Saturday, June 02, 2007

Obsessed with Sacrilege

One of the goals of this blog is for it to be a space where we writers can share our inspirations and ideas. Lately, my mind has been on fire with an idea or concept for a story. I’d like to share it.

Two weeks ago I began reading Chaim Potok’s The Chosen to my sister, Christa. I had read it the week before and knew that she would love it just as she had loved My Name is Asher Lev. Though it isn’t as artistically crafted, it is just as moving. After I finished that second reading I had an epiphany.

Since I entered university I’ve been trying to figure out what genre I’d write. In middle school I loved fantasy but I just haven’t felt like I was meant to write it, at least not right now. Science fiction, romance and mystery aren’t even options. Though I like creative non-fiction (like Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz and Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies) and will write some essays like that, I have still felt that there is a fiction writer in me lying dormant, waiting for direction. That night I got some of the direction I’ve been hoping for.

I want to be our (Christianity’s) Chaim Potok. What I mean by that is that I want to have stories that are related to the Christian faith but are also universally applicable. Fiction that was so compelling, that intellectuals with any spiritual or anti-spiritual leaning would be drawn to it. Since our religion is not so tragic nor are we such a sorrowful people I think it means that my books will have to be a bit apologetic and humble (well, in the faith aspect.) Since I’m most religious when sacrilegious I think that my narrator(or at least this first one that is growing in my mind) will be rather bitter. Some of the darkest aspects of me are going to come out in this first short story or novel, whatever it turns out to be. I’m going to do a lot of research this summer of our religion and religious writings and classical literature and eastern religions (with the exception of Islam, which will be written off since it is so antagonistic to females and my narrator will be a female with some feminist leanings.)

Any thoughts, comments or questions?

Monday, May 14, 2007

Free Contest for Crime & Suspense Stories

For those of you who like to write crime and suspense stories you may be interested in this.

The Crime and Suspense ezine is sponsoring a new contest for short
crime story authors. The stories will be voted on by the readership
and there will be prizes for first, second and third place. There is
no fee to enter.

For full details on the rules, requirements and prizes, go to the
Crime and Suspense web site and click on the link for the Austin
Camacho Beltway Crime Writing Contest.

The website is http://www.crimeandsuspense.com/

Monday, April 30, 2007

Short Story

This is a short story that i started a couple months ago. It's supposed to be an espionage story, although this part is not very exciting. It's just setting up the main character.



Carson McKenna walked out the door. He set down his briefcase and turned back towards the door. He shut the door and checked the lock. He then picked up the briefcase and walked down the steps towards the sidewalk. He quickly checked his watch. Eight o’clock. He had enough time to stop at the coffee shop for a cappuccino before heading to work.

Carson stood just under six feet tall. His short black hair glistened with hair gel. Even though he was only twenty-five, he already had several small patches of gray hair. He was proud of his gray hair. He liked to show it off to people. His little patches of “wisdom”. His eyes were as green as emeralds. People who looked into his eyes could see intelligence and determination. Carson’s face was smooth, and the faint scent of aftershave could be detected. He was dressed in black slacks and a white shirt. A simple black tie dangled from around his neck. He walked to his car and pushed the button on his key ring. The car chirped and the doors unlocked. Carson opened the door and slid behind the steering wheel. He drove a black Hyundai Accent. He put the car in gear and pulled out of his parking spot. He drove towards the road. As he drove, he turned on the radio. He tuned in the morning news. He listened to a report about action in Iraq. He shook his head as the reporter talked about the growing American casualties. The reporter then began talking about the Secretary of State’s visit to Saudi Arabia. Carson touched the radio dial, changing the station to a soft jazz music station. He smiled as the music began to play.

It took him five minutes to get to the coffee shop. Once at the coffee shop, he got out and walked into the building. There were three people in the shop plus the person behind the counter. Two of the people, a man and a woman, were sitting at a table sipping coffee and talking. The third person, a man in a suit, stood at the counter waiting for his coffee. Carson stood behind the man, waiting. The man took his coffee and walked away. Carson stepped forward.

The girl behind the counter smiled, “Morning, Carson, how’re you today.”

Carson flashed the girl a smile, “I’m doing great, Becky. And yourself?”

