Family and Food at Thanksgiving Time

By Christina Jinsky, senior English major at Silver Lake College

When we hear the word “Thanksgiving” a lot things come to mind. For some, I bet they think of Black Friday and the amazing deals they are going to get. For others, they may think of the time they will get off of work and the time they will get to spend with their family. But the one thing that comes to mind for me is the Thanksgiving food.

A Thanksgiving Poem:

May your stuffing be tasty.

May your turkey be plump.

May your potatoes and gravy have a nary lump.

May your yams be delicious

And your pies take the prize.

And May your Thanksgiving Dinner

Stay off your thighs!

(Author Unknown)

Food is a big part of Thanksgiving. We all look forward to the turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy. We can’t forget about the cranberry sauce and deviled eggs and of course the dinner rolls with butter. In my family, what we most look forward to is the dessert. The second crucial part of Thanksgiving is family and what we give thanks for. I’m lucky enough in my family that both of the parts fit so well together.

My dad is the ultimate baker – well at least that’s how he's known to those who have ever had the chance to indulge in some of his delicious treats. Each year he tries to think of something new or different to bake and bring to the family dinner. Even if no one explicitly says “Dad (Larry), can you bring a dessert to pass?” he knows that he is in charge of a dessert or two to bring… I think it’s just a given in our family.

This year for Thanksgiving my dad is deciding between three desserts that he would like to make: Cranberry Cheesecake Tartlets, Cranberry Nut Pie, and Cranberry Apple Crisp Pie. My dad tries to find a new, different dessert to make every year unless someone makes a ‘request’ for a certain one they really like. He came about deciding upon these three this year with my help.

I live in the dorms at Silver Lake College and I usually have a nightly conversation with my dad on the phone, as he and I are two peas in a pod. A couple weeks ago one particular conversation lasted a little over an hour because he had me looking up recipes online and trying to decide which ones might sound good to make for Thanksgiving. First I started on Pinterest thinking that they might have some really good ideas for desserts – that didn’t go very far because nothing I read to my dad sounded that appealing. Then my dad said “why don’t you try the Ocean Spray website, I hear they have a lot of good recipes on there." Well, that was our hot ticket – that website holds a lot of recipes – desserts, main dishes, basically a recipe for an entire 5 course meal. I read probably about 10 different recipes to my dad offof  that website before he finally narrowed it down to the three he wanted me to bring home.

(My dad is not the most tech savvy person and so therefore we don’t have internet at home. Only during the summer months when I’m home.)

My dad always teases that he is going to throw out all of his recipes and hang up his baking hat. Good thing he is only teasing, because my dad’s desserts aren’t just good to eat but they seem to make people happy when they eat them. Maybe that’s why they are the best ending to every family holiday.  A perfect cherry on top of everyone's food comas.

So I hope your family has as wonderful of a time as my family does this Thanksgiving. I hope you fill your bellies until there is no room left to fill and then enjoy a good dessert.



Christina is a senior at Silver Lake College.  She is a dual major in Psychology and English with a Writing emphasis.  She enjoys spending time with her loved ones.

 

Why Literature and the Language Arts Still Matter

By Elizabeth Fritsch, senior English major at Silver Lake College

                         

  What do you do with a B.A. in English,

What is my life going to be?
Four years of college and plenty of knowledge,
Have earned me this useless degree.

I can't pay the bills yet,
'Cause I have no skills yet,
The world is a big scary place.

But somehow I can't shake,
The feeling I might make,
A difference,
To the human race.

(From Avenue Q)

The question is the same for all students who tell their family and friends that they plan to major in English: What are you going to do with an English degree?  And the question, as you may know, is never a question of polite curiosity.  As an English education major, the question is a little less brutal for me, since most people believe that the only profession one can realistically obtain with an English major is teaching.  The insinuation still exists, though, that I’d be far better off teaching in the field of mathematics, science, or technology.  After all, why do students need English?

