What's Elizabeth Reading? ... Coelho

The depths of my brother's closet of books produced The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho for my reading pleasure the past couple days. It was ... interesting. I'm not sure there's a lot to say about it, actually.


It's a philosophical book in the same way that The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery (one of my all-time favorites - I actually carry a copy of it in my purse at all times) is a philosophical book. Both take place in Africa, now that I think about it.

Now, I've only read Coelho's book once, and I've read The Little Prince countless number of times, but I still think there is more to The Little Prince than there is to The Alchemist. I might be wrong. Maybe more will show up if I read it again (which I'm not planning on doing anytime soon). In comparison, The Alchemist was heavy-handed; there was little to no subtlety about its message. I'm sure some people like that. I've learned, however, that I'm a reader (and writer) who enjoys digging for deeper meaning and ideas instead of having them handed to me. I want to ask my own questions and find my own answers in the text, something The Alchemist did not seem to encourage. Not only was I not invited to ask my own questions, but I was handed answers to those questions the text forced me to ask.

I sound like I'm holding a grudge, don't I? I guess I'm terribly biased in favor of The Little Prince. I'm unrepentant, though. Sorry.

The few times when I did ask my own question, the answer was decidedly shrouded in mysticism. Like when I wondered something so simple as how the wind was talking. Talking wind is a logical jump, something Coelho is asking me to believe simply because I'm in a world of fiction. The problem is that his "Language of the World" is made up of body language and the vibes given off by emotion, and he never explains how understanding that language translates into understanding how to talk to the wind, the desert, or anything else.

But what about the central message, Elizabeth? Surely you can set all this aside in deference to Coelho's message? ... I'll have to think about it. The logical jumps really got in the way for me. I guess I like that the ending circled around, kind of a experience-is-worth-the-trouble message. I did like the mini stories that popped up here and there, so Coelho's at least got that going for him.

Okay, there is one message I got and liked from The Alchemist. I just remembered it. I liked the idea of how the world and fear can get in the way of achieving one's dream, but that we need to move forward anyway.

My dream is to be a published novelist that is read. I've always wanted to write books, ever since I first learned to write. I went to college and am getting a degree that many would consider useless, all because I wanted to study and become a better writer. I started this blog because having a writer's blog makes sense to me in the long run. I'm pursuing my dream. Andrew Carnegie once said that the first third of a person's life should be spent learning, the second part working/earning money, and the third part spending all that money to benefit others. I am not as money-centered as I'm sure Carnegie was, but I love the idea of a life divided into thirds. The only problem is that I don't know when I'll die. Oh, and there's the problem that I love learning and want that third to last my entire life (hopefully not because I die that soon, but because I just never stop learning). I'm in my learning stage right now, and I'm headed in the right direction to achieve my dream. Reader, I hope you are doing likewise.

Cool

This was my first attempt at a poem that is meant to be read aloud. So go ahead and charm the person next to you with your dramatic reading of it. I hope you enjoy it.

Cool

This summer, I learned cool.

I learned it because I hung with someone different from me,

Someone whose father’s job was playing lottery,

Someone who grew up in SoCal but took themselves to Disneyland when they were nineteen

because they were tired of seeing happiness via widescreen,

Someone who looked at me in the Safeway parking lot and asked, “You’re a virgin?”

My response: “Yes. That surprise you?”

This summer, I learned my family is cool,

Cool because we shingled our own roof and had neighbors stopping by with lemonade,

Cool because we all attend my sister’s bedroom floor tea parties,

Cool because we had a masquerade while we were camping,

Cool because us kids would play baseball in the backyard—

Almost enough of us to play, but not quite,

so we’d just use the person on second when we ran out of batters.

I learned that cool isn’t Fonzie like my mom said it is,

And, second-hand from someone who was the stereotype of cool,

I also learned cool isn’t getting drunk and having a one-night stand,

And threesomes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

My professor told me he’s never seen a family that is a team,

That faces life like the Avengers upholding each other’s dreams.

It’s sad that the part of my story that I thought was cliché

Is the part that makes it interesting and intriguing and cool—

It’s that sister who’s moved out and Skypes the younger for her birthday.

They have a Play-Doh sculpting competition judged by Mom.

I learned that cool is knowing the rules to Dominion,

Watching meteor showers while lying on a backyard trampoline,

Wearing a friendship bracelet made by my sister,

Knowing how to roast a marshmallow so it looks like the sunset,

And having the patience to stand up to jerks

Coupled with the self-control to not lash back.

And what’s cool about it all isn’t the glamour or the glory or the gold,

Because that stuff isn’t there.

What’s cool is that the life I was born living

is the one a broken Cinderella somewhere is wishing for,

thinking it’s impossible.

But I’m here to tell you it is possible.

That’s not to say we have it all, though,

Because we don’t.

I borrowed my prom dress,

I used fourth-hand skis,

I spent summers doing work outside,

I wore Wal-Mart to a high school that shopped at designer stores,

Every weekend, I helped take care of my great-grandmother from Germany,

And Ben Franklin became my hero because he thought up the lending library.

This summer I learned that Dorothy was right when she said there’s no place like home,

when she abandoned those ruby shoes

And all the fame from Emerald City.

I learned she was right because this summer, I learned about cool.

And it’s family and home and kickin’ it old school.

On Fiction; also, Lara Vapnyar

As an English major, I've heard about the New Yorker. No, I can't recall ever hearing about it outside of school. My parents don't even get the newspaper, why would they get an upscale literary magazine, if that's what you would call the New Yorker? Anyway, a while back, I decided to take a look at it.

The first complete story I read was Katania by Lara Vapnyar. I started reading it only knowing it was a short story. I didn't know what it would be about, I didn't know the genre, I had no familiarity with the author. I just knew it was probably well-written, since it was in the New Yorker. After a little while of reading, I realized I still didn't know if the story was fiction or nonfiction. As soon as I realized this, I started trying to decide which it was. Then, almost as soon as I started wondering, I decided I did not care if the story was fiction or nonfiction. This was, for me, a first.

I cannot recall ever not being able to tell; then again, I've always entered a story knowing one way or the other. I did make a bad mistake in one of my writing classes this past semester, when a woman was asking us to help her decide whether to workshop one short story or a different one, and I told her to do the first because in the second, I could care less about the female narrator who was talking about a life-threatening illness she had. Turns out the second one was autobiographical nonfiction. Whoops.