“It’s been pretty slow this morning,” Becky replied with a sigh, “You want the usual?” Carson nodded and pulled a five dollar bill from his wallet. He handed the money to Becky, who rang up the drink and handed back his change. She then turned and started making the cappuccino.

“So, you have any big plans this weekend?” Carson asked.

Becky nodded, “Yeah, my boyfriend and I are heading into D.C. We’re going to go out for dinner, and then to visit my parents. What about you?”

Carson smiled, “That sounds like fun. I’ve got some work that I’ll probably finish this weekend. And hopefully it doesn’t take too long, ‘cause I’ve got a new book that I want to read.”

Becky finished making the cappuccino and handed it to Carson, “Well, good luck with that. Have a good weekend.”

Carson nodded, “Thanks, you too.” He turned and walked outside. He got into his car and pulled onto the road. He turned onto the freeway and headed to work. Forty-five minutes later, he arrived at his work. He pulled up to the guard shack and drew out his picture ID. He rolled down the window and held it out.

The guard approached and took the ID, “Morning, Carson.”

Carson nodded, “Morning, Mike. How is your Friday so far?”

Mike nodded, “Boring as always, but that’s how we like it.”

Carson grinned, “Yes, indeed.”

Mike handed the photo ID back to Carson, “Have a good day, see you at five.” Carson thanked him before rolling up his window and pulling into the compound. He drove to his parking spot and turned off his car. He pulled his briefcase with him as he stepped out of the car. He took the empty coffee cup out and tossed it in the trash. He then approached the main building.

Carson worked in Langley, Virginia at the headquarters for the Central Intelligence Agency. He enjoyed watching people’s reactions when he told them he worked for the CIA. Of course, he worked as an information analyst. He wasn’t a gun slinging field agent. Instead, he sat at a desk and analyzed data. Not very glamorous perhaps, but he enjoyed his work. He entered the main building and passed through security without any problems. He greeted the guards at the desk before passing through the scanners. Having passed security, he headed to his cubicle. As he walked, he greeted his coworkers. Once at his desk, he set down his briefcase and removed several papers from it. He then put the briefcase under his desk. He activated his computer and sat down in his chair. He leaned back as he waited for the computer to boot. The computer booted and the CIA logo popped up. He placed his hands on the keyboard and began his day’s work.

His day passed quickly. He sat in front of his computer as streams of data passed over his screen. He analyzed it, he thought wryly to himself. His job consisted of studying the data streams for any inconsistencies. Usually, his work was pretty boring, but occasionally he saw some interesting data. He then passed that data on to other analysts who were specifically devoted to tracking down the leads. Overall, Carson was happy with his job. It wasn’t the most glamorous or exciting job in the world, but he enjoyed it. He took his lunch at twelve o’clock sharp. He spent exactly thirty minutes to eat his lunch and return to his desk. Carson worked until five o’clock. He then logged off of the system and left his desk. He said goodnight to his coworkers as he passed their cubicles. He passed through security without any difficulties. He said goodnight to the guards behind the desk. He walked to the parking garage and pulled out his keys.

Suddenly, he heard a voice call out to him, “Carson! Hey, Carson, wait up.” Carson turned to see who called his name. He saw Geoff wave at him. Geoff was a thirty year old analyst who had worked with the CIA for seven years. His brown hair was parted in the middle. His eyes were brown. He wore a well-kept mustache which he often stroked when thinking. Geoff worked in the cubicle next to Carson. He had a wife and two kids, a fifteen year old daughter and a thirteen year old son. Geoff wasn’t as organized as Carson, but he was a nice guy, dedicated to his work. He and Carson had developed a friendship over the past six months.

Carson smiled, “Hey, Geoff, what’s up?”

Geoff jogged forward and stopped next to Carson, “Hey, got any plans for the weekend?”

Carson shook his head, “Not really, just some work that I need to get done.”

Geoff smiled, “Well, Lisa asked me to invite you over for dinner on Sunday. Will you come?”

Carson considered for a moment, “That would be nice, thanks. Weekends can be quite boring and lonely.”

Geoff smiled, “Great! How does five sound?”

Carson nodded, “That works for me.”

Geoff grinned, “Alright, we’ll see you on Sunday.” With that, he waved and walked away. Carson waved back and headed towards his car. He pressed the button on his car which unlocked the doors. He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. He pulled out of his parking spot and drove to the gate.