All English teachers have heard the chorus of questions from their students (Why are we required to read Macbeth?  Why do we need to write persuasive essays?  Why do we need to understand archaic literary concepts?  Why do we need to know how to correctly use semicolons?) that effectively serve to undermine the respect given to English discipline and consequently devalue any profession in the discipline.  After all, the students have a point.  Nobody has asked me to evaluate the ending of Macbeth.  Nobody besides my teachers, professors, and a few peer editors has read any of my persuasive essays.  I can’t even remember that last time I used the words synecdoche or dactyl (and to be honest, half of the time I can’t remember what they mean), and the semicolon is extinct to almost all born in the digital age, save Matthew Inman, the creator of The Oatmeal.

(From: The Oatmeal)

If the purpose of literature and the language arts is not to instill students with a fervent appreciation of Tolstoy, a keen eye for comma splices, and the ability to tell the difference between an iamb and a trochee, what then is the purpose?  Some may argue that English serves the noble purpose of expanding students’ horizons, allowing them to think critically, creatively, and beyond their conception of self.  They may argue that the study of English and all it encompasses is essentially the study of humanity – of who we are at the core of our being.  While I think the discipline of English definitely attempts to do these things, when we take a critical look at our beloved discipline, an inconsistency occurs in what the study of English attempts and what students learn.  After all, if English really teaches what it means to be human and how to think and live critically and creatively, why aren’t college students scrambling to register for literature classes and why aren’t middle and high school students actually reading To Kill a Mockingbird instead of skimming the Sparknotes?

We need to reinvigorate the discipline with meaning.  To many students, English is a list of books to read and a stack of essays to write.  Those who have fallen in love with the discipline understand that it is so much more – that English is not just a discipline, but THE discipline which allows all other disciplines to flourish and have meaning.  All disciplines depend on English as their bedrock.  English allows for students to excel in Chemistry, Politics, Psychology, and even Math.  English is first and foremost the discipline that teaches the reception, discussion, and contribution of ideas.  The books and essays (as much as it may pain me to say it) are just the tools.  It is upon these skills that not only students’ grades and degrees hang, but also their ability to become lifelong learners and succeed in the professional world and beyond.  We need to teach students that the heart of English is the importance of ideas, not just the ideas of people who have died centuries ago, but also their own ideas, along with the ideas of their teachers and peers.

Yes, Beowulf might go away.  The semicolon may disappear.  Sonnets might become extinct.  But the importance of the reception, discussion, and contribution of ideas will remain eternal, and consequently, so will the need for people to study English.   

Elizabeth Fritsch is a senior at
Silver Lake College.  She is majoring
in English (teaching emphasis) and minoring
in History and Theology.

Remembering Veteran's Day

By Libby Spencer, junior English major at Silver Lake College

Often when thinking of Veteran’s Day we are brought back to an important time in our country’s history- the Vietnam War.  At the time of the Vietnam War, the U.S. government viewed American involvement as a way to prevent a communist takeover of South Vietnam.  Beginning in 1950, American military advisors arrived in what was then French Indochina, but U.S. involvement really escalated in the early 1960s, with troop levels tripling in 1961 and again in 1962. Regular U.S. combat units were deployed beginning in 1965. Later in 1968, the war peaked when operations crossed international borders and from that Laos and Cambodia were heavily bombed by the U.S. American involvement.  After this, U.S. ground forces were gradually withdrawn as part of a policy known as Vietnamization, which aimed to end American involvement in the war. Despite the Paris Peace Accords, which was signed by all parties in January 1973, the fighting continued.  Direct U.S. military involvement ended on August 15, 1973 as a result of the Case–Church Amendment passed by the U.S. Congress.  In total, 58,220 U.S. service members died in the conflict.

In memory of the soldiers lost in the Vietnam War, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was dedicated in November of 1982 Washington, D.C.  It honors U.S. service members of the U.S. armed forces who fought in the Vietnam War, service members who died in service in Vietnam/South East Asia, and those service members who were unaccounted for during the War.  In March of 1982, Maya Lin, who was a senior undergraduate architecture student at Yale at the time, submitted the design for the Wall in a competition.  Her design beat out 4,120 other designs and in her entry for the competition she envisions seeing her wall for the first time:

. . . the memorial appears as a rift in the earth—a long, polished black stone wall, emerging from and receding into the earth. . . . Walking into the grassy site contained by the walls . . . we can barely make out the carved names upon the memorial’s walls . . . seemingly infinite in number. . . .