It turns out that Katania is fiction, written by a woman who was born Russian. To date, the only stories she has written for the New Yorker have been about Russians. Talk about writing about what you know. I haven't read her other stuff, but the one story was incredibly believable. The details were realistic, precise, and in just the right places. As I said, I couldn't tell if it was fiction or nonfiction. For a short story like that, I really can't think of any praise that could be higher, unless the story has changed my life (but it hasn't, so I can't say that).

This story helped to illustrate to me just how incredible and realistic fiction can be (but hey, who needs completely realistic fiction? Not a requirement!). I have always preferred fiction to nonfiction (unless you count myths or scripture, but I'm setting those aside as being different from your regular nonfiction). If you look at where the American education system is going right now, it looks like I might be in the minority, though. The new Common Core standards specify that students' reading be made up of 70 percent nonfiction and only 30 percent fiction. I'll be honest and say when I first read that, I thought it was an error. I still think it's an error, but the error doesn't lie with the news media.

One of my favorite quotes, something that is on the first page of my OneNote work notebook, is by Albert Einstein: "Logic can get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere." In a world that is placing an increasing amount of emphasis on critical thinking skills, imagination is an essential. Someone without imagination would turn out to be Vernon Dursley; or, in the words of Ursula K. Le Guin, "I doubt the imagination can be truly suppressed. If you truly eradicated it in a child, he would grow up to be an eggplant."

The world needs your imagination, whoever you are. Without imagination, progress is halted, because no one will come up with new ideas, new dreams, new possibilities. The impossible will remain impossible. Imagination and critical thinking go hand in hand; nonfiction gives you facts, and fiction invites you to meddle with them.

As far as I can tell, the reasoning behind the government's decision to impose nonfiction on students comes from the idea that students cannot understand textbooks when they finally reach college. I guess they figure that nonfiction is more difficult to read than fiction. It's true that not all fiction is hard to read, but all fiction can be used to discuss issues our society is facing today. Teachers can and should be using fiction to teach ethics, self-development, cultural differences, and whatever else is packed into that story they decide to read with their students (the possibilities are endless, honestly).

My biggest reason for including fiction as a major component of a child's education: For the vast majority of children, reading fiction is more fun and entertaining than reading nonfiction. Learning to enjoy reading leads to a lifetime of reading. A lifetime of reading is a lifetime of not only imagination exercise, but also a lifetime of learning.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ... Koontz

Welcome to Winter Break, where Elizabeth spends a lot of her time reading. Don't worry; I do other stuff, too. Like re-watch Cinderella (Disney's) because I hadn't done so in years, take the family's dog for a walk (he ate some deer or elk poop today. Not sure if and when I should inform my mother), do my Christmas shopping, play games with my family, and figure out how to use two spatulas to flip a fat quesadilla without losing too much of the inside stuff.

When a book is good, and I have nothing else in particular to do (and when my older brother has been recently bugging me about how I'm not reading as fast as he thinks I should/could be), I can read really fast. Actually, I could read even faster, but when I read in my head, I think each word, just as I would say each word when I read aloud. If I go too fast, I start freaking out because my mind thinks it needs air. I don't actually start hyperventilating, though. It's more like my brain says, "SLOW DOWN, ELIZABETH! I NEED TO TAKE A BREATH!" So I rarely read that fast.

I mention that as my lead-in to the fact that it only took me a day and a half to read Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas. Koontz is a popular writer, so I'm glad I took a look at something he wrote. From what I've heard, Odd Thomas is more comedic than his books usually are, which I don't mind in the least. I love it when a book makes me laugh. This one did once or twice, but mostly the humor wasn't laugh-out-loud funny.

The writing was fine. I could tell Koontz has studied writing. It wasn't anything absolutely brilliant, but his target audience is not looking for brilliant. They want suspense. My older brother (who has been popping up a lot on this blog today) said Odd Thomas was like a comedic horror novel, but I disagree. I think it was dark urban fantasy with comedic undertones. That's my succinct genre-placement of this book. Too bad they don't have that section in the library. I'm not even completely positive it's an actual genre. It definitely isn't one of the traditional ones, that's for sure.

I must say that the ending nearly made me cry. My heart definitely dropped, and I felt sad. So kudos to Koontz for the ending; it was well done.

I'm not really sure what to write about this book, honestly. If you enjoy the genre, you ought to read the book. If you don't like the genre, don't read it. It's as simple as that. Odd Thomas is a book that aims to entertain those who are entertained by that genre.

P.S. - This book is the first in a series about Odd (the main character of Odd Thomas). I haven't read the series, so I can't tell you either way. My bet is that if you enjoy this book, you should think about reading the others. Also: They made a movie out of this book just this year. It's unrated, but I believe the author said it was a great adaptation of the book. The trailer for the movie certainly looked like it followed the book closely.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ... Sanderson

Here's what happened: This semester, I was in the funny position of not having enough money to buy all my books for school, which meant I couldn't do all my reading homework. Not being able to do my reading homework equated to more downtime. More downtime = more time for reading. So I visited the library. Benjamin Franklin (invented the lending library) is my hero.

I was in the city library, perusing for a book, when I had the idea to text my older brother for a recommendation. He suggested Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson, so that's what I got. My older brother has wonderful taste in books. So I read the first Mistborn book. The only problem with this was that it reminding me how totally awesome it is to read stuff for myself instead of just for homework. Reading is like an addictive drug, and I had to force myself to continue doing my homework instead of just reading for fun. So it was a while before I allowed myself the chance to read the second book. The reason I read the second book was that I got a mild case of pinkeye and put myself under house arrest. It was the middle of my first day stuck inside with little to do when I realized that I would be stuck in there for who knew how long. Not a fun prospect. Solution: I asked a friend to visit the library for me and get the next book. The final book followed that one soon after.

When I started reading Mistborn, I had mixed feelings. On one hand, the writing was good and the characters were fun. On the other hand, practicing magic via swallowing metal was a bit weird. Sanderson is known for his skill in creating original magic systems. This was definitely original . . . and a bit weird. Eventually, I acclimatized to it and was able to enjoy the story.