Mike walked to the window, “Have a good day?”

Carson nodded, “Yeah, pretty quiet today.”

Mike waved him through, “Well, have a good weekend. See you on Monday.”

Carson smiled, “You too. See you later.” With that he pressed his foot on the gas pedal and pulled away.

Friday, February 23, 2007

The Curse of California - Part 2

Here is the second part of my attempt at poetry. Sorry it took so long to post. Busy week.

One evening, with lust in his eyes,
Monestario called on Senor De le Vaga,
And demanded his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Here Senor De le Vaga had a problem,
If he said no, it would mean persecution;
If he said yes, his daughter would be miserable.
Before he could answer,
Monestario and his aide pushed by.
In the parlor, they encountered Senora De le Vaga.
The Alcalde demanded to see the senorita,
“In the living room,” answered the frightened Senora.
Monestario left his aide-de-camp to guard the door,
And entered the parlor with fire in his eyes.
There he found the senorita,
She sat on a couch.
A book lay open on her lap unread,
A dreamy look on her face.
He cleared his throat and broke into her reverie.
“I ask you for your hand in marriage,” said the mayor.
“What of my father?” demanded the girl.
“He has no say.”
“What?” cried the girl, rising.
“You will marry me.”
“No!”
Monestario grabbed the girl in a tight embrace,
And held her in a passionate kiss.
The sound of a sword being drawn broke the stillness.
Monestario spun.
El Zorro stood before him with Monestario’s own sword.
“You will apologize,” ordered the masked crusader.
“Never!”
A flash of silver and ripped tunic was the response.
“Do it or die.”
Monestario fell to his feet and groveled.
El Zorro threw the alcalde’s sword away,
Grasping man’s collar and belt,
He hurled him out into the parlor.
Drawing his pistol,
He order Monestario and his aide to depart,
Warning them never to return.
With a bow to the De le Vaga family,
El Zorro disappeared in the night.

El Zorro had found a gathering,
He gathered the caballero around himself,
He formed and army of honest men,
All wearing black.
But only he wore a white band on his hat,
To signal the purity of their cause.
All caballeros were inspired to overthrown,
Those corrupt men who had forced their way into office.
The day came when they were ousted.
El Zorro rode at their head.
They begged him to remove the mask,
So that they many know who led them.
Seeing no reason to refuse,
Or any need to further wear the mask,
El Zorro obeyed the people.
The mask fall away,
Revealing Diego de la Gras.
Everyone cried in surprise and joy.
Diego de la Gras took Rebecca’s hand in marriage,
The people have him alcalde and a legend.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

The Curse of California - Part 1

The following is a wee bit long so, I'll only post half of it at a time. Please overlook the dismal lack of rhyme. I'll more comfortable writing prose than poetry, but I tried my best.

The chronicles of Spanish California,
Recount events that horrified some,
But gave others hope.
Ecclesiastical power had now been eclipsed,
By the Authority of Man.
Corruption replaced generosity;
God’s kindness was superceded by man’s cruelty.
Pueblos took the place of churches,
As areas of influence.
The evil Captain Monestario deposed,
The humble Senor de le Vaga,
And took his place as alcalde of Los Angeles.
Peons were enslaved by the army,
To mine for Monestario’s gold.
Taxes were doubled,
To satisfy Monestario and the King.
The reigning governor and his friends grew opulent.
This was the main villain;
The scene is set.

Into this rode an outlaw,
A savior to the poor,
To the rich he was a contender.
Dressed in jet-black and wielding a blade of silver,
This hero brought justice to poor California.
The scourge of cruelty was answered,
By the sting of the blade of justice,
And the whip of retribution.
Theft from the peons was rejoined,
By disruption of gold shipments.
Mistreatment of a caballero,
Merited the destruction of a gold mine.
No man was exempt from his judgment,
Even Monestario had tasted of the blade and the whip.
This man was el Diablo to the corrupt,
And el Zorro to the oppressed.
It was the latter he adopted,
He was a man of the people.
Thus has another performer been introduced,
The hero.