When designing this monument Lin could not have imagined the response from visitors, especially of those who were veterans themselves.  Today we find ourselves coping with war and tragedy through reading and writing.  That is exactly what the poet Yusef Komunyakaa does when he describes his experience of visiting the Vietnam Veterans Memorial for the first time.  According to "Yusef Komuyakaa: Facing It" by Robin Ekiss, Komunyakaa served in Vietnam as a correspondent and managing editor for the military newspaper Southern Cross from 1969-1970.  In 1982, Komunyakaa began to reflect on his experiences.  In his poem, Facing It, Komunyakaa’s response to his war experience is deeply shaped by his visit to Lin’s memorial.  Inspired by the monument, he confronts his conflicted feelings about Vietnam, its legacy, and, even the part race plays in America.

Facing It

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

Through reading and writing we are able to find closure, understanding, and hope.  Reading Komunyakaa’s, Facing It, gives insight to the struggle not only he faces, but also the many veterans who have experienced the hardships of war and now live in the aftermath.  Veterans risked their lives for us and our country.  This Veteran’s Day make sure to thank the veterans you know for their hard work and dedication to this country.




 

Libby Spencer is a junior at Silver Lake College.  She is majoring in English (with an emphasis in Writing) and minoring in Spanish.  She enjoys spending time with her family, coaching and participating in sports, and of course, writing.

Excerpt from "Attack on Thunder Bay"

By Frankie Derfus, senior English major at Silver Lake College

This is a story I'm working on about a dystopian future that isn't far off, taking place in the year 2020. The main character and narrator is 21-year-old Quinn, and she is trying to save her family from “the Creatures," alien beings that have been attacking towns all over the world one by one in attempt to wipe out the human race. (Thunder Bay is the town.)

            I recognize the lights hovering on the horizon as I am seemingly deafened, paralyzed by fear. Those lights... the ones that hung ominously above my house just hours before my father's mysterious disappearance. I am unmoving, can't breathe. My confusion and fright zap me with an instant headache. My stomach is in knots. The kids. They are sitting to my left at the kitchen table waiting for breakfast. They haven't noticed anything yet.

Credit: StevoKebabo (Flickr)

            “Quinn?” I vaguely hear Karli say in the background. She's as confused with my current state as the kids.

            “We gotta go!” I say hurriedly. I take a deep breath, trying hard to not reveal my anxiety. I head toward the front of the house. I grab the duffel bag of clothes, toiletries, and other necessities I've been stashing for my mom, the kids, and me. I knew it would happen eventually.

            “Quinn, what is going on!?” my mom asks in a near yell. I pull my mom and Karli off to the side to let them know it's happening. “What's happening?” my mom asks, genuinely confused.

            “The attack...” Karli whispers as a tear escapes her eye. I quickly wipe the salty droplet from her cheek so the kids won't see. Bag in hand, we head back to the kitchen.

            “Quinn?” I hear Riley call from the kitchen. “What's happening?”

            “Well, honey,” I say as I crouch down to eye-level with my six-year-old brother, “do you remember the news talking about whole towns of people dying?” I ask him. I decide I can't hide it from him. We have to duck out the back door into the woods, and he'll see what's going on anyway.

            “It's happening here,” he assumes. I take a deep breath, wishing he wasn't so smart at times like this.

            “What are we gonna do?” Lucy asks me. The kids aren't as afraid as I thought they'd be. Then we hear it. Gunshots. The look of absolute terror in Lucy's perfectly green eyes breaks my heart.

            “We're gonna run,” I declare. I swing Riley up onto my hip so he won't fall behind. Karli grabs Lucy's hand, and my mom grabs the duffel bag. We head out the back door.

