tuesday. Check out the winning projects by reading on. There might be hope for a better future through science yet ...

 

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face
And rains fall soft upon your fields
And until we meet again
May God hold you in the hollow of His Hand.

                  - Traditional Irish Blessing

 

 

Short Story by Alyssa Maurer, Grade 9

Mrs. Engall was supposed to be the strict, overbearing headmistress of her medieval-style boarding school.  She was supposed to reflect the cold, stone walls of her domain, and see to it that her students were delivered boring but beneficial lessons and unpleasant punishments.  She was supposed to realize their fears.  But Mrs. Engall did none of those things.  Her cat, Champagne--who was nowhere near the color of champagne--did all those things for her.
 
Mrs. Engall was not quite old, yet her middle-aged skin was etched with the wrinkles of stress.  The stress, however, was useless, but Mrs. Engall insisted on being needlessly afraid, worthlessly antisocial, and unnecessarily libel to snap at any moment.  She hardly ever left her office, therefore when a student was being mischievous, Champagne would simply pierce his or her skin with her unusually sharp claws.
 
When Evelyn Cluffersnap arrived at Mrs. Engall's boarding school, promptly named the Upside of Downside Educational Instruction and Living Quarters, she found the whole situation rather odd.  You see, even if her mother had been a fairly strange individual (she had been imprisoned for disorderly conduct at a taxidermy supply company protesting dead animal rights) and her father had been a relatively out of the ordinary person (he had accidentally plunged his car into an ocean and drowned while driving blindfolded), they had at least left the confines of their home.  Mrs. Engall rarely left her office, let alone the top floor of the castle-like boarding school that she occupied.  After a week of school without seeing the headmistress once, Evelyn decided to go see her, and she brought a lovely basket of fruit to give her as well.  But when she arrived at her closed office door, knocked, and, when there was no answer, tried to turn the doorknob, she found that it was undeniably locked.
 
"Mrs. Engall?" she asked tentatively, in her squeaky, high-pitched voice.  "Are you in there?"  Evelyn gasped when a wide eye appeared at the keyhole of the knob.

"What do you want?" said Mrs. Engall in a quick, nervous voice.
 
"I've brought you some fruit," replied Evelyn.
 
"Well, slide whatever you've got under the door.  I don't have time for visitors."
 
"I don't think this basket will fit under the door, Mrs. Engall."  There was a moment of silence in which the smile that had been gracing Evelyn's face turned to a slight frown.  Suddenly...
 
"I SAID I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR VISITORS!" roared Mrs. Engall, and Evelyn's little form hopped with each earsplitting syllable.  She dropped the fruit basket in front of the door, which spilled and sent two apples and a pineapple rolling down the hallway, and ran back to the elevator in which she had come up.  She did not relax or slow down until she reached her dormitory, which she shared with a grouchy piece of work named Yvonne, who always wore black and spoke in only a deep, bitter tone.  Evelyn found her quite disturbing, for Evelyn was a cheerful soul who believed that the color of clothing one wore could alter one's mood.  Yvonne chuckled sinisterly as Evelyn ran inside the dormitory and slammed the door closed.
 
"So, did Mrs. Engall like her fruit basket?" she asked, smiling slightly but not looking up from the composition notebook lying open in her lap.

Beware the Ides of March. Um, OK.

Wanna hear something kinda creepy? I've been reading this book by Matt Ruff called Fool On The Hill for awhile now and I just finished it this morning. The book is like a pleasant windy dream and I recommend it to anyone who has a taste for fantasy mixing in with the real world. That's not the creepy part. The creepy part is that the final section of the book (Part IV) is called "The Ides of March". Hot dog! Guess what today is?

If you haven't clicked on the link for The Ides of March above, let me briefly explain to you that today, March 15th, was the day when Julius Caeser was assasinated in 44 B.C. Huh, that was pretty brief. Click on a link for more.

Actually, "creepy" was a bad word choice. I should have said "cosmic". I had read Fool before, but forgot that it ended on The Ides of March. As I was reading, I had also forgot that today was the very day that the story came to a climax. Fantasy and reality intertwined yet again. Creepy... I mean, cosmic. Yah!

Hail Caeser! - I somehow managed to get through this whole post without mentioning Shakespeare! Well... until now anyway. Shakespeare's play, Julius Caeser, details the conspiracy and murder of the Roman dictator. Interested? You can read the play here.

Thanks to Gus Kihn, a 7th grade student in Chesterfield, Missouri who sent us the drawing below. In case you can't tell, it says "I love writing. I love the way it lets me peek into new worlds."

Amen, brother.