SPOILER ALERT: When I finished the last book of the trilogy, I was not sure how I felt about it. I mean, the main characters died. That doesn't usually happen. I must admit that I found it funny that I read Mistborn just before I read The Chronicles of Narnia (I'm posting out of order. Deal with it.), and both series ended with the main characters dying. What are the odds? After some reflection, I decided that the ending of Mistborn is actually one of the best story endings I have ever read. I put that in bold just in case someone isn't reading this spoiler, because I still want them to know that. I wonder if it worked. Guess I'll never know. The reason it was one of the best is that it felt real to me. In real life, people die. The hero doesn't always make it, yet people move on and make the best of it. Such a reminder of reality is rarely seen in fantasy, but I thought it fit the story and was brilliantly done.

OKAY, I'M DONE SPOILING THINGS. Jeepers. Anyway, I wanted to mention that I also love how well thought-out this story was. By "well thought-out," I mean that everything just fits. The details, the characters, the storyline, it all goes well together. I couldn't guess what would happen next, but when it did happen, I would instantly see that what happened was correct for the story.

By the way, I have read Elantris since, and Mistborn is definitely its superior. Elantris is good, but I guess Mistborn set a high bar for Sanderson, and Elantris didn't reach that bar. Since E. was his debut novel, I'm not holding it against him.

The one thing I didn't really like about the Sanderson books I have read so far is that his climaxes are too drawn out for my taste. Elantris's climax was around 40 pages long, I believe. I was interested the whole time, but the excitement and adrenaline didn't carry me through like it ought to have done. There just wasn't enough steam for that much climax. It's like with modern movies - these days, movies are usually around three hours, it seems. For me, two hours is a great length for a movie. With three hours, I'm getting restless, ready to turn it off, wondering when it will be over, even though I am still interested in the story. There just isn't enough adrenaline to keep the intensity level that high for that long. For me, anyway. Maybe someone else keeps adrenaline in a drawer and can inject extra when they need it. You never know these days, after all.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ... Lewis

I am so behind it is mildly embarrassing. I'm contemplating making this blog my New Year's Resolution. We'll see if that happens. I might just make it my resolution to graduate college with my BA and get a job all while keeping my sanity. That's enough of a goal for one person, right?

I have a deep love for C.S. Lewis and have loved him since I first read Mere Christianity. My older brother gave me a copy of the book for Christmas this year, by the way. I was and still am really excited. I love that book. Anyway, if it came down to it, I might say that C.S. Lewis is my favorite author, but you'd have to understand what I mean by that. I absolutely adore Charles Dickens's writing, but the guy had an affair that lasted years, as far as I remember. Not the coolest guy. Jane Austen always promises a wonderful read, but she talked her sister out of marrying the man she loved (again, if I remember right), so that's rather hypocritical. Okay, it's not hypocritical if you only consult Sense and Sensibility, but that book's ending was a major downer. There isn't a contemporary author who has snagged my attention and adoration yet, unless you count Shane Koyczan, but he's not an author. He's a spoken-word poet. So what I'm saying, then, is that I love C.S. Lewis because not only was he a genius, but he also was a good person. I mean, the man personally replied to every letter he got from a child. It can't get much better than that.

I once said C.S. Lewis is one dead person I would be honored to have over for dinner. When my friend responded with something about having a corpse over for dinner, I said I'd still be honored to have it in the room, but would probably want it to stay in the coffin, because I'm pretty sure having a corpse sit next to you at the dinner table would disturb your appetite.

It was with sadness that I stopped being in denial over the fact that I had never read The Chronicles of Narnia, despite my love for Lewis. With some free time on my hands resulting from the end of the semester, I set out to read the entire series. It took me about a week., much less time than I thought it would take. The reasons are twofold: One, before I started reading, I didn't realize they would be such an easy read. Two, my older brother kept bugging me about how slowly I was reading them. There's no motivation quite like trying to escape harassment.

End result: the books only confirmed my adoration of Lewis. They were children's books after the old fashion, like Alice in Wonderland or The Little Prince, where imagination is explored and children are praised for their ability to believe. This being C.S. Lewis, of course, the books had Christian themes. For Christians out there considering reading these books for yourself or to your children, know that they helped to illustrate the love of God like little else I have ever read.

But you don't have to have the Bible memorized, or even read, to get the story. As the poet Jane Hirschfield once told me, a story or poem should be easily comprehensible for anyone reading it, but there could be deeper meaning beneath for those who wish to sit and think about it. The Narnia books are like that.

One other thing I loved about these books was how they were narrated. Reading The Chronicles of Narnia didn't feel like reading a book; rather, it felt like I, as a person instead of an audience, was being told a story. Before this, I hadn't realized there was much of a difference. The difference is that instead of falling headlong into the story and becoming oblivious to the world around me, I felt like the story was being told as if Lewis was sitting in an armchair by the fire, talking as a grandpa would to his grandchildren.

Here are some fun and blatant examples to show what the narrator did that I loved. The parentheses are in the text itself:

"He had no wife and lived in a very large house with a housekeeper called Mrs. Macready and three servants. (Their names were Ivy, Margaret and Betty, but they do not come into the story much.)"

 "The whole crowd of liberated statues surged back into the courtyard. And it was then that someone (Tumnus, I think) first said . . ."

This one came after some dialogue by a beaver:

"This was bad grammar, of course, but that is how beavers talk when they are excited; I mean, in Narnia - in our world, they usually don't talk at all."

His narration was, for me, endearing. Yes, it pulled me out of the story, but it didn't do it so much that it was annoying. I'm sure that Lewis did it on purpose; acknowledgement of the real world and the reader's life actually made the book more believable.

Reasons Why the Things I Do Matter

You'll have to excuse me while I go all religious on you for a moment ... (also, warning, but this post might be a bit of a downer. Then again, it might be uplifting. Who knows.)

This weekend, I read the book of Ecclesiastes (after Proverbs in the Bible). For me, it was definitely a page-turner; I wanted to find out what happened next. That's because I was so interested in finding the answer to what I see as the main question of the book: Why does it all matter? What's the point?

When depression hits, it can carry a feeling of hopelessness along with it. We ask ourselves what the point is, and it feels like nothing we do is actually worth the effort. I was so excited to find an entire book in the Bible that is dedicated to that struggle, and I wanted to share what I learned from reading it. It probably won't help in the depths of depression (logic doesn't have a home there), but I hope it will help you resist that feeling of intense discouragement, even if it is only a little.

