My first ever character sketch

With everything I've ever written (which, I admit, is small in comparison to what it will be in a couple decades), I've never tried a character sketch.  The idea of writing one had not even crossed my mind.  Then I took a look at my short story The Descartes Project and realized that the concept had swallowed my characters whole.

I am now working on another short story (I'll return to Descartes in a year or so).  The thing with short stories is there is not enough time to bring characters to life, like there is in a novel.  The characters have to be vibrant and alive (screaming for a birth certificate, as one author said, but I can't remember who it was) by the first paragraph in which they are introduced.  There simply is not time in a short story to develop characters beyond the development that is taking place in the story itself.  It has taken me this long to realize that, but better a little late than never.

I wrote a couple character sketches as an experiment.  I don't even know if I did it right.  I mean, are they proper character sketches?  No idea.  They served the end for which they were created, though, and that's what matters.  They helped me to bring my characters to life, for my benefit, so when I write them into the actual story, they will already be alive.  It's like I took that extra time to Pinocchio them outside of the story, where that time is available.  I won't know if it worked until I write the actual story, but as far as I can see, it was a success.  Definitely worth doing again.

For your reading pleasure, one of those character sketches (the first one, actually):

Gabrielle was peeling carrots when Nicole came home from school.  “Dinner?” Nicole asked on her way through the kitchen to her bedroom.

“You got it,” Gabrielle said.  She was sitting on a chair, hunched over a garbage bin.  Her sleeves were rolled up and bits of carrot skin were in her hair because she kept reaching up to push her curls out of her eyes.  There was a bag of carrots on the ground next to her chair, and she was placing the peeled carrots on a wooden cutting board which rested on the counter near her.  Over the music coming from her laptop, Gabrielle could hear Nicole dumping her backpack on their bedroom floor.  “How was your day?” she called.

“Meh,” she heard.  Placing another carrot on the cutting board, Gabrielle pushed her hair out of her eyes again and was about to reach for another carrot when she thought better of it and came to her feet, putting the vegetable peeler on the cutting board.  She went to the sink, washed her hands, and went to the bathroom to find a hair clamp.  Nicole was in there.  Gabrielle knocked, requested the clamp, waited, and then took the clamp from her younger sister as she opened the door a crack and held it out.

She put her hair up as best she could on her way back to the kitchen, then stretched for a moment before sitting down again to peel more carrots.  She was making honey lemon carrots, a recipe she had found just that afternoon on Pinterest.  Glancing at the recipe as she started peeling another carrot, she tried to calculate when she should start steaming them so they would be finished around the same time as the mashed potatoes she already had on the stove.  There was some leftover ham in the fridge, and she was just starting to figure out when to start heating that up when Nicole came into the kitchen with her homework.

“Anything fun?” Gabrielle asked, getting up and putting away the garbage bin.

“Not really,” Nicole said.  “Just math.”

“It’s Gilbert, isn’t it?”

“Yep.  Best time ever.”

“Hey, he’s not that bad.  Sure, he may almost fall asleep during his own class, but he’s a smart teacher.  I learned a lot in his class.”

“Like what?”

“Like … like how to knit a hat.”

“See!  Nothing.  He’s hopeless, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle raised her hands in mock surrender and came to lean over Nicole’s homework.  “You’ve got carrots in your hair, Elle,” said Nicole, reaching out and starting to root through her hair for the vegetable strands.

“It’s the newest thing,” Gabrielle responded.  “Carotene.  Directly into your hair, it’s supposed to work miracles.”

“Right.  Do you want me to put them back in for you, then?”

“You scared all the carotene away, so don’t bother,” Gabrielle sighed, grinning.  She walked away to check on her potatoes, and her sister turned back to her homework.  The laptop continued playing music and Gabrielle danced a little as she grabbed a fork and checked the tenderness of her potatoes.  Deciding they were close enough that she should work more on the carrots, she danced around the kitchen and pulled out the other ingredients she would be needing.  She sang as she went, making up words when she couldn’t remember the real ones.