Credit: Just Add Light (Flickr)

            The town is in a riot, coming closer and closer to being in complete shambles. I hear people screaming, see them running in every direction, some people already missing limbs. Most residents are still in their pajamas, just like us. My mom, Karli, and Lucy lag behind, stunned by what they are witnessing, bright red blood covering the thick green lawns, bodies of people we know strewn about town like autumn leaves. When they come to a complete halt, I stop as well to get a glimpse at whatever has caught their attention. It's them... the Creatures... Oh, no... I'm not ready for this, I think to myself. I want to take a second to plead with God, to let it be another nightmare, but I'm interrupted by my little brother's scream. Then I see it. I see him. My boyfriend Marshall. He's running toward us, flailing his arms as if saying Wait up!, but he's not fast enough. The Creature that was trailing him snatched him up. Marshall's 6'3” frame is dwarfed by the inhumanly tall thing that grabbed him, literally, with one arm.

Credit: YellMagazine

            “Quinn!” he screams my name, and the Creature looks up in our direction. From 30 feet away I can see the glowing yellow eyes of the Creature. It opens its mouth to flash a grin full of razor sharp teeth. With those lethal pearl shards it rips into Marshall's neck, blood squirting in every direction. I feel Riley bury his face into my neck, my hair shielding him from seeing his personal super hero defeated by the hands, by the teeth, of this awful thing meant only to cause pain. I thank God Riley has concealed his face because the Creature comes up for air after a second, flesh hanging from its mouth, blood dripping from its chin and running down its chest. I choke down vomit but can't keep the tears from blanketing my cheeks. The Creature takes another alarmingly large bite closer to Marshall's shoulder. When my boyfriend's killer rips this hunk off, his whole arm comes flinging off.



            I feel so lightheaded I almost drop my brother. I just watched my boyfriend get mauled to death. “Come on,” I say to my remaining loved ones, giving Riley a kiss on the head. In case we don't make it, I say in my head. “We gotta run.” And just as we turn to head into the woods and hopefully to safety, I begin to run, only to almost directly collide with her... Demona... She's the only thing scarier that the Creatures. Her soccer mom clothing is eclipsed by neon green eyes and a set her very own razor sharp teeth.

            “So this is the Bennett family,” she says. Lucy slowly scoots to hide behind my mom. Riley cowers into my chest. “We've been waiting for you.” Demona circles each of us, sensing something not totally right. “You,” she says as she points to Karli. “Who are you?”

            “K-K-Karli...” my best friend stutters.

            “Karli who?” Demona requests more information, crossing her arms over the soft pink argyle sweater covering her chest.

            “Karli Shaw,” she informs her.

            “Karli Shaw... You're not a Bennett?”

            “N-n-no,” she stutters again.

            “I'm sorry, if you're not a Bennett, you have to die,” Demona says. She pulls the pistol out of her brown leather handbag and aims for Karli's head.

Frankie Derfus, a senior at Silver Lake College, is from Wabeno, Wisconsin. She is majoring in English (writing) and minoring in psychology.

How to Give a Poetry Reading When You're a Shy Girl from Manitowoc: 4 Tips for Reading Poems Aloud

By Dr. Emilie Lindemann, Assistant Professor of English at Silver Lake College

It’s 2006 and I am a shy twenty-two-year-old from Manitowoc, WI bumbling along the route from my Bartlett Avenue apartment in the pre-dawn dark to my barista job at the campus coffee shop at UW-Milwaukee where I’m a grad student. I’m wearing some ridiculous dangly fruit earrings. Honest to goodness, I am wearing plastic pears on my ears. My professor James Liddy (yes, the Irish poet) has just informed me that I’ll be reading along with another grad student and a faculty member on Tuesday night (Tuesday!) at Von Trier. And today’s Friday.

As I walk, my red floral shoulder bag bumps against my hip. I hold a crumpled stack of poems and read them aloud as I pass two-story houses in shades of teal, lavender, and forest green. A city bus screeches to a halt—hipsters and elderly people and sleepy middle-aged workers inside the lit bus must think I’m a crazy person talking to myself, but I don’t care. Now I stuff the papers in my bag and recite the poems.

***

James Liddy had floated into his Contemporary Writers class the previous evening, placed his nylon duffle bag on the table, and said, “So our own Emilie will be giving a poetry reading next week.”

Huh?  I didn’t realize that Liddy even knew my name. He spoke in a soft Irish lilt and never bothered to turn on the lights during our evening class—even as 4:30 turned to 5 turned to 6:30 on those autumn evenings. By the end of the class we’d be sitting in the dark, squinting to read our notes, straining to hear Liddy whisper Jean Valentine lines from scraps of paper he pulled from his duffle bag.