If you choose to read the book yourself, the first thing you should know is that in the book of Ecclesiastes (meaning "The Preacher"), "vanity" is a word that means "transitory, empty, fleeting, unsubstantial, meaningless" — i.e., pointless. Also, "under the sun," is the writer's pretty way of saying, "in this life, before we die."

I found five reasons why, according to the writer, the things I do actually matter:

Reason #1: I do my work so I can enjoy it and the blessings/fruits that come from it.

Everyone dies, so why bother working or being productive at all? 3:22 says, "Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion ..." The Little Red Hen strikes again! I have the right and privilege to work and enjoy what comes of it. There is a point to what I do because I can see the consequences, and they are worth it.

Reason #2: If I work hard, I can give to others.

I came naked into this world, and I'm going out with that same number of material possessions. Why bother working my butt off to get money that doesn't help me squat after I'm dead? ... Something tells me ancient Egyptians did not have to deal with this problem while they were alive. 5:12-13 says, "The sleep of a labouring man is sweet, whether he eat little or much: but the abundance of the rich will not suffer him to sleep. There is a sore evil which I have seen under the sun, namely, riches kept for the owners thereof to their hurt." Let's face it: Life is better when I am working. It gives me something productive to do. As for the fruits of my labor, they are meant not only for me, but for those around me. By working hard at life, I have a chance to be a benefit to the people around me.

Reason #3: My trials will allow me to empathize with and help others.

I work hard, but money still runs out. I give to others, but I can't solve their problems. It looks like there is no end to the sadness, and nothing I do will have a lasting effect. 7:3 says, "Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better." Verse 19 goes on to say, "Wisdom strengtheneth the wise more than ten mighty men which are in the city." No, it isn't better to be sad than to be happy. But when I think about the people I know who are wise, who are the most helpful to me emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually, they are the people who have faced a lot of hard times, and those hard times are what make them the wise and loving people they are. They can empathize with others because of what they have been through. I love the image of one wise person being better for those around them than ten people who appear to be strong, but really aren't in strong in the things that matter. If I go through tough times victoriously, I will be able to help others come out victorious, too.

Reason #4: God has a purpose for everything, even if I can't see it.

It sometimes seems like nothing I do or anyone else does matters in the grand scheme of things. The world doesn't actually get better and my existence is meaningless, no matter how hard I try. 8:16-17 says, "When I applied mine heart to know wisdom, and to see the business that is done upon the earth: ... Then I beheld all the work of God ..." There's only one person I know who knows the future, and that is God. He has things under control, and there is a purpose to everything He does or allows to happen. It may hurt, and I may not see clearly the end goal, but there is one. I'm not currently angry about any trial I have had to undergo in the past; during the trial itself, I may have been, but hindsight is 20/20. If God had sat down with me before each trial and outlined what would happen, when it would end, and how I would grow and learn, I know I would have given every one of those trials my stamp of approval. This way takes more faith, but that faith is a source of hope when I exercise it.

Reason #5: I need to take care of my loved ones. Relationships make life livable.

People are going to forget me after I die. 10:18 says, "By much slothfulness the building decayeth; and through idleness of the hands the house droppeth through." I have people who love me and who depend on me, and by continuing to try, I can help them. The only things that will continue on after me are my loved ones. They will continue to live and go through both hard times and good times, and they will go on to help others just as I have helped them. One thing I can leave behind are things that will improve their lives, whether that be good memories, a feeling of love, material possessions, wisdom, or anything else. The things I do matter because they affect others, always, whether the effect is good or bad. Relationships are important — 4:9-10, "Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up." And who knows what will happen after you die? The possibilities for good are endless. The best thing you can do is try to provide for the future happiness of those you love.

A final note from Ecclesiastes: 8:15, "Then I commended mirth, because a man hath no better thing under the sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry: for that shall abide with him of his labour the days of his life, which God giveth him under the sun."  --> Life matters because of the happy moments! The things we do matter because they make us and others happy!

2013 Creative Writing/Teaching Conference at Southern Utah University

I spent a few hours yesterday and the first half of today attending the 2013 Creative Writing/Teaching Conference at Southern Utah University (where I attend college). Jane Hirschfield and Robin Hemley were the visiting writers. Jane is a poet, and I must admit that when I first read her recent book of poetry, Come, Thief, I was not in love. I could tell they were good poems; they just weren't my cup of tea. Here's what I mean, if it's possible to explain:

Everything Has Two Endings

Everything has two endings--

a horse, a piece of string, a phone call.

Before a life, air.

And after.

As silence is not silence, but a limit of hearing.

It just doesn't make me care. I guess that's my main problem with her poetry. I loved that last line, though: "As silence is not silence, but a limit of hearing." It's a twist on my regular way of seeing the world, and that's something I value.

After listening to her read, attending a class she taught, and interacting with her later, I find myself liking her poetry more, or at least, seeing that she is a wonderful poet. After that, it's really just a matter of taste (and I'll just go elsewhere, I suppose, for poetry that makes me want to eat the page).

In the class, she led us through an exercise for poetry writing. Before I walk you through it, let me write something that I wrote as a result:

She wraps herself in the scarf of delight,

tugs it round her hair

and down her back

in a wondrous cascade.

The wind feathers it

while she sits on the couch,

watching the rain condescend

to kiss the earth.

And here's one more:

Autumn

I look in my mailbox

and find only a black beetle.

Now that you've admired how poetic I can be ;-) , I will show you what she had us do that led to them. You should give it a try. First, I wrote ten ordinary nouns in a column (without thinking too hard).

house

panther

orange juice

scarf

boy

school

bell

tower

shower

fingernail

Next, in a column beside that one, I wrote ten abstract nouns (no thought given to correspondance).

argument

thirst

cold

delight

wonder

history

stereotype

giggle

scene

comedy

The next step was to write "of" between my first and second columns. Thus:

house of argument

panther of thirst

orange juice of cold(ness)

scarf of delight

boy of wonder

school of history

bell of stereotype

tower of giggle(s)

shower of scene

fingernail of comedy

Then she had us write about one of those things/combinations we had created. That's where my scarf of delight thing comes from.