“It doesn’t say ‘Looking for the Superman inside of me.’  He’s singing, ‘Looking for special things inside of me,’” Nicole said.

“So?”

“So it’s not hard to understand him and you’re being weird.”

“But it makes you smile!  Ha!”

“Hey, could you help me with this problem, Miss I-fudge-lyrics?”

“If I fudge the lyrics, how do you know I’ll help you right?  After all, I only learned how to knit hats in that class.”

“Because even though you spent all your time knitting hats I never knew existed until today, you still managed to get an A in Mr. Gilbert’s class.”

“That was three years ago!”

“Can you at least look at the problem first?”

But Gabrielle was already bent over Nicole’s homework again, munching on a carrot and tilting her head to the side as she read the problem and compared it with Nicole’s attempts.  After showing her where she’d messed up and explaining why, Gabrielle put the carrots on to steam and told her computer that yes, she was still listening to the music.  She checked the potatoes again, turned down the heat a little on the stove, and was just going to the fridge to pull out the ham when her cell phone rang.

“Hello, Brandon,” she said as she tried to figure out how to pull the ham out from underneath a couple tupperwares with only one hand.

“Hey Gabrielle, I was wondering if you’d done our reading for 2010 yet,” said Brandon.

“Nearly,” she said.  “I have about ten pages to go.  Why?”

“I’m thirteen pages in and I have no idea what this guy is trying to say.  I mean, I understand the words he’s using, and I feel like I understand it, but then I go to put it together and it’s just -- it isn’t working for me, let’s put it that way.”

“He’s saying that girls are better than boys because they have a higher reading comprehension level.”

“Funny.”

Gabrielle had managed to wrestle out the ham without dropping anything.  She put it in the microwave and leaned against the counter, bringing her hand up to her hair to undo the clamp.  Placing it on the counter, she rubbed her hand through her hair and massaged her neck.

“You still there?”  Brandon asked.  “Hello?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.  Umm...look.  Why don’t you come over here tonight in a couple hours and I’ll go over it with you,” she suggested at last, letting her hand fall from her neck.

“You’re awesome.  I’ll see you around 8.”

“You should bring me cookies.”

“What?”

“I was kidding.  See you later,” she said, then hung up the phone after hearing him say bye.

“When are Mom and Dad going to be home?” Nicole asked without looking up from her homework.

“I think Mom said they were going to leave work at 6:30,” she replied.  “Did you figure out that problem?”

“I think so, but could you come check it for me?”

“Sure.”

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Terry Pratchett

First off, I would like you all to know that I was not attempting to disparage E.B. White in any way by using Stuart Little in a negative context.  I have not read Stuart Little.  However, I have read Elements of Style and have the utmost respect for White.

That being said, I was pleasantly surprised by this book.  It was like Tom Sawyer meets folk tales while folk tales is having a philosophical discussion with Jiminy Cricket over lunch, though I'm sure that description leaves out a whole host of people whom Pratchett invited to have lunch with them, too.  The talking animals were weird for the first little bit, but then I got used to them and the story moved along swimmingly.  At some points, it had me laughing out loud.

If Pratchett sat down with me and asked me what I would change about the book, I think the only thing I would tell him would be to hide the philosophy a little better.  While the story held it up well, I guess I'm not a huge fan of didactic novels, or novels that openly ponder the big questions in life.  I know I can learn from everything I read, and I like to look for the lessons on my own.  I don't want someone to hand me a moral.  Then again, that's just me.  Maybe the moral thing fits the age group (pre-teen, by the way).  I'm not an expert.

This book was not at all similar to the Bell book I was reading at the same time.  I was switching back and forth - fifty pages here, fifty pages there - and found myself excited to pick up each in turn.  At the same time, I was disappointed to be putting this one down each time I swapped to the other.  It was an enjoyable read.  The writing was upbeat and fun, and it was an interesting twist on the Pied Piper that I never would have thought of.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Hilari Bell

I told you the goal was to finish two YA novels in a week, if not a weekend.  I started them both on Friday, didn't read at all on Sunday, and finished them both today (Monday).  I'm rather proud of myself.  It isn't even midnight yet.  I haven't even eaten dinner.