Among the new hierarchy was a monster,
This person outshone the alcalde with his cruelty,
Who out-Heroded Herod.
Diego de la Gras was his name.
It was impossible to call him a man,
For a man he was not.
His servants were treated as slaves,
His tenants broken.
It was he who deserved the title,
El Diablo.
He fell prey to the dark avenger more than anyone else.
He offered 10,000 pesos for the bandit.
The price on his head only emboldened el Zorro.
He replied in kind,
Offering 15,000 pesos for de la Gras.
Now we have the second villain.

The final actor in this drama,
Is the young Rebecca De le Vaga.
This senorita was kind and gentle.
Her father, the alcalde,
Had been deposed by Monestario.
This young maiden marveled,
At the exploits of the dashing young rouge,
El Zorro,
The man who, to recall,
The description of another like him,
“Had robbed the rich to feed the poor”.
Long and hard she dreamt,
Of this hero in ebony.
Dreamt of holding his love,
In her heart.
The final ingredient of this tale,
Has been introduced to you,
The heroine.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

One Day Away

in the spirit of Valentine's Day- a short poem

When you yawn
I see capillaries
They bother me
Because I do not
Like blood it
Stains and doesn’t
Wash out ever.
When you yawn
You close your
Eyes and the
Wrinkles are more
Defined I do not
Like it because
It means we are
Getting old.
When you yawn
I think your lungs
Are tired and I
Cannot help but
Think about what
Would happen
If we all ran out
Of air someday.
When I am weary
I am overwhelmed
By sadness because
It means I am one
Day closer to life
Without you.
But then one
Day you were
Jogging up to me
And I saw your
Heart beating
Beneath your breast.
Oh life grant me
Reprive from sadness
Oh love gather me
Up and banish the
Fears. After all
You are mine.
This is why
I can smile.

Monday, February 12, 2007

Press On

Just some encouragement for these cold winter months of falling behind in homework,

Press on
Press on
Let not your heart be troubled
The rain, wind, sleet and snow,
The upward climb,
Are merely
Impossibilities

The futility
Of your efforts
Is not so obvious
If you smile and laugh

Press on
Press on
It makes for a grand show

The bass

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Guidelines for CU English Society Literary Magazine 2007


Submission Period
Wednesday, January 24th – Friday, March 30th

What to Submit
Artwork, Photography, Poetry, Song Lyrics, Fiction/Non-fiction Short Stories (limit of 1500 words). The fiction genre includes fantasy and sci-fi stories. Non-fiction stories include narrative essays.

Publication
All entries will be judged by a panel of peers and the winning submissions will be published in the magazine. The magazine will be printed and distributed through the final week of classes (April 23rd – 27th).

Announcement of Winners
All winners will receive a letter in their school mailbox no later than April 20th.

Submission Format
All submissions must be in a digital format.

Artwork and Photography:
You are responsible for converting your work into a digital format that can be submitted via email.

Song Lyrics, Poems and Short Stories:
Must be submitted as Word Documents. For uniformity, you must use Times New Roman font, size 12, and all short stories or essays must be double spaced. Each entry must have a cover page with the title of the work, name of the author, and school box number. To protect against bias, your name cannot appear anywhere else in the document besides the cover page. The title of the song, poem or short story should be in the header on each page.

All submissions must be sent via email to Lindsey Jacobs at Lindsey_r_jacobs@cornerstone.edu.

Deadline
Friday, March 30th

Thursday, November 30, 2006

Reflection of an Autumn Willow on the Shore

I think this is finally done. Gee, only took me a month. Please, tear it apart if you can (not literally, you sophist prose Nazis!):


She's aged, and waves in dying splendor,
Reaching fingers to the waters
And retreating them, an anxious gesture;
Moved by life unwitnessed
Save the brushing of my cheek.

A shame to see your wasted days
Of silent self-reflection
Paled by self-depravity,
While reaching hands of the righteous Sun -
Unconditional - hold you high.

What mirrors life's finality
But ashen waters, turbulent?
Moved by life unwitnessed,
Teemed with life
At depths we find unfathomed.

A gentle shade from pining limbs is
Lost. The casting clouds revolt,
And waters lose their colors -
Superficial as they are -
To reveal a battled monument.

What mirrors life's finality
But masking waters, ignorance?
A veil that drapes reflections
Of your aging limbs -
Your inconvenient fate.