Another exercise she led us through was to write a short thought or image in the sense of haiku without caring about the syllables and meter. She suggested using a season to title or begin the short poem-esque piece of writing. That's where my black beetle piece came from. That, and the one time I opened my mailbox and found nothing but a black beetle. For some reason, that particular image has stuck with me for some time, and I keep looking for an excuse to use it.

Robin Hemley was there in his capacity as a writer of creative nonfiction, though he also read some poetry, and he has written novels. After the reading, I asked him why he started writing creative nonfiction, namely, memoirs. I wanted to know what made a person decide to start writing about themselves under the assumption that other people actually would be interested. It sounds a bit narcissistic (but then, I'm the one writing this blog, so who am I to talk?). He did not seem particularly narcissistic, but then, most writers need to be a little cocky in some way, otherwise they wouldn't try to get published in the first place. Anyway, I asked, because I was curious. Turns out he had already been writing fiction when someone suggested he do it, and that's where it started. Makes sense to me.

He talked with us about how memory can assist but also get in the way of writing a memoir. Memory is the worst eyewitness. Basically, it comes down to figuring out the line on your own, because writing a memoir does involve a bit of fiction. It's true! Nonfiction and fiction are like neighbors, and if nonfiction wants to have a lively household, they have to borrow decorations from the house next door. The house is still nonfiction, and the people are still nonfiction, but the decorations tie it all together.

Translation: While I may not remember what color the couches were, it might prove a useful detail. So I include a color.

I guess this means y'all should never completely trust a word I say. Actually, I make it a policy to be honest, except when I'm lying ... er, writing.

They were both delightful people, and I really enjoyed the conference. Thanks to SUU and the Utah Humanities Book Festival for putting it together.

District of Columbia

Well folks, I'm back at school again and my internship is over. I lived and worked on Capitol Hill for about three and a half months, and I really did enjoy myself. Here are some highlights, and yes, they are out of order:

Library of Congress

Sad to say, I did not get a library card. I walked into the Jefferson building and had a strong desire to swallow it. Zeus had all the fun.

LDS Temple

While I didn't go inside, I did spend some time walking around on the grounds and inside the Visitor's Center. What I loved best about the grounds were how woods-y they were. Especially after all that city life, I was happy to be in a miniature forest ... even if it was man-made.

I was senior editor of a book!

The book is called Leonardo da Vinci Gets a Do-Over, and it's an educational fiction book for middle schoolers. It's about a trio of students who stumble across Leonardo da Vinci brought back to life with a mission to discover or invent something to benefit humankind.

I went through the book a number of times and extensively edited it. The book should be published in a couple months, I believe.

Independence Day in D.C. itself!

I went to the National Archives for a dramatic reading of the Declaration of Independence by George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Samuel Adams, Mrs. Samuel Adams, and Benjamin Franklin. In front of the National Archives, I had a chance to sign the Declaration of Independence. How many times in a person's life does that opportunity come up?

I also visited the Lincoln Memorial and watched fireworks near the National Mall. Yay for the U.S.A.!

Memorial Day

There was an awesome parade, and I also went to the Memorial Day concert held on the lawn by the Capitol. A lot of parades these days are full of advertisements and little else, but this parade was just what one could wish for in a parade: floats, people dressed up, celebration.

Smithsonian Museums

I didn't have the chance to visit each museum, but I at least went to some. Bucket list item checked off! To the right, this is a wall of gold. Makes me wonder how much money the Smithsonian would make if they had a yard sale or auction.

The NEWSeum

I also had the chance to visit this place. It was the last tourist-y thing I did before heading back to Utah. This is a segment of the Berlin Wall.

This World is Incredible

I have a thought to share.

I've said this before: My great-grandpa served in the German army in World War II.  He was captured by the French army early on in the war and actually did not kill a single person, as far as I know.  He spent the majority of his service in the army as a P.O.W. in France; he was released when the war ended.

I am currently living with a Jewish family.  I have known Jewish people, so they aren't a novelty, but it hit me while I was reading The Book Thief (again) that I am the great-granddaughter of a German soldier and have been extended the hospitality of a Jewish family.  It is incredible.

On Wednesday, I went to a Target store in Virginia with a group of people.  Here is a list of the people in the group:

There was a black (I think African-American) man who is working to open a small gym on Barracks Row.  He is incredibly friendly and has medical training as well as experience as a model and in personal training.

There was a Hispanic man who works for the company I am interning for.  He is a jack-of-all-trades and can do anything from installing a sink to fixing a computer.

There was an Indian-American woman who is interning at the Capitol.  She is polite, friendly, and sociable.  This is her second internship at the Capitol.

There was a Caucasian Jewish woman, the mother and wife in the home I am living in.  She is generous, hard-working, and intelligent.  Oh, and although he wasn't along for the trip, I may as well mention that her husband, who is also Jewish, was born in Great Britain.

And there was me.  I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a Mormon.  I am Caucasian, and my ancestors have been in the western United States for generations (with the exception of my German ancestors and relations).

Diversity + Unquestioned Acceptance + Friendly Conversation and Joking = That Shopping Trip.

My ancestors weren't just German.  I have ancestors who were real cowboys; my grandpa can tell stories about times when he was dropped off in the mountains with his brothers for months at a time so they could watch over the animals.  I have ancestors who were miners in the city where my family still lives; my great-grandpa on that side built a ski lift out of old mining parts, helping Park City, Utah, toward its future as a ski resort town.  I have ancestors who came west with the Mormon pioneers.

The Mormon pioneers underwent a lot of persecution.  Actually, that's the main reason they went out to Utah (at the time, it was WAY out in the boonies).  It became legal to kill a Mormon in Missouri.  Mobs attacked multiple times.  They were kicked out of towns, murdered, robbed, raped, their land and property was destroyed, you name it.  They came to Utah so they could live without fear.

I know these sorts of things happened to my ancestors, yet I don't feel discriminated against because of it.  I don't feel as if I'm being held back because of how they were treated.  I have great respect for my ancestors and my heritage, and yes, that includes my German great-grandpa.  I am not at all ashamed.  I am proud.

I have to wonder how other people feel about their own heritage and ancestry.  When I was invited to live here, this Jewish woman asked if I was Mormon, but I wasn't asked if I had German ancestry.  Would it have changed their minds?  I doubt it.  They don't seem like that sort of people.