Fall of a Kingdom by Hilari Bell was ... good.  It wasn't anything special, but it definitely wasn't torturous reading, either. My only real complaint is that I felt the story skipped too much.  With the turn of one page, the narration skips several months, and we are left to assume that those months were filled with nothing but training, hunting, learning, something.  This happens multiple times throughout the novel.  I wanted to watch the female protagonist, Soraya, learn to use magic.  We came in at the end, just in time to watch her figure out the last piece of the puzzle.  I wanted to watch Kavi visit her in the wilderness, watch him as he wheedled information out of people.  Instead, his story seemed rather stagnant; we watched him give his reports and wonder about which government he should be helping. I wanted to watch Jiaan ... you know what, with Jiaan, it really sounded like he spent the entire time doing drills for war.  Something interesting should have happened there.

If I have time and I remember to come back to it, I feel like the second book of this trilogy will probably be better than the first.  Usually, first books are used to set up a story (though in a trilogy, they should be involved as a part of the story, too).  So maybe the reader is able to watch Soraya reach her magical potential (and get a little wiser).  Maybe the reader will watch Kavi and Jiaan do something.

The writing, as I said, is good.  Nothing to sing about, but nothing to put down.  I just wish there was more to this story.  There is more, I can feel that there is more, but the novel is just too short for the story, in my opinion.  I need more detail, more story.  I want to be forced to read the next book, instead of thinking it might be a nice idea.  BUT.  Props to Hilari Bell for having an interesting story that makes me say, "give me more," instead of, "please put down your pen and walk away."

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Terry Pratchett

That's right.  Two novels, both YA, at the same time.  I'm sure you're starting to realize this is nothing new.  The thing that is new is that I'm trying to read them both in a week, if not in a weekend.  Fall of a Kingdom and Terry Pratchett's The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents.  I can do this.  How much I sleep in my attempts to finish both so quickly (on top of my usual homework and work) is still up for discussion.

The Amazing Maurice has talking animals in it.  Obvious, I know, but I might as well mention that I'm not a huge fan of talking animals in books.  If the animal talks, it better be an anomaly or else all animals better be able to talk.  This is a bit too much like Stuart Little all over again.  Different plot, I know.

The pied piper thing is cute.  The writing seems pretty solid.  We'll see.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Hilari Bell

My YA Lit. professor has assigned everyone to read at least three young adult books and write an essay comparing one archetypal aspect of them.  With all the world of YA literature to choose from, I thought back to Tamora Pierce, who was and is one of my favorite YA writers.  I decided that at least one of the books I chose had to be written by her.  Then I went online and looked up authors who are similar, and got Robin McKinley (her book Beauty is my all-time favorite Beauty and the Beast retelling, by the way) and Hilari Bell.

Before this, I'd never heard of Hilari Bell.  Apparently she's pretty good, though, so I'm going to give her a try.  I walked to the city library and checked out Fall of a Kingdom, which is the first book in her Farsala Trilogy.  I read a little during my walk home, and the book had me smiling by page two.  Also, it has a map in front.  I have a friend who has said before that if a book has a map in the front, it is always bound to be good.

I have high hopes for this book.  If it's good enough, I may even decide to read the entire trilogy, on top of all my other reading homework.  It's possible.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Markus Zusak

Thank you, Markus Zusak, for writing The Book Thief.

This is a special book.  It's difficult to talk about this book in a blog post, but I will do my best.  ...I was assigned this book by my Young Adult Lit. professor, and I told myself I would finish it Friday, reading 110 pages a day (I planned to read the bulk of it in five days).  I finished it today -- Thursday -- because I didn't want to stop.  Every day I read, I read more than 110 pages a day.  I was almost to the point of telling myself to stop reading each day so I could enjoy it the next day, too.  The Book Thief might be one of my favorite books now.  Definitely something I will reread.  I'm almost tempted to reread it right now.