I vaguely remembered having signed up via email to read for the student-faculty reading series sometime during the academic year. But no one had told me it was happening—and on Tuesday!  But the posters were plastered to every office and classroom door on the fourth floor of Curtin Hall to prove it.

***

At a more recent poetry reading (not at Von Trier, of course)

 

That night when I entered the Farwell Avenue German tavern called Von Trier with its side room decorated with antlers and beer steins, I entered another universe. This smoky universe was full of shadowy figures—devastatingly chic blonde thirty-somethings in berets and roomy cable-knit sweaters, bearded doctoral students who carried leather bags of books by Foucault and Derrida, characters like the seasoned professor with a dark brown bob who always wore an emerald trench coat and matching beret (my grad school friends have claimed to never have seen her, so now I’m wondering if she was a ghost).

That night, as I stood in that smoky room at Von Trier and read my poems to a room full of people who were infinitely cooler and smarter than I was, I entered a universe where people love poetry so much they listen to it over beer and cigarettes. A universe where a twenty-two-year-old from Manitowoc can go from a weird girl with fruit earrings to a poet in one night. While I read, I entered the poems, the dark room with its antlers and sticky wooden tables. I became part of the poems and part of the audience as they reacted in the moment.

***

Looking back now, I’m thankful that I was able to get into the zone as I read my poems to the audience, because that reading changed everything.

So, how can a shy girl (or guy) from Manitowoc--from anywhere--perform a poem?

On a recent visit to my Creative Writing & the Visual Arts workshop at Silver Lake College, poet Karl Elder divulged four tips for reading poems. I must have somehow known these four tips intuitively as a twenty-two year old, but they are worth spelling out and repeating here:

Tip 1: Determine the phrases.  Instead of just reading each line, figure out what your phrases are and read the poem like that. This is especially important in poems that use enjambment.

Tip 2: See it and say it. During his visit, poet Karl Elder reminded my class that we have to see the poem in our minds so that we can perform it in a way that will allow readers to see it in their minds.

Tip 3: Slow down. Elder urged us to “travel at the speed of the readers’ visualization” so that readers can actually experience the poem with us. Take a deep breath! No matter how nervous or caffeinated you are, don’t blurt out your poem in double-time. Your poem is worth listening to.

Tip 4: Lend a sense of wonder to your voice. While reading his own work during his visit to my class, Elder spoke in such a way that we knew the poems were worthy of our time. We stopped our own interior monologues to enter the poems with him.

Here’s hoping your own poetry reading launches you into the universe of poets!

Do you have other tips for reading poems aloud? Share them in a comment below.

 

Emilie Lindemann is an assistant professor of English at Silver Lake College in Manitowoc, WI. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks: Dear Minimum Wage Employee: You Are Priceless and The Queen of the Milky Way (both from Dancing Girl Press). After a stint as an apartment dweller on Milwaukee's East Side, Emilie now lives on a dairy farm in rural Manitowoc County.

 

Some thoughts on reading The Shining at long last

By Dr. Albert Sears, Professor of English at Silver Lake College of the Holy Family

Although I have been a long-time devotee of Stanley Kubrick’s famous film The Shining (1980), I have only just read Stephen King’s cornerstone novel (1977), on which the film is based.  I have wanted to read it for a long time, because of my admiration for the film.  When I recently read a number of praiseworthy reviews of King’s newly-published sequel, Doctor Sleep (2013), which focuses on the adult Dan Torrance (the boy in the novel who possesses some psychic ability), I realized that it was time to read the 1977 book, so I could better appreciate the sequel, yet unread (number 23 in the library queue).  I should say that I have never been a reader of King’s work, not believing I cared for his style, but I have been told by serious King-readers that I really needed to check out The Shining because of its “taut” style and form.  I would agree with this characterization of the work, and I would add that King’s writing in this novel is masterful; the depth of characterization struck me right away.  There is something else in the novel, though, that is remarkable:   King’s ability to generate dread.