Starting today, The Slate (a web site devoted to news, the arts, politics, health, sports, food, and pretty much anything they feel like writing about at any given moment) will be host to a new, exciting venture in novel writing. Walter Kirn, author of the 1999 smash hit Thumbsucker, is going to be writing a new novel called The Unbinding, and it will be written exclusively for the web and take place in real time.

According to the article on Slate, The Unbinding is "a dark comedy set in the near future, [it] is a compilation of "found documents"--online diary entries, e-mails, surveillance reports, etc. It will make use of the Internet's unique capacity to respond to events as they happen, linking to documents and other Web sites. In other words, The Unbinding is conceived for the Web, rather than adapted to it."

Sounds like quite an interctive story! As of 10:58 this morning, the beginning of the novel has yet to be posted. Actually, scratch that, they just posted it! To read the first installment of The Unbinding, click here.

The novel will be updated roughly two times a week from now through the month of June.

Happy reading!

Later this month, the editors of Writing will be interviewing the phenomenal fantasy author Ursula K. LeGuin for an upcoming issue.

Have you read The Earthsea Cycle series, Gifts, or any of her other books? Do you have a question for the author about one of her books? Are you curious about her writing influences? Do you wish she could give you a specific piece
of writing advice? 

 Submit your question(s) for her to us by March 19. We'll add the top five questions to our list and mention your name in our September 2006 issue!

PS: Ursula K. LeGuin will be a guest judge for our 2006 Writing contest. Stay tuned for details in April!

You see it when you walk to a train station or drive underneath a freeway overpass. Massive multicolored stretches of intricate figures and designs. What is it? What does it say? What does it mean? Who put it there? How did they do it? Why did they do it?

 

It has been called graffiti. It has been called mural art. It has been called vandalism. It has been called a crime, and people have been arrested for it. It all depends on where it is, who made it, and who is looking at it. Nowadays, many cultural critics and art proponents call it Aerosol Art. But, whatever people call it, they have to admit how amazing it is.

 

Back in the day, "graffiti" was an act of vandalism and protest. Artists would sneak into the subway yards in New York City and write their names in huge letters on the outside of trains. They were throwing up a flag, trying to remind the world that seemed swept up in the materialism of the disco era and the 1980s that they were there, and they mattered. Over the years, the style and names have changed. Some graffiti is done illegally on public property and some of it is done legally in designated areas (like this picture of 17-year-old Detroit artist Rudy Alcala).

 

 

Now, some businesses and popular culture merchants have co-opted the graffiti style to sell products.

 

All in all, Aerosol Art has become a case study in how the counterculture is absorbed by the culture. In some cases, the art form is no longer a rebellion, but a sales tactic. However, that doesn't mean that the artistic spirit is dead. On the contrary, creative public art can be a part of every day life and still rebel against materialism.

 

If you ever have the opportunity to choose your own research project, consider investigating Aerosol Art: that mysterious writing on the wall. Everyone sees it, but not everyone knows what it is. People dismiss it as the work of gangs, but if you stop to realize how huge an undertaking these murals are, you'll quickly see that they are the work of artists. (In some cases, misguided, misanthropic artists, but artists.)

 

Now when you see those giant spray-paint murals, be inspired by the human ability to create art in adverse conditions. But please ... don't spray paint anything because you read this blog.

 

For an interesting starter interview about Aerosol Art, go here.

 

To see some examples of urban youth practicing Aerosol Art, go here.

 

Short Story by Adam Holland, Grade 8

 

          A lone woman, mounted on horseback and carrying a heavy spear, rode over the hill. She looked out over the battlefield. She could see the opposing army at the other end of the field. The field was beautiful. Flowers were blooming on it, the grass was green, and butterflies fluttered about. The woman, the Queen of Jeremiah, raised an eyebrow. In moments this field would be trampled and covered with the dead. She almost felt remorse. Almost.
          She tapped the spear butt against the ground three times, and her army approached behind her. The infantry was in the first line. Behind them, the cavalry, two monks brought for good luck and healing, and a pair of massive siege towers. 
     

          "Attack!" roared the Queen. The lead member of the cavalry bounded over the first line of infantry and charged forward. As he moved, the other army sent forth infantry. The Queen rode into battle, cleaving the infantryman to the ground. The battle was on. 

          The King of Mathew watched the massive battle from the wall. Things did not look well. His strategy seemed somehow flawed; the opposing army was tearing through with ease. The siege towers were getting dangerously close to the wall. He quickly moved into the tower on the wall, spreading a map of the field before him. He had marks where his armies were positioned. Things seemed to be going as planned, and yet...
          Then he found it. The flaw. The area he had left uncovered, where his enemies could break through. He ran back out to the wall, hoping he could find some way to relay the information to his army. But it was too late. Even as he reached the wall, one of the siege towers reached them, a bridge crashing down on the wall. Several foot soldiers stood in the tower. "It is over," one of them called. "Surrender!"
          The King ran back toward his tower, only to see a pair of swordsmen emerge. He turned to the stairs down from the wall, but a knight and the Queen of Jeremiah blocked the staircase. He was trapped.