I've already said that The Book Thief was about World War II.  Actually, I believe I said it was about the Holocaust, but I was wrong.  It is about Himmel Street (Heaven Street) in Molching, Germany during WWII.

This book made me smile, and it made me cry.  But the crying was like smiling, somehow.

In an attempt to explain what makes this book so ... wise.  I stop at this word because I want to explain my use of it.  I searched through my vocabulary for a word to describe how I feel about this book, but soon turned to a thesaurus for help.  Just as I typed in the closest word I could think of ("beautiful"), I thought of this one.  In the Bible, "wise" is used to describe the men who crafted the tabernacle that the Israelites took with them through the wilderness.  It does not denote street-smarts so much as a true knowledge begotten by research, experience, and inspiration.  I feel like, in that sense, Zusak was wise when he wrote this story.

So, in an attempt to explain what makes this book so wise (I could also use the word "sublime"), here is a short, incomplete list of attributes that make The Book Thief stand out.

Death tells the story.  A quote will help me explain why this is more than an interesting approach:

On June 23, 1942, there was a group of French Jews in a German prison, on Polish soil. The first person I took was close to the door, his mind racing, then reduced to pacing, then slowing down, slowing down....

Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born.  I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks.  I listened to their last, gasping cries.  Their vanishing words.  I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.

I took them all away, and if there was a time I needed distraction, this was it.   In complete desolation, I looked at the world above.  I watched the sky as it turned from silver to gray to the color of rain.  Even the clouds were trying to get away. (pg. 350)

 I have read more than one book about war, and more than one about WWII and the Holocaust, in particular.  This is the first time I have seen this approach, and I love that it shows exactly what happened.  It doesn't hide how ugly the scenes are, but it does show them in a hopeful light: death is freedom.  Death takes them away from all of this, and he isn't unfeeling about it.  The reader is not left with a feeling of hopelessness.  At the same time, Zusak does not shove a particular religion at the reader.  It is a miraculous balancing act.

The story is given through the eyes of a child.  While Death narrates, he gets his information from Liesel, who is a pre-teen through most of the novel.  You might argue that that means she isn't a child; the point of view is childlike, though.  Death discusses colors like Liesel would.  He talks about how she feels after stealing books.  I can't quite describe it.  Thing is, there is horror involved in war that only a child can see, and there is shelter to be found in childhood that adults cannot reach.  The reader is given this lens, and it transforms a story about war.  Because it isn't about war.  It is about boxing, learning to read, carrying laundry, and a host of other things.  War swallows the story, envelopes it, and watches it pass by.

The descriptions in this book are unique. Five random examples, taken from five random pages as I flip open the book while writing this, will hopefully show you what I mean.  Because brilliant descriptions saturate the book.

Her throat was barren now.  No words for miles. (pg. 263)

Liesel was sure her mother carried the memory of him, slung over her shoulder.  She dropped him.  She saw his feet and legs and body slap the platform. (pg. 25) 

Every minute, every hour, there was worry, or more to the point, paranoia.  Criminal activity will do that to a person, especially a child.  They envision a prolific assortment of caughtoutedness.  Some examples: People jumping out of alleys.  Schoolteachers suddenly being aware of every sin you've ever committed.  Police showing up at the door each time a leaf turns or a distant gate slams shut. (pg. 129)

Silver eyes were pelted then. (pg. 395)

The feather was lovely and trapped, in the door hinges of the church on Munich Street.  It poked itself crookedly out and Liesel hurried over to rescue it.  The fibers were combed flat on the left, but the right side was made of delicate edges and sections of jagged triangles.  There was no other way of describing it.  (pg. 321-322)

Most of the characters die, but Death gives us a heads-up.  It is terrible, but we are prepared.  I sometimes wonder whether we could take life better, whether it would be easier, if we were told how the story of our life will end.  I guess it would depend on your temperament.  For this book, it lessened the blow.  Helpful if you are a younger reader, and it also adds depth and meaning to the story.  What each character does with the little time remaining to them becomes so much more important to the reader.  Being told of the deaths in advance also made me feel like these deaths belonged to the story, not as if they just happened.  They fit, they belonged, they were natural -- but that did not make them any less sad.
 