What sort of connection do African-Americans feel toward their enslaved ancestors (assuming they descend from enslaved peoples)?  I hope they are proud.  What happened was terrible, but look at how strong those people were!  And look at how far they have come.  As an example, look at this guy I went to Target with.  He is opening a gym in Washington, D.C. Here's another: I know a black guy who is a professional photographer.  Oprah Winfrey lives the life of a celebrity and gives out tons of free stuff because she can.  The man living a few blocks away from me right now is black.  It is incredible.  I love Zora Neale Hurston's How it Feels to Be Colored Me (she was black, by the way).  Everyone should read it; it's really short (two pages or so).  Here is a quote, not the best part of the piece, but the most applicable to what I'm saying:

Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said "On the line!" The Reconstruction said "Get set!" and the generation before said "Go!" I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think--to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.

How about Jewish people today?  Their oppressed ancestors and, in some cases, living relatives, lived during one of the darkest times of all human history.  Many did not live to see the end of the nightmare, and those who survived somehow continued on.  Go onto IMDb and research Jewish actors/actresses/people having to do with movies.  Harrison Ford, Dustin Hoffman, Barbra Streisand, Mel Brooks, Billy Joel, Natalie Portman, and it continues -- the list is forever long. I'm not saying these people are necessarily great (I think they're talented; however, I'm not an expert), but they are definitely people society has accepted and celebrated.  How do they feel about their Jewish heritage?

There are so many cultures out there, so many peoples who are descended from ancestors who lived in terrible circumstances.  I feel like everyone must have a story to tell from their heritage.  These stories influence us, but how?  I am a Mormon, living in the United States capital, where I once would have been unwelcome (coming East at all would have been a death-wish a century and a half ago).  I am the great-granddaughter of a WWII German soldier, living in a Jewish home by their invitation.  I feel only pride for my roots, for my ancestors, for the people whose lives have allowed me to live mine.

Tonight, I'm going to bed feeling grateful, proud, and in awe.  Oh, how society changes.

I'm in Washington, D.C. for the summer!

I have an internship this summer in Washington, D.C.  It's with Platypus Media, a small publishing company specializing in nonfiction children's books.  Can I just say how excited I am?

I got here May 14 and went straight to work.  My to-do list for this next week is an entire page in length, so it looks like this is going to be a trial-by-fire experience.  I like that.  It's like I'm an employee who is new to the company, rather than just being an intern.  I've already helped to package books in preparation for shipping, edited an article we are going to send out, and done a few other things, and that's only in two and a half days in the office.  I love that they are trusting me to actually be an asset to the company, and I hope they don't regret their decision.  Actually, I got a high-five from my boss yesterday when she discovered that I know what "stet" means.  It seems I am her first intern to ever know about "stet."  For those who don't know, "stet" is a Latin word which means "let it stand," and it's what editors write when they mean, "I said to correct this, but now I'm thinking it was fine in the first place, so just ignore the edit."

Today, I did my first tourist-y thing in D.C.  I've never been here before, and I decided that the first place I ought to visit was the Capitol.  I mean, I considered visiting the Library of Congress first, but I thought I should check the Capitol off my list from the start.  Actually being there was incredible.  I walked around for at least an hour and didn't get tired of the sight of that building.  It's just such an iconic place; I could hardly wrap my head around the fact that I visited the Capitol.  One of the greatest parts was it is totally within walking distance of the place where I'm staying.  I think the best way to be a tourist is to live there, because then you have all the time in the world to walk over to a tourist attraction after a leisurely morning.

Here are some photos I took.

This is what you see if you stand on the steps and look out.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Weis and Hickman

I finished Bones of the Dragon a couple days ago and couldn't help thinking that something was not quite right with this book.  It's not that it was confusing, terribly written, uninteresting, or hyped up on drugs; I kept trying to figure it out, but was having trouble putting my finger on just what was wrong.

I realized what was up when I was talking with my sister about Harry Potter.  She was laughing at the memory of me bawling while reading the seventh Harry Potter book.  I remember crying worst when (spoiler alert for any hermit who hasn't read it) Fred died -- I was sitting in my bed next to a box of tissues, crying so hard I couldn't read.

And that's what is wrong with Weis and Hickman's Bones of the Dragon: I was not emotionally involved in the story.  Not many books make me cry, and I don't need them to.  It's just that a couple prominent characters died and I didn't care.  The story was wonderful, the writing was fine, and I checked the library only to discover that it doesn't have the sequel, much to my disappointment.

A good story will make me feel like if I died and saw one of the characters in Heaven, nothing would be amiss.  The characters need to be real, and the reader needs to connect with them and care about them.

Does that ruin the book?  No, but it means it isn't anything special you need to hunt down and read, no matter how far that hunting trip takes you.  As I mentioned in my last post, this book follows Celtic mythology more than most fantasy novels, and it does it well.  The world Weis and Hickman have created works, and I didn't find myself pushed out of the story because of an error in their reasoning or plot.

Next adventure for me: Washington, D.C.  I leave on Tuesday.  I'm going to pack a couple books, but I won't be living there long enough to find a library and convince them to give me a library card.  Something makes me think the Library of Congress won't let me check out books. :-p  Weis and Hickman did get me thinking about mythology, though, and how it is used in fantasy.  So what do you think -- Should I spend my summer reading myths?  If anyone has a myth recommendation, I'm open to suggestions. :-)

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Weis and Hickman

Summer break has just begun and with it, a novel I'm reading for fun.  On the 14th, I'm heading to Washington, D.C. for an internship with Platypus Media.  This leaves me with a little over a week to prepare, relax, and read.

My choice for my first for-fun novel this summer (I'm hoping there will be more of them) is Bones of the Dragon by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman.  I chose it after happily wandering around in the library and seeing that the two of them have a lot of fantasy novels out.  Seeing as I need to read more fantasy (both because it's great and because I want to be better-read in the genre; I obviously need some help if I've never read anything by them), I looked through my options and chose this book.  I am now a few chapters in and am enjoying reading it (both the book itself and the fact that I'm reading for fun -- can you tell I'm excited to be allowed to read whatever I want?!).