          "Checkmate," said Jeremiah, leaning back in his chair with a smile. Mathew frowned.
          "Shoot. The rook again," he muttered, seeing his mistake clearly now.
          "Don't be a bad sport, Mathew," said Jeremiah playfully to his friend.
          "I'll get you one of these days," returned Mathew, still trying to be angry, and failing.
          "Actions speak louder," said Jeremiah, folding the pieces into the box and folding the checkered board.
          "You watch," protested Mathew. "You can't keep using that bloody rook forever."
          Shaking his head, Jeremiah slid the board into the Chess set and rose to his feet.

I'm taking an "Introduction to Guitar" class this semester at USC. I've always wanted to play the guitar, and I thought I would take advantage of being in college with an extra 2 units to spare and *go for it*! Well, don't let the name fool you -- "Intro to Guitar" ended up being my most difficult class this semster.  Everything is new: I'd never read music before, never held a guitar in my arms, never tapped out a rhythm with my foot on the floor as I tried to decide where the chords changed in a song. It was like learning a new language -- everything was so completely and utterly foreign.  And do you know what?  As difficult as the class is, I LOVE it!  It is probably my most favorite class this semester, too.  I am proud to report that my guitar playing is improving by the day (how could it not?) and I even got a blister on one of my fingers from practicing -- it made me feel like a true musician! :)

Now, if you'll exuse me, I'm going to go practice guitar.  "Mary Had a Little Lamb" has never before seemed such a wonderful song as when I played it for the first time on my guitar!  Now I'm on to "Amazing Grace."  Woo-hoo!

Poem by Alison Louis, Grade 11

 

Walking down the sidewalk

taking in the surrounding beauty

feel the cold breeze on my cheeks

see the snow falling all around me

 

long hair catches many passing flakes

gives them a chance to be seen on their own

the sunlight reflects, the world is sparkling

all with a gorgeous bright glow

 

the freshly fallen layer

the blanket of white snow

the calm, still silence captures what I love

about winters in Buffalo

 

It's miserable out there. I'm going to try to describe today's weather on the Eastern seaboard without using the standard nouns and adjectives -- winter storm, snow, sleet, cloudy, wintry mix, icy, or slippery ...  

My coat is tightly buttoned. My fleece hat is pulled down over my ears. And, my feet are firmly entrenched in water-proof boots. 
   "I can do this," I think to myself as I walk to my car, breathing out into my woolen scarf.  
   My optimism fades quickly. The sky is covered with a giant grey blanket and is raining down pellets of crunchy marshmallows all over me. I blink away the moist flakes of cold from my eyes and tread gingerly on the ice-rink beneath me. 
   I sigh. This is going to be a long day.

Hmm... that was a fun exercise. It forced me to show, not tell - and gave me an opportunity to create a scene and to instill a feeling in my reader.

Now it's your turn: Write a paragraph describing a room that the reader absolutely not want to go into.  Do this without using a single negative adjective. Submit your paragraphs to us in the "Comments" section below.  

Yes, I'm talking about LOST. I could go on and on about how great last night's episode was ... the one where Claire retraces her steps back to the underground bunker where Ethan took her when she was pregnant and discovers that the French woman actually saved her and brought her back to her camp! OMG how good was that?!? ... but is it really blogworthy to talk about such things? Probably not. I don't want to scare away the non-Lost watching audience, here. So let me try to forego my enthusiasm for the show and get to the point.

All plotlines aside, there was some interesting dialogue last night about how Hemingway was supposedly very intimidated and influenced by Dostoevsky. Now being a strong proponent of not believing anything you see on T.V., I, of course had to google it. I didn't find much. Sorry to let you down. I do have this, however, from Wikipedia:

"American novelist Ernest Hemingway also cited Dostoevsky in his autobiographic books, as a major influence on his work."

Hmm... I was hoping for more.

KYW editor and sporadic blogger, Jeff Ives, just told me that it has been said that Doestoevsky wrote his works seamlessly without effort. That may have pinched Ernest's creative nerve. I wonder if it heightened his respect for Dostoevsky or if it enflamed his jealousy? All writers need other writers to look up to. We need our influences so we can hope to achieve (or daresay surpass) their greatness. Who are your influences?

If anyone else knows about this Hemingway/Dostoevsky connection, please let me know. Or, if you just want to talk about LOST for hours, I'm your guy.