-Tod Kreider

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Untitled

Dancers: fleeting green 'midst breeze,
Worth but the spoils man perverts.
Lions dance on concrete paths;
How pure their roots, O Son of Man?

I measure death with every glimpse.
How fallen to perceive in't life
When left for refuse, iron parks,
Vacation summers, "Golden Years."

Come, 'nigh, O righteous Father! As the
Butterfly from hanging womb,
Appropriate the paths gold!

-Tod Kreider

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Seeker

I wrote this just now, about my experience last Sunday afternoon, and since Lindsey has been bugging me to post, I thought I would.

Seeker

Wondering
Wandering
Far far away –
Except not far.
Because I can’t get there.
Just walking down a road
Past beauty I can’t touch because it’s trespassing
And no one else seems to see.
Feeling like I’m off to seek my fortune
And wishing it was true
And my car wasn’t parked a block away on a little dirt road off of Pettis.
My backpack holds everything I need to survive: a Bible, notebook, toothbrush and toothpaste, my cell phone.
Cell phone doesn’t belong on that list.
But I’d feel guilty if I didn’t have it.
I have to concede a little to safety.
And my car keys.
Keys to a car that I’ll have to walk back to, my anchor to the world I’m trying to leave.
The road is on before me all golden in the afternoon light and unfamiliar
So that it asks me to come on and seek adventure.
Does reading books do this to everyone?
Am I the only one that hasn’t grown out of this pretending?
“What do you want to do?” they are always asking me.
I want to go out into the wide world and seek my fortune.
What would they say if I said that, I wonder?
“So you are going to be a teacher.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
The answer is no.
I’m not going to be a teacher. Not how they mean.
I’m not going to be job hunting in the next year, interviewing for a teaching position.
I’m not going to wear a business casual suit.
I’m where I belong, right here, right now.
I turn down a road and find the entrance to a fancy subdivision, Beautiful and forbidding.
I walk past the “Private Drive Residents Only” sign,
Feeling like a vagabond walking into town.
If I kept walking people would peek out their windows,
Watching the wanderer in strange clothing entering their street unbidden,
Suspicious of this shiftless roving vagrant.
When they ask me, I will say,

“I am Joanna, Seeker of Dragons, and I am going to seek my fortune.”

Friday, October 06, 2006

Past Redemption

Lindsey Renée

I have declared myself divine.
And what’s the crime in that?
I tasted, I shared, I fell away
To the paradise of my making.

Twice enlightened doesn’t happen.
It’s impossible – or so I hear.

My Faith committed suicide.
Slit her wrists in a porcelain tub,
Died in water and blood.
I tasted, I shared, I turned away
To the purgatory of my choice.

Twice enlightened doesn’t happen.
It’s impossible – or so I hear.

Fidelity’s not one of my virtues.
Woke up entangled in silk sheets,
Caught in the arms of my prostitute.
I get bored too easy.
I taste, I share, I run away
To the inferno of my desires.

Twice enlightened doesn’t happen.
It’s impossible – or so I hear.


The above poem was an assignment for Creative Writing. The prof has asked us to write a psalm or hymn. I ended up writing a sort of anti-psalm inspired by the voice of “Ballad of a New God” and Mark Jarman’s poem “Question for Ecclesiastes.” I also drew on Hebrews 6:4-6 and Ezekiel 16. Please, understand that it is not to be taken as my own statement of faith. In a sense it is ironic. That stated, what are your thought?

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Untitled

A poem I wrote while very caffeinated...heavily edited, of course ~

I experienced the pain of momentum
Upon the back of a Satyr.

He invites a vulgar walk through tepid woods;

Invites capricious nymphs to whisper starlight wisdom

Into the ears of the fruitless.


The trees muffle sounds of ecstasy;

Longing beside the rivers of Lesbos

And crying the chants of pagans and priests.

In vain, I stab my ears

To cast away the Morning’s whispers.


The path before me blocked

By witches of the erotic craft;

The musk of their art a sanguine fuel.

In vain, I burn my eyes

To cast away the Morning’s shadows.


Which sin, I ask you, is for worse:

To cast away my gifts for grace,

Or drink of the Morning’s quenching cup?

I’ve chosen the path my fathers shaped;

What good am I now to this Kingdom?