First thing to notice is that while most fantasy books follow the tradition of Lord of the Rings in the cultures they follow, this book adheres more to the Viking culture.  I think it's a nice change, though I'm far from being bored with the Anglo-European bit.  If you want still yet another culture for fantasy, I'd recommend you read Daughter of the Empire by Raymond E. Feist -- that series leans more toward medieval Japanese culture (I think, but then, I wasn't around in those times).

Nothing is bugging me so far, so that's a good sign.  I'm thinking I chose a good book to start the summer with.  Happy summer, everyone!

Mortal Angel

It's Finals Week.

You know, I could conceivably end this post there, but I wanted to share a portion of my latest short story with you.  It still needs work, but that's one of the best things about studying creative writing: Nothing is ever finished; your professors understand that, so you turn things in anyway.  It's a great system.

The story is an inset adaptation (a story based off another story or piece of art, not fanfiction) of Billy Collins'  poem Questions About Angels and this painting by Joanna Sierko-Filipowska.  I've titled it Mortal Angel.  I hope you enjoy this scene.

When Gabrielle’s hair tickled her awake the next morning, she realized she had accidentally left the window open all night.  Some wind had made its way through the window and a couple papers were haphazardly flying about the room.  She got out of bed, closed the window, and was all the way into the shower – still numb to the world around her – before she noticed that the pain in her back was much relieved.

       At the same time, she noticed that the water falling on her was not obeying gravity in its usual fashion.  It felt almost as if something was between parts of her back and … While Gabrielle was forming this thought, she brought her hand up to her back to investigate.  Her fingers touched something solid, and it was covered with wet feathers.

Gabrielle scrambled out of the shower in a panic. She slipped on the tiled floor and grabbed the counter to save herself from falling, then straightened up to face herself in the mirror.  The reflection showed a wet young woman with suds in her hair standing stark naked with small, pigeon-gray, feathered wings sprouting from between her shoulder blades.

Each wing was about a hand span in length and three inches from top to bottom at the widest, and though they were undoubtedly growing from her body, she had no feeling in them.  If she had been able to feel them as one feels one’s fingers, she would have noticed them a lot earlier.  As it was, they were like growths on her back and to this point had only caused her pain and irritation.

       Now, however, they also caused near-hysteria.  Gabrielle had sunk to the rug on the bathroom floor, too weak to stand.  Her hands were trembling terribly and her breath was shallow and quick.  She wondered if she would pass out.  She wondered if the wings were really there.  Stretching a hand behind her, she felt the small feathers slip between her fingers as she ran them down the length of each wing.

To list all the things she wondered would be absurd for the sheer number of them.  She sat on the bathroom floor with the suds in her hair and goose bumps all over her body,  her eyes shifting quickly from item to item in the bathroom, searching for stability as she tried to get her breathing under control.  Her head was buzzing, her heart was fluttering, and she soon found herself vomiting into the toilet.

       Bracing herself against the counter, she washed out her mouth and did her best to start breathing slowly, performing a breathing exercise that had worked once before.  She closed her eyes and focused on counting and breathing, counting and breathing, counting and breathing, anything but the wings (heart palpitation), counting and breathing.

When she had herself under control again, Gabrielle stepped back into the shower, which had continued to run, and rinsed out her hair, carefully continuing to count and breathe.  Getting out of the shower, she toweled herself off, avoiding the wings (how was she supposed to dry them off?), and then got dressed in a loose T-shirt and some jeans.  Putting on a bra presented a bit of a problem, but after struggling for a moment, she was able to hook the back strap beneath the wings.  She decided that if she was to go to school that day, she would have to wear a large hoodie.  Luckily, the wings were still small enough to be hidden.

       Class was a relief, and by throwing herself into the lectures and labs, Gabrielle was able to forget the fungi on her back.  Brandon gave her a questioning look once, which reminded her of the wings and launched her into a hurried breathing exercise, but other than that, no one seemed to notice that anything was strange about her that day.

       Brandon tried to strike up a conversation with her after their last class, asking her for advice for his friend, a photography major who needed to figure out what to do for a final project.  She shrugged him off and hurried for home.

       Time away from staring at her wings had allowed her to think and come to grips with her situation, and now she wanted to do a little research.  Gabrielle locked herself inside her bedroom and took off the hoodie and shirt so she could see the wings in her full length mirror.

       They had grown since that morning, and were now twice as big as they had been before.  It was a miracle, really, that no one had noticed them.  The wings lay, docile, against her back.  She tentatively attempted to move them, to fan them out, but it was useless.  So she gently bent her arm and moved one wing with her hand.  It was as if the wings were paralyzed – Gabrielle had no feeling in the wings themselves, but her back could feel that they had been moved as she handled first one, then the other.  They felt warm.

Kolob Canyon Review

The university I attend has a literary journal called the Kolob Canyon Review.  A while back, I submitted a poem to the journal and it was accepted.  It was great for someone to accept it, because I'd also tried it at a few other literary journals and was tired of rejection letters at that point.  There's only so much you can take, you know?  Last night, there was a poetry reading for the KCR.  There was a mistake in the program so although I was scheduled to read, I wasn't listed in it.  They figured it out and I read my piece.  It seemed extraordinarily short to me, because I read this poem just after someone else had read a short story.

Some great pieces were read, and I had a good time. :-)  This poem below is the one I submitted and read.

Earl Street

Four youthful explorers

took a summer walk.

Adventure pushed them

beyond the mailboxes

at the corner of their neighborhood.

They

stopped

often

for the littlest, who tended to lag

behind,

fishing for pond scum

in the thirsty wetlands by the road.

Past the end of the pavement

they found a rusty street sign –

Earl Street and Greenfield Drive.

Abandoned by progress,

discovered again by these children,

Earl Street is two parallel trails

in the earth, carved by wheels.

The explorers quested

to the end of Earl Street,

where it is erased

by field grass.

Then they turned back

toward home.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Robin McKinley

I once made the mistake of using the term "sci-fi fantasy" to describe a genre to my older brother.  He's a bigger reader than I am, if you can wrap your head around that.  I distinctly remember him telling me "Elizabeth, there's no such thing as 'sci-fi fantasy,'" and then me feeling sheepish afterward.  I don't remember what I thought this genre was, but I soon learned the difference between science fiction and fantasy.