One of the problems with reading The Shining after all of these years is the film, which I have now seen countless times.  I should disclose, however, that I have never seen the 1997 television miniseries, having a deep-rooted prejudice against TV-miniseries.  Kubrick’s film is one of the very best of the haunted-house genre of horror films.  It’s genuinely chilling, even after numerous viewings, and if I’ve watched it at night, I am uneasy about walking up our creaky stairs to go to bed, especially if the closet door is slightly ajar when I get to the bedroom.  The film follows the novel’s general plot outline, until the very end, but, as film must do when it adapts a novel, much is simplified, eliminated, and revised. While I read the novel, about mid-way through, I realized that King’s narrative was doing something rather different from the film, and by the end King very much moves beyond “haunted-house” narrative to something else.  Perhaps I would call it fantasy, horror-laden, yet also flexible in its approach to narrative.  The result is potent; indeed, more so than the film, which considerably confines King’s fantasy elements.  There is some entity in control of the Overlook Hotel, likely supernatural, but far more complex and insidious than resident ghosts.  What initially appear to be ghosts in the novel finally are manipulative masks for something else very sinister.   

Which brings me back to the inducement of dread.  I didn’t find myself particularly frightened (maybe startled) while reading the novel; the exception would be a specific moment in the Room 217 scene, which the film captures fairly well.  I gasped a little bit when reading that chapter.  Other segments of the novel instill dread, perhaps even more effectively. The fire hose, which seems to morph into a snake in Danny’s imagination; the hedge animals, which, at least at first, only move when one isn’t looking; the wasps’ nest that swarms to life in Danny’s room, after Jack exterminates all the wasps; the leaf-crunching thing that seems to grab Danny’s legs when he is scrambling out of the playground cement ring.  These well-crafted episodes deserve study for King’s ability to generate a slow accumulation of dread in the reader, an anticipation of something utterly awful, which doesn’t fully manifest itself in these instances.  Certainly, the plot’s continued postponement of a terrible outcome – say, Danny’s death from being mauled by a hedge lion – is part of the dread, of something always lurking, never quite succeeding in its desire.  Part of the power of these moments, which Kubrick’s film in 1980 couldn’t realize, is also King’s imagination, the novel’s realm of fantasy – we’re talking about living and evil hedge animals here!  None of these elements survive in the film.

Yet, to be fair, some of the most iconic and frightening scenes in the film are unique to it.  Think of Wendy’s finding pages and pages of Jack’s manuscript, line after line of “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”; the technically innovative shots of Danny’s riding his Big Wheel around and around the halls of the Overlook, meeting the twin girls in the hallway; Jack’s “Here’s Johnny”; Danny’s finger, standing in evidently for Tony, speaking in that all-too-memorable voice, “Redrum, redrum”; or even the terrifying image of Jack frozen to death in the maze.  Indeed, the overall style of the film, from editing to the sound track, contributes to an extremely well-made horror film, even if Kubrick mainly used King’s text as an imaginative springboard. 

King’s hatred of Kubrick’s adaptation is well known, and it’s not surprising, given the differences.  A Google search reveals bloggers who enumerate the extensive changes Kubrick made to King’s narrative, far more than briefly outlined here.  Such wide scale narrative revision ultimately reveals that these are finally different works with different ends.  Despite that, they both possess considerable merit, each distinctively unnerving.  It’s just hard to get Jack Nicholson out of your head if you watch the film first.

King, Stephen. The Shining. NY: Doubleday, 1977. Book.

Kubrick, Stanley, dir. The Shining. Warner Bros., 1980. Film.






Dr. Albert Sears is Professor of English at Silver Lake College of the Holy Family.  His scholarly interests include the Victorian novel, popular genres of literature, the films of Alfred Hitchcock, the novels of Virginia Woolf, and French language and literature.  His blog on teaching and doing research in British literature can be found at http://oldbookmeanderings.blogspot.com/.