- Tod Kreider

Friday, September 22, 2006

The Exploits of Cricket

Nichelle Engles

My brand new 1990 Honda Civic with manual shifting was fondly dubbed Cricket after the first time I drove it. It got that name, not because of its continual ability to hop across intersections (especially when by brother drove it) but rather because it was like the Noisy Cricket out of Men in Black or Jiminy Cricket in Pinocchio.

When I got my car, there was only one slight problem with the situation. It was in New Mexico and I had to get it back to Michigan where I go to school. For the entire summer, I drove my car to and from work day after ceaseless day during rush hour traffic. Together we made it through the stop and go moments with more grace than would be expected from a new stick shift driver and a persnickety car. When my summer finally ended, I loaded her up to head to college.

My father and I successfully crammed two extra large suitcases, four large boxes, a styrofoam cooler, a stuffed yellow duffle bag, and a television in the back of Cricket. This mess was topped by my father’s small, yellow day bag with his clothes.

The first part of the trip involved driving the three hour detour down to Albuquerque to drop my mother’s 2005 Mini Cooper convertible with a supercharge off at the dealership (do you not see the difference in the quality of the cars?). The trip to Albuquerque was uneventful, but once we reached there, we wandered through back roads and construction sites for about a half hour until we got to the dealership. Through this all, Cricket ran like the little champ that she is.

Cricket and we successfully made it through our unplanned detour around the back roads of Albuquerque and headed on through the rest of New Mexico’s rolling hills, topless plateaus, and little gullies. We then hit the flat, uneventful, boring Texas Panhandle. There was nothing but grass, a few windswept trees, and some homesteads for about 300 miles. From there, we cruised through Oklahoma, which is about as beautiful as the Texas Panhandle. And through it all, Cricket was a happy little car despite the miles that we crammed on her. At the end of the day, we reached the Missouri state line and settled in a little town for the night.

The next day, Cricket decided she did not like the lush, green rolling hills of Missouri, so she threw a temper tantrum. Every so often as my father or I was cruising at about 75 to 85 mph with the rpms at about 3.5, Cricket would hiccup. This resulted from the rpms dropping from 3.5 to 0 and then jumping back up to 3.5. The side effect was a very unpleasant jolt and a backfire from the muffler. The jolt was similar to what the car makes when a poor stick shifter is driving and cannot shift between first and second gears. This jolting and backfiring continued all the way to Rolla, Missouri.

I never realized what a pretty little town Rolla, Missouri is and I do not ever want to see or hear of it again. My father and I spent half a day in the sweltering Missouri weather courtesy of Cricket’s hiccups (the backfiring stopped once the muffler was replaced). And the results of having two different mechanics look at her was that, well, nothing was really wrong with her at all from what they could see.

Therefore, in spite of Cricket’s unwillingness to proceed another mile (because as soon as we hit the highway the hiccups started again) we drove onward. About every two hours Cricket would be given a rest and we would take a bathroom or food break. After a while, the jerks were a customary part of driving and we made it to Indianapolis by 10:00 PM. With about five hours left of driving, my father and I decided to make a final push for Michigan to finish off our last 1,000 miles.

Cricket protested, jumped, squealed, and in general just complained the whole rest of the trip. But she made it in one piece, all the way to the mechanics. There, once again, they could not determine the cause of her ailment. I have just racked it up to the fact that I have an ornery car.

Even now, once in a while she just will not work. After practice one day, she refused to start. She started just fine in the morning, but when there was an audience of two teammates of mine, she would not start. After about five minutes of trying to start her, with my teammates laughing, and me being thoroughly embarrassed, she finally started and ran fine.

In the same way, on the way to church at 8:20 in the morning, she began to jerk and jump (not due to bad shifting, but her rpms). She made it to church, sat for an hour and a half, and then did not act up for the rest of the day. Ornery and definitely not a morning car. That is what my loyal, three toned, 1990 Honda Civic dubbed Cricket is classified as by all who know of her exploits. But she still runs, so long may she run, and may she never leave me stranded.

Monday, September 18, 2006

A Challenge

"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."
Ernest Hemingway

The members of this blog have increased, yet it seems that each of you is either lacking inspiration or time. For those of you lacking inspiration, I would like to challenge you to follow Hemingway's words and attempt to "“write the truest sentence that you know."