I do not expect to see any of these characters walking around in Germany.  That is not one of the strengths of this book.  I do not feel as if the characters are living and breathing within its pages.  I feel like this could be a true story, though.  Can you tell the difference?  I can tell it is fiction, but I feel like it tells the story a lot of German children might have lived at this time.  I have to wonder if Zusak has German ties.

I hereby admit that I have never read The Diary of Anne Frank -- but then, I've never wanted to.  But of all the war stories I have ever read, Zusak's has been by far the best.

By the way -- I looked it up, and The Book Thief is being made into a movie.  I'm scared they won't do a good job, but I know this could make a great movie if it was done right.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Markus Zusak

It's Spring Break this week, and I'm reading Markus Zusak's The Book Thief.  I really don't know what to think of that correlation.

I started it today and am a little over 20 pages in.  It isn't what I expected, but then, I didn't have many expectations.  I knew it was about the Holocaust; I hadn't thought it would be from Death's point of view of a German girl's experience.  So far, the story is beautiful.  It is written simply, yet profoundly.  I love that Death talks about colors.  Not only is Death receiving a personality, but Death is fascinated by color.  I feel like humans associate color with life, emotions, and preferences.  It was unexpected, but color's inclusion in the narrative is wonderful.  I don't know that people think about the colors of the Holocaust.  Even in movies, the colors are muted when the Holocaust is being portrayed (in my experience, anyway).

This book hits home on another level for me, though.  My great-grandparents grew up in Germany and my great-grandpa, whom we call Opa, served in the army during WWII.  He quickly became a POW in France.  Some people may be offended that I take pride in this, but I do.  I am proud that even though Opa did not want to serve in the army, he supported his nation.  On top of that, I don't think it would have gone over well for him to tell the Nazi's that no, he didn't want to help, but thanks anyway.  He did not want to serve, but he did.  That is what I take pride in.

His wife, whom my family calls Oma, wrote Opa letters throughout the war.  She didn't know where he was or if he was even still alive, and she never got letters from him.  I can't remember whether or not Opa received her letters.  Oma and Opa lived with their two young daughters in Nürnberg, where their ancestors had lived for generations.  Wanda was the elder daughter and my grandma, Brigitte, was the younger.  Oma and Opa were in their 30s during the war.  While Opa was imprisoned in France, Oma was serving in the LDS Church as a Relief Society president.  The Relief Society, which is still around today and of which I am a member, is meant to do what its name says: provide relief, whether that be physical, emotional, spiritual, mental, or in any other way necessary.  The Society is divided into groups based on geography, and Oma was in charge of the group whose members lived in and around Nürnberg.

Nürnberg was heavily bombed during the war, and Wanda was sent to live away from Oma and Brigitte out of concern for her safety.  I suppose that my grandma was too young to be sent away from her mother.  The family had been saving up money so they could move to America, but when the war was over and the family was reunited, the economic depression hit.  Money was nearly worthless, and they had to start saving up from scratch.  It took a little while, but they finally made it to America.  Opa died from cancer and Oma died decades later at the age of 101.  Wanda and my grandma are both still alive.

I used to think it curious that my grandma has never expressed a desire to visit Germany again.  Even when family members have proposed a trip, she has turned it down.  It was only a year ago or so that I was thinking about it and realized that Germany carries too many terrible memories for her.  In her mind's eye, Nürnberg is probably still bombed and destroyed.  Germany is not a happy place for her; why would she want to return there for a visit?

At the point in the story where I am, the Book Thief is a young girl being sent away from her hometown in Germany just as Wanda was sent away.  Her mother accompanies her on the voyage, though I don't know yet whether the mother will be returning to their hometown.  The Book Thief's brother just passed away on the train.  Somehow, having Death narrate the story is comforting to me.  I love that Death takes up people's souls into his arms and carries them.  It is a beautiful image.