 

Don't Listen to Mark Twain: On Writing What You Don't Know

By Frankie Derfus, English major at Silver Lake College

Close your eyes. Imagine a small town, a village deep in the valley between picturesque rolling hills. It's a normal fall day with a rainbow of leaves blanketing the dewy morning grass. The air is crisp and refreshing. You are walking about town with two young kids about six and eleven years old. They are clutching your hands in excitement as you walk through a pumpkin patch with them. Their joyfulness brings a big cartoony grin to your face. As you look over your shoulder in respond to a scream heard off in the distance, an alien race is ripping your town apart. You swing the six-year-old onto your hip and hold tight to the eleven-year-old's hand and sprint toward your house. Your eyes scan the trees bordering your tiny settlement looking for the quickest escape.

Photo by Paul Gorbould

This scene abruptly awoke me from what was previously a serene slumber. I looked to my right and saw my son still peacefully asleep. A smile crept across his cherub-like face, and I sneaked a kiss, hoping he'd stay sleeping. As I lay there trying to shake off the feeling my dream, er- nightmare, left me with. Nightmares often interrupt my dreams, but I've never dreamt of aliens before. I didn't know how to stop thinking about this as a terrifyingly real possibility. (I'm a believer of extraterrestrial beings.) Then I had an idea: I should write about it!

Before my current fiction writing class began, I knew I would be required to write a long fiction piece. I dusted the cobwebs off the dark corners of my brain and tried to muster something new. I have only written non-fiction or stereotypical love stories: you know, the girl gets the guy and her dream job and one perfect child, girl loses guy to someone close to her, girl relocates in hopes of a fresh start, girl struggles but finds a better guy, and they live happily ever after. The end. Boring!

I have always wanted to write something much more unique, but when I start thinking of ideas, they are usually already taken. I really love writing but never fancied myself creative enough to create something not yet composed. This alien apocalypse dream was my chance to finally write something different. I was so excited. I told my little brother Zach about the dream (also a believer), and he was just as excited. Unintentionally, he has become my little consultant. Zach took a story-telling class in college, so he gave good pointers when reviewing my work. I have handed in my first chapter, sixteen pages and all.

 

Although this story isn't categorized in the same genre as the rest of my pieces, I am thoroughly enjoying writing something so new to me. If I can gather the confidence, I would love to publish this piece one day, hopefully soon. My advice to you is to try something new. Writers, expand your writing beyond what's easiest. Mark Twain once said “write what you know," but you know what? It might be good to write something you don't know about. Even if it doesn't work out, it'll be a good learning experience, and at least you can say you tried.

Good luck!

Frankie Derfus is from Wabeno, WI. She is majoring in English (writing) and minoring in Psychology at Silver Lake College.

The Scariest Moment: On Writing & Digital Self-Publication

By Courtney Dekanich, sophomore English major at Silver Lake College

Stephen King once wrote, in regards to writing, “the scariest moment is always just before you start.” As a writer, I know exactly what he meant. The moment just before putting pen to paper or fingers to the keyboard is absolutely terrifying. That may, at first, seem ridiculous, but it really does make a kind of sense. That moment, that small moment, is the last chance of the writer to turn back, to keep the story locked inside and away from the criticisms of others.
 

But, sometimes, it doesn’t matter how terrified you are of starting. Sometimes, the story just has to be told, and you really have no choice but to get it all out. Sometimes, there’s some kind of motivating factor that you just can’t argue with.
 

The knowledge that your grade is depending on it is a pretty great motivating factor.

When I started writing What Lurks Within, it wasn’t with the intention of ever publishing it in any way, shape, or form. I was in high school, and my Sophomore Composition class had been assigned to write a short story. For me, it was the best homework ever. I talked to my teacher as soon as I’d started outlining my story, knowing that it was going to be far longer than the page requirement she had set – and that I was going to need more than a few days to write it. After being granted a two week extension, I started writing a rather lengthy short story that I dubbed “The Whisperers.” I wrote like crazy, the knowledge that a considerable portion of my grade was depending on me handing in a finished story negating my fear of criticism. Eventually, I typed the last period, did a little editing, and printed it off. My teacher loved it, and the pressure was off.
 

“The Whisperers” sat on my flash drive – completely ignored – for the next three years. Then, as I was sorting through my files one day, I rediscovered it. After skimming over the first few paragraphs, I realized that I was more fond of the story than I remembered.
 

Editing began that night.
 