Hopefully, this will begin an engaging dialogue that will spur more.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

A Poem for fun by Christian Somerville

“Art I Like… and Some I Don’t”

A Dali comforts me
And a Monet, in its own way
Pollock too, if I’m in the mood
Van Gogh I know like a child knows its mother
(Though I still need to read what he wrote to his brother)

On Leonardo da Vinci, there’s no need to convince me.
He’s simply superb, though one time I heard
That when reading Dan Brown, Leo’s corpse turns around
And spins in its grave from conspiracies made
Not being clever or funny, but just made to make money.

This makes me quite sad, and it’s really too bad
That that movie did well – must we all go to hell?
Who knows, but we might if such things were as trite
As they sometimes appear as we sit and drink beer
By the glow of a tube as our wits it deludes.

I don’t want to imply that TV should die
(Nor do I think that no one should drink).
All I meant to say – in my roundabout way –
Is that what should we expect but a diluting effect
From a culture-spreading medium of the culture-dreading tedium?

It deludes and dilutes, so why shouldn’t we be brutes?
Life’s simpler that way, when you don’t know Manet
From Picasso, and I’m not sure that I know
What I’m saying anymore, but I wouldn’t visit the Sistine Chapel
Just to stare at the floor.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

A New Beginning

The CU English Society desires to connect writers on Cornerstone’s campus both through the weekly meeting and through this blog. The blog provides an opportunity for aspiring authors to share their work, ideas or inspiration with other authors. All interested participants may post short stories, book reviews or any other thought provoking entries they would like and will be able to receive comments from their fellow writers.

I am very excited about this blog and the many possibilities that it has to offer. Though there is one thing missing: a good title. The CU English Society Writing Group is both wordy and boring. Through the months of September and October we will be taking suggestions for an alternative title for both this blog (the site address will not change though, I promise) and for the actual Writing Group. If we have enough contributions than by mid-October we may hold an election for the best possible name.

The English Society also hopes to publish a literary magazine each semester. In previous years Cornerstone University had a literary magazine but it was discontinued, largely because of the small number of contributors. We are hopeful that Cornerstone University is now capable of maintaining a literary magazine. Beginning in September and continuing through November, the English Society will be accepting submissions from students, alumni, and staff.


Lindsey Renee

English Society President

Monday, July 24, 2006

Loving the Mess

Lindsey Renee

For a short while in middle school, I thought that rain couldn’t touch me, at least it couldn’t soak me. The idea came to me one day on the school bus. Though I had walked through pouring rain, and was surrounded by peers who resembled drowned dogs, I seemed to be relatively dry. I easily shook off the rain on my clothes and hair. Comparatively, I hadn’t been touched by the rain. Therefore, I concluded that this might be one of my super powers or a little divine blessing to make me stand out. Eventually, I realized that this was a perception problem. I was not as impenetrable as I had thought.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been coming up with impossible little fancies about myself, like this, that I decide to believe. I humor them for as long as possible until something happens that I can’t ignore. Until I find myself absolutely drenched and have to revise my previous conclusion.

There are moments that I put effort into keeping up these pleasant delusions: moments when I really try to be the person that I have decided to be. Recently, I’ve been attempting to pretend that I am a minimalist, arguing that that I am not one to accumulate things. I’ve attempted to convince myself that my eventual apartment could be one of those beautiful sparse, modern lofts. You know, white walls, some colored vases, black stands and simplistic furniture. That would be the life: minimal, simplistic. I could do it.

Maybe if I were someone else.

I’ve never been able to help accumulating things. My room is overflowing with books, nick-knacks, papers, art supplies, projects, material and, of course, the other things generally found in a females room: shoes, clothing, and jewelry. I have a small but growing collection of eccentric purses. Soon there will also be four little garlic plants on my window sill along with Prospero, my beautiful ivy plant.

No matter how many times I go through my room and throw things out and reorganize, my room continues to overflow.

Over the last four days, I became convinced of this fact that I will never be able to have the sparse flat I've been fantasizing about. My parents and sister have been gone, therefore, I have had the run of the house. Until Sunday evening it seemed as if there had been an explosion of Lindsey. I had the paintings that I was commissioned to do on stone lying throughout the entrance way. My computer and the books I planned to read along with other miscellaneous papers were strewn about the living room along with a workout book and hand weights. The kitchen became the resting place for my paintbrushes and the painting I’ve been working on for myself. As I rushed to contain the mess to my room, before my parents and sister arrived home, I realized that I would never be able to conform to the simplistic vision in my mind.