I have high hopes for this book, though I don't think it will be at all fun to read.  It isn't meant to be fun.  I just hope I don't spend Spring Break crying.

(Note: This second photo was found online and was not taken by my ancestors.  It is, however, a photo of Nürnberg after it was bombed by Great Britain.)

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Daniel Handler

I did not enjoy this book.

Now that I've said that, I will add that it wasn't that the writing wasn't good.  It was beautifully written.  It was the story itself that I didn't enjoy; but I know that with how many books I find myself reading, I am bound to find a few that I just don't enjoy.  Memo to self: Don't read teenage drama stories.

It's not that I hated Why We Broke Up.  It just wasn't my cup of ... coffee with extra cream and three sugars.

Now that is one of the beauties of this book: the details.  The narrator and protagonist, Min, tells us she likes her coffee with extra cream and three sugars.  She references specific movies throughout the text and describes scenes from them in order to portray her emotions, reactions, or perception of events.  The book even includes a map of how Min and her now-ex-boyfriend, Ed, get from one Halloween party to the other.

I read somewhere that this story was based off the illustrations it has.  Daniel Handler worked with Maira Kalman on a children's book and they decided to do another story together; but this time, they were going to switch things up.  Kalman drew what she wanted to, and Handler used her artwork to piece together a story.  It reminds me of how Pirates of the Caribbean is based off a ride in Disneyland (which then renovated itself to be aligned with the movie, so they're based off each other, a paradox of Disney).  Cool concept, though, and I think it went well for them.  It's amazing how well Handler portrays a teenage girl.  He must have had a sister while he was growing up.  I looked it up and he doesn't have a daughter (unless she's hidden away somewhere like Ariana Dumbledore or Bertha Mason.  Maybe her name is Beatrice).

So the writing was excellent, the book was not.  I would only recommend this book to ... a girl with loose morals who is going through high school and who loves gossip and love story drama.  Yuck.

Vanilla Ice Cream

Just wrote this poem.  Edited by no one but me, written in about 30 minutes.  I'm an impressionist poet, what can I say?


Vanilla

what

is the difference between vanilla?

it’s like the ice cream Company

got too many shipments of beans

and needed Somewhere to put them

vanilla Bean

French vanilla

Homemade vanilla made in a factory

Plain vanilla - the extra of the Extra

or else the thing the company wanted to make

in the First place

as for me,

I put Vanilla in a bowl

and sprinkle it with color.

candies that Swirl through the cold,

leaving smears

in the Milky beans

ice

cream makes me tremble

that’s all that’s wrong with it

my shoulders Vibrate

like an incessant phone call

and my taste buds say

“don’t pick up the Phone”

cold that doesn’t like

to leave,

like the rainbow left in the bowl

which is Like a promise

to always eat Vanilla ice cream

again

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Daniel Handler

The funny thing about Daniel Handler is he occupies the same body as Lemony Snicket.  So I guess this is my first post about a book whose author I've already talked about ... ish.  Handler has done a good job of sounding incredibly different from his alter ego.

The book I'm reading is Why We Broke Up, and since I need to have it read by the end of the week, I'm going to be spending a lot of time with it.  It isn't the fast read The Bad Beginning was, but that is mostly because the story is told in the first person and that first person is a distraught female teenager.  That should explain everything.

It also shows what a good writer Daniel Handler is, because this book is dramatically different from Snicket's series.  If I wasn't already aware that both stories originated from the same brain, I wouldn't have guessed it. The most I would have possibly done would be to think Hey, these two guys have similar senses of humor.  They should go out to lunch or something.  I likely wouldn't have even thought to compare them, though.  They are that different.