It took me about a week, but I finally worked my way through the entire thing, correcting typos and grammatical errors that I had missed the first time, fixing sections that I no longer liked, expanding on pieces that I didn’t have time to fully acknowledge under a deadline.
 

That was when I discovered what the second hardest part of writing is – getting published.
 

While I wanted more than anything to be published in print, I decided to try something else first – self-publishing digitally.
 

I looked into it, and, while there are a number of different options – decided to publish through Amazon’s Kindle store. From there, the process was pretty simple. Since I already had an Amazon account, step one was done. From there, it was just a matter of following the steps that Amazon has spelled out pretty simply. I entered my book information and set the search keywords for it. I uploaded my cover art and the digital copy of my novella. The final step was setting the price of my story and deciding on royalties. After I had all of my information entered, all I had to do was wait, first for my novella to be cleared for posting, and then for the first purchase notification. Out of the whole process of self-publication, the waiting part was the most difficult. The way that Amazon has their system of self-publication set up makes the process extremely simple, quick and painless.
 

So, for everyone who wants to write, to tell a story, but are too afraid that they can’t get published, no worries; if you’re okay with self-publishing online, Kindle makes the whole concept way less terrifying.
 

So, in the grand scheme of things, the scariest moment is still just before you start.

 

Courtney Dekanich, a college sophomore, is currently pursuing a degree in English at Silver Lake College. She lives with her family. What Lurks Within is her first novella.

 

Integrating English and Franciscan Values

By Elizabeth Fritsch, senior English Major at Silver Lake College

As we celebrate the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi, we are reminded of the virtues he modeled and also inspired in his followers.  How do we cultivate those virtues in ourselves, particularly in relation to the discipline of English?

Community:

As avid readers we understand that the idea of community stretches far beyond our student lounges, staff break rooms, and city limits.  Through the power of nonfiction reading, we can enter into a larger, more global community.  We become sensitive to others’ lives and struggles.  We note our differences, but more importantly, we celebrate our shared spiritual creation and existence through God.  When we read, we take on the emotional burden of another person's life and allow their life to touch our life, so that we may become more intertwined in the search for mental, emotional, and spiritual fulfillment.

Peacemaking:

We are constantly overwhelmed with words and ideas.  Everything – books, television, magazines, music, web pages, newspapers, billboards – is fighting for our attention.  We are (sometimes subconsciously) embedded with ideas, views, and feelings that are not our own – that are contrary to the existence of the empowered and dignified individual.   It goes without saying that many of the messages we receive are damaging and often place us at war with others, God, and even ourselves.  Keeping in mind the weight of words, it is our task to speak and write peacefully.  Are we using language that respects the dignity of the individual?  Are we using language to empower, rather than demean?  Are we allowing our spoken and written thoughts to exist in dialogue with others?  The brain that holds our thoughts, the grasped pen that holds our words, and the tongue that holds our speech are the most powerful and the most dangerous tools we have.  They are also our best tools to cultivate peace.

Compassion:

Those who study English know that one cannot only settle for being a skilled reader, writer, and speaker.  One must also become skilled in the art of listening.  Compassion, more often that not, is silent yet comforting.  Practicing compassion through listening serves as an act of humility.  In a world where we are overly zealous to share our own thoughts, ideas, and opinions (whether through talking, texting, email, social media, and writing), we must restrain our rampant sense of ego.  We must listen wholeheartedly, without mentally planning our next comment or placing judgment on the individual.  When we have truly and effectively listened, we will be able to speak with compassion, wisdom, and love.

Reverence for Creation:

After we have read, spoken, written, and listened, we must ACT!  Words and ideas are meaningless until they inspire us to change ourselves and the world around us.  Our action must flow from a reverence towards creation – all things in the natural world (the waters, the forests, the earth, the animals, and humans) have a purpose and have worth.  We must be harmonious individuals, recognizing that it is our responsibility to ensure that everything in the natural world is respected.  We were not created to lord over creation and our fellow humans, but rather to live in a state of communion.

 

 Elizabeth Fritsch is a senior at Silver Lake College.
She is majoring in English (with an emphasis on teaching)
and minoring in History and Theology.