Robin McKinley's Dragonhaven would have come in handy back when my brother told me that, because McKinley proves him wrong.  Okay, it actually fits in a genre called "science fantasy," but it is indeed a hybrid of science fiction and fantasy.

Dragonhaven is about dragons, yes, but they are approached scientifically.  Its premise is that dragons are an endangered species protected inside three national parks across the world.  That being the case, they aren't magical so much as an unusual animal the public is fascinated by.

I would not have pegged it as being written by the same author who wrote Beauty, which is great.  It means McKinley is versatile, that she isn't stuck in one voice, era, or even genre.  The writing is good in a not-good way -- it is written in first person by someone who is not a writer, so there are mistakes here and there which are common and, I'm convinced, intentional.

My one problem with the book was it dragged.  Understandably, the narrator is obsessed by certain details, but the result is a book which could be better paced.  It was interesting, and enjoyable, but I would not recommend this book to someone who is not addicted to reading.  Okay, maybe if they were addicted to dragon literature, I would.

Sometimes when authors tackle environmental themes, it feels preachy and didactic, but this book wasn't, which was a relief.  I'd like to keep the didacticism in my nonfiction reading, thanks.

So there you go.  Oh, and this may be the first book I've read for this blog so far that had me checking online to see if there was a sequel (there isn't), so I guess that means it was good, right?

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Robin McKinley

For my Young Adult Lit. class, I have to read three extra books and write an essay about them.  For my first book, I chose Fall of a Kingdom by Hilari Bell (I also wrote a couple posts about it, if you'd care to search for them).  For my second, I've chosen to read Robin McKinley's Dragonhaven.  This is the second book I've ever read with this title.  The first one was by Robin Hobb.  But wait, I just looked it up, and that one is Dragon Haven.  So I guess the title is different ... technically.

I chose Robin McKinley because her book Beauty is one of my favorites.  That book taught me to love the story of Beauty and the Beast.  The writing was beautiful and the story made logical sense.  I picked Dragonhaven up thinking it would be similar.  Though not a retelling, I assumed the writing would be the beautiful stuff I'd read in Beauty.

I started reading it and have realized I really haven't had much experience with McKinley.  The writing is totally different.  For one, it's from a boy's perspective, and that boy is not a literary genius (he admits it in the first couple pages, too).  For two, the story is modern.  How many dragon books have you read that take place in the modern world?  Jurassic Park does not count.

So it's different from what I'd expected.  But you know what?  I'm 25 pages in and so far I have not regretted my decision.  I think she has integrated dragons well (so far, but then, I have yet to see a single dragon) into the modern world.  They're in a national park.  It makes sense.

I guess Robin McKinley is setting out to show me she can do more than fairy tales.  I'll be excited to see her succeed.

National Undergraduate Literature Conference

You see that post title?  It's true, and it's prestigious, and it's cool.  I submitted a short story and it was accepted to be presented at the National Undergraduate Literature Conference (they call it NULC, pronounced like the sound you make when you swallow loudly, except with an "n" in front).  So about a week ago, I went, along with three other people from my college (one of whom is already graduated).

The interesting mix you get at a literature conference: people who can write but don't necessarily like it, people who love to analyze/critique literature/poetry, and people who love to write literature/poetry.  I fit in the third category.  My companions, the people from my university, fit in the second category.  This means I would go sit in a room without them and listen to people read stories while they preferred sitting in a room listening to people analyze ... well, I listened to a few essays, and they seemed to analyze society through the lens of fiction.  It made me feel a little juvenile in comparison, listening to stories instead of the hard-hitting academic stuff, but you know what?  Stories 1) are more enjoyable, 2) make time go by faster, and 3) are more memorable.  I can write an essay.  I even enjoy writing essays.  I prefer writing and listening to stories or poems.  Plus, if I'm going to be a writer, stories and poems are going to help me a lot more than critical essays.

The story I submitted is called God Doesn't Visit Hell.  I wrote it last year and had planned to edit it more after stepping away from it for a while, but the deadline for this conference came up and it was the thing I submitted.  Honestly, I didn't know about the conference until my friend told me to apply.  I guess I just wasn't paying attention.  My last-minute edits added up to me making sure it fit the page requirement of 15 pages or less, which meant I had to cut about 300 words.  No big deal, right?

My story was accepted, and then I realized I would need to be able to read the story in 15 minutes and was allowed to shorten it for that time limit.  I timed myself reading it and figured out I could read about 3,500 words in that amount of time.  The version I'd submitted was 6,221 words long.

So I butchered it.  That's how it felt, anyway.  I took out details that helped the story be more real, details that weren't necessary to the story line but weren't fluff, either.  It was not fun.  The version of the story I read at the conference was 3,559 words.  That's, what, half of the original?

I was scheduled to read during the first session of the conference.  While few people showed up (it was the morning), the ones who were there seemed impressed with the story, which was a huge relief.  I was scared I had destroyed it.  Turns out it was still pretty good.  One lady even raised her hand and asked me if I have kids (I don't), because I did such a good job, she said, of portraying a mother's perspective.

The other thing I wanted to talk about was the Open Mic event, which I thought was a blast.  Okay, it was a nerdy, literature-y blast.  Everyone came with poetry or pieces of short (flash) fiction to read.  It was great because of the diversity and, well, I just loved the atmosphere.  I read one poem of mine, Spears of Grass, and then realized that there was more time than people.  A lot of people were presenting more than once, so I borrowed my friend's laptop and read another poem and a stand-alone paragraph of prose (The Yellow Songbird, I posted it a while back).  Some fun stuff I heard while there: a short story about the guy who mows the lawns during/after a zombie apocalypse, a poem about the beginning of the world which combined Biblical and Greek mythology, a shoutout on behalf of nerds in a hipster world, a come-at-me-bro speech about what it's like to be "F-A-T fat," and a whole lot more.  For me, it was the highlight of the conference.  There were a lot of talented people there.  Some are ready to be published, in my point of view, and others are not (I think mine was in this category), but we're all students and we're all still learning.

That is something I love about writing, by the way: Everyone is still learning.  No matter how skilled a person gets to be, they can still improve.  It's incredible.

If anyone out there is wondering about whether or not to attend this conference, I have this to say: It's fun, it's a learning experience, and if you really want to be a writer you should go if at all possible.

Someone please remind me to go next year, but to be better-prepared this time.