The writing is great, but I'm not so sure about the story yet.  It's teenage drama.  My friend Taylor, who is in the YA Lit class with me (this book is an assignment, as is all my reading these days.  Actually, I take that back.  I have a novel by Gerald N. Lund that I've been reading while I eat breakfast each morning, and that wasn't assigned) warned me about it being full of teenage drama.  Some people are fans of these books.  Myself, I try to avoid drama.  I also don't normally care whether or not the hero and the love interest get together at the end of a story.  My sister gets caught up in the love story aspect, but unless it is integral to the plot, I don't really care.  When I read Sense and Sensibility (spoiler alert for those planning on reading it who haven't gotten the time to tramp through that novel yet), I was a bit bummed that Marianne didn't marry for love at the end, but I wasn't sad or angry or anything.  And that's a romance novel.

Plan for tonight: read this French poem I've been assigned to read, then read Why We Broke Up while eating ice cream.  Woot.  Handler, I liked Snicket's book.  Please don't let me down now.

Apparently I Was in a Poetry Exhibit

Last semester, I took a poetry class.  As a class, we took one evening to visit Cedar Breaks National Monument.  We took a short hike (more of a walk, to be honest) and watched the stars come out.  We were then asked to write a poem about a constellation, incorporating the mythology, science, and visual aspects.  The plan was that these poems would be put together into an exhibit later on.

Being me, I bent the rules.  I thought about the different constellations and finally decided I wanted to talk about Earth instead.  It's a star, right?  The concept I was working with was What constellation would Earth be a part of?  Luckily, the professor went through with it.

I had a hard time with the poem.  I wanted to make a statement, but every time I tried, it came across as terribly didactic, which I hated.  I went through more drafts of this poem than I remember ever going through for any other poem, and each draft was radically different from the one that preceded it.  I'm still not completely happy with the final product, but it will do.

The semester ended, and a couple months ago, the professor sent me an email saying she wanted to include my poem in a class poetry exhibit (not everyone's poem was going to be included).  I responded, she asked for a short biography, I sent one, and then I didn't hear from her again.

Last week, a friend of mine who had been in that class mentioned the exhibit casually and that was when I learned that there would be a poetry reading for it this week, meant to open the exhibit.  I was confused.  Was my poem going to be in the exhibit or not?  The professor had told me she would let me know when it would be, but she hadn't.  I sent her an email, but she didn't respond.

That evening, I went to work and mentioned my confusion over the exhibit and the reading.  My co-workers told me that I would probably be in the exhibit, because I was on the posters.  What?!  I hadn't even noticed there were posters for it.  I tracked down a poster (easier than I thought; apparently I'm just oblivious sometimes) and here is what I saw:

Looks like I had nothing to worry about.  They were using me - just me - to advertise the event.  I took this to mean that I would definitely be involved in the reading.

So I asked my friend for details (the professor still hadn't gotten back to me) and then attended the reading.  It went well, and I was surprised by the number of people who attended.  I guess I'd thought only my classmates and maybe their roommates would attend.  If that was the case, my classmates have a lot of roommates, and some of them are professors.

The reading was Tuesday. I pilfered one of the posters today (Friday).

A photographer from the University Journal (where I work) was there and took some photos.  I asked her to send me the photos of me reading my poem, so these are hers.  To give her due credit - her name is Arissa Rowley.

There is also a photo of my poem, which will be on display in the library until April.
 I've already posted this particular poem, but here it is again so you don't have to hunt it down.  You might notice that there are a couple changes, though they are small.  On top of these, the exhibit did not include my first line.  Lame sauce.

Atlas

Stars --
They fill the heavens
like torches from the past.
Yet city lights obscure our direction
and buildings hide the constellations.

But when Atlas shifts his shoulders,
so our lives meet with disaster,
we find ourselves staring at the sky--
because the jostling reminds us
why we make the choice
to breathe.

I can climb a mountain
and see through Atlas' eyes.
Whether I see manmade stars
from the city at my feet
or distant gleams in the sky above,
there is a glory in the sight.

When you go to sleep tonight,
pause for a moment
and look at the sky,
because somewhere out there
an alien child is looking in wonder
through his bedroom window
at the diamond in space
shouldered by a Titan.