I've thought about throwing it all away— besides the necessities, of course.— I can’t do it though. The simplicity I desire would require getting rid of my art supplies, material, thread, buttons, lose articles from my high school AP English and Creative Writing classes, all the little gifts I have received from little Beth and Jessica of Louisville... I would have to give up all my hobbies, which are my joy, my passion and a source of side income. I would have to let go of precious items that remind me of loved ones and wonderful places. I can’t do that. But, sometimes, I still want to because it would be simpler.

Another fancy that I've been harboring is the idea that I could live a hermit-ish life. On my own, with as few attachments as possible: a relationship minimalist. I imagine being almost entirely free of this feeling of responsibility toward the people that I love.

There have been moments when I've tried to make this fantasy a reality. My senior year in high school is a perfect example. I decided that I had enough friends and I would make no more! Somehow, I botched that plan and made almost an entirely new set of friends. Just as I cannot help accumulating stuff, I can't help but attract beautiful, unique and incredibly difficult people. There is Jessica of Louisville (who I’ve kept in touch with since 8th grade, despite the seven hours separating us), Lisa the devote misanthrope at Purdue, Ray soon to be of Western Michigan University, Gothic Watters of CVS, Karla the proud, young mother, and the list goes on. I really don't know how this happens. I am not really a very nice person. I am self-absorbed and proud. I require a lot of space and I talk a lot. I play favorites and only pour effort into very select friends. And, someone I pour a lot of attention into one year I often won’t the next year. I am a homebody and sometimes it takes a lot of effort to get me out of my house. I am also stubborn and full of opinions. I am a regular pain in the butt.

I am pretty shocked that people put up with me in general. I feel blessed and grateful that God has gifted me with these beautiful, strange people who love me despite all my obvious faults. Their love and friendship have seen me through many struggles and I’ve been privileged to have been able to be with them through their own. Yet, sometimes I still want to simplify my life. I want to dissociate.

As I think of this fantasy of becoming a relationship minimalist, of dissociating from the people in my life so that I might feel free, the Old Man 's wisdom from “Into the Woods” runs through my mind:

Running away- let's do it,
Free from the ties that bind.
No more despair
Or burdens to bear
Out there in the yonder.

Running away- go to it.
Where did you have in mind?
Have to take care:
Unless there's a "where,"
You'll only be wandering blind.
Just more questions.
Different kind.

Where are we to go?
Where are we ever to go?

Running away- we'll do it.
Why sit around, resigned?
Trouble is, son,
The farther you run,
The more you feel undefined
For what you've left undone
And, more, what you've left behind.

We disappoint,
We leave a mess,
We die but we don't..

I've begun to realize that these fantasies have been born of pride and laziness. Pride because there is nothing fashionable about a room full of clutter—not even artsy-bookish clutter or caring deeply about others. Laziness because I get tired of having to clean my room all the time because with so much stuff simply living in it for two days makes a decent mess. Dusting is also absolutely horrible. Laziness because I don't want to have to put so much time into my friends. Calling requires effort, not much effort I’ll grant you, but effort especially when I can be content alone reading or painting or watching a film. Yet, just as I know I would feel miserable without my hobbies, I also would greatly feel the loss of my friends who keep me grounded. Who stop me from being entirely selfish. Who challenge me to be more and to compromise. Who force me to have fun somewhere other than my house. Who fill my heart with joy and mouth and head with new stories to share. Whose idiosyncrasies are so unique and beautiful that I cannot help but adore them.

Hopefully, this weekend has crushed these fancies entirely. Maybe, now, instead of pouring my energy into my minimalist fantasies, I will learn to simply love the mess that is my life and put the effort into maintaining it.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Quotes for July

“Myths and archetypes are alive and well and living in my apartment.”
Carl Jung

"I am always at a loss to know how much to believe of my own stories."
Diedrich Knickerbocker (Washington Irving)

“Most writers regard truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore are most economical in its use.”
Mark Twain

Writers aren't exactly people.... they're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.
F. Scott Fitzgerald