An update from our fifty-ninth Writing Workshop with Conner Bassett A summary of the workshop held on Saturday, March 11, plus some of the output published below This week, we learned about automatic writing, a fun exercise and an effective strategy to overcome writer’s block. Automatic writing was born out of the surrealist movement of the early 20th century. Surrealists believed that artists and writers should avoid conscious thought and instead attempt to hypnotize themselves in the process, Conner explained. We looked at several surrealist paintings, and then at several examples of automatic writing from Benjamin Peret and André Breton. Students noted that some common features of automatic writing include repetition and a sense of dreaminess. Then, we discussed Action painting and looked at a few works from the most famous face of the movement, Jackson Pollock. Action painting can be seen as a visual representation of automatic writing whereby paint is spontaneously dribbled rather than carefully applied onto the canvas, just as words can be spontaneously typed or written rather than deliberated over. The Challenge: Write automatically for 20 minutes. Don’t think; don’t edit; allow yourself to write badly; relinquish control to let the writing take over! Then, you can rearrange your writing for ten minutes if you’d like, or continue to write automatically. The Participants: Sarah, Anushka, Catherine, Yueling, Lindsay, Samarina, Ava, Lucy, Stella Untitled Ava Luangkesorn, 8 The frost slaughtered the moon. The sun started to rise up to form the moon who formed daylight. Poppies danced in light’s presence. The koi fish danced in the moonlight and sang in the pond. The robin ate the sun and tried to spit it out, but managed to at the end of the second night. Many of the birds were panicking. The elephant threw his tusk at the sun, which officially caused eternal darkness. Poppies lit up, and the stars wilted and reincarnated into the world as the poppies’ light, then flew back up and hung like puppets from the moon and clouds. It really wasn’t much, it really wasn’t. It was just a cat standing up and flying to the stars, flying till reaching up to space! Lavenders die, and grow with rain, teardrops of salt. My eyes water, I cry out pollen. I can’t stand standing in the meadow with the sun rising and the moon dying in minutes. Ferns grow down the treehouse, the ferns grow wood along with it. It’s pinned to the wall. More life, more earth, more time for the sun to crawl to the other side, less time for the moon to arise. Below the house, below the stars, below the moon, below the clouds, below earth lies the grass, the dirt, the ground, the seedlings, the verse, the earth. I am the sky, I am the moon, I am myself, I am the sun, I am the star, I am the sheep’s skin, I am the horse’s mane, I am the flowers petals, I am the only kind to be thankful for the space, thankful for the slaughter, thankful for all god’s given me. More, more times pass. I pass my own self, I pass the fleet I pass, the earth I go to its core I fly, fly till my wings wilt away. I simply fly, fly and fly along beside the wind. I am the wind. I am the darkness. I am the space. I have myself in my mouth. I have a crystal in the cave, which is in my hands, which is in my eyes. Pleading to cut myself, pleading to just be here. Pleading, for no reason. The rainbow shines on the sun. I am the rainbow.
Saturday Newsletter: March 18, 2023
Dream Dream (oil) by Sophia Zhang, 12; published in Stone Soup March 2023 A note from Emma Wood Hello, readers! I am sitting in the attic of our house with the wind blowing so hard that it is shaking the whole structure. It’s a cold, blustery day, and yet it has been raining not snowing—so not that cold. It has been a strange winter here in coastal Connecticut, in the village where we are living for the year. I can count on one hand the number of times it has snowed. And I have been experiencing some climate grief (and not for the first time). Margot, my daughter, loves snow—it dominates her imaginative play—and yet she has barely gotten to play in it. As my husband said, “She’s young!” But (I countered) she is only two this winter, and this winter, she didn’t get snow in a place where you are supposed to get snow! The image I selected for the newsletter is spring-like, however, because my thoughts have been tending that way as April, Easter, and the spring equinox approach. Soon, we will put winter, and my sadness about the lack of snow this year, behind me and enjoy warmer weather, green grass, and flowers. One of the best things about becoming a parent, for me, has been how it renews the world: seasons, holidays, simple errands—all those things that had lost their luster are once again imbued with meaning and magic. This month, I encourage you to write about an event or an activity that was once special to you, but which you now take for granted. Can you write about it in a way that makes it strange and exciting once again? As for Stone Soup business! We have a number of announcements this week. Regarding our classes: For anyone interested in getting a taste of our writing workshop in advance of our spring series, we are offering free attendance to the makeup session of the Winter 2023 Workshop, taught by Conner Bassett, on April 1st at 11:00 a.m. Pacific time/2:00 p.m. Eastern time. You can sign up here. Our spring session is also now open for enrollment. You can purchase tickets here. We decided to cap enrollment at 20 students and to increase tuition accordingly. While we would love to work with as many students as possible, our instructor has found larger class sizes limit his ability to connect to his students and offer feedback. This was the reasoning behind our registration cap. And to make the change sustainable, we needed to increase tuition. Subscribers will now pay $22 per session and non-subscribers will pay $27.50. Please write to stonesoup@stonesoup.com with any questions or concerns. Regarding our book contest: Our 2023 Book Contest has officially launched! If you haven’t already started working on your manuscript, now is the time! If you’d like some help kickstarting the project, we encourage you to sign up for the Design a Novel workshop, run by our partner, Society of Young Inklings. Till next time, Stone Soup is published by Children’s Art Foundation-Stone Soup Inc., a 501(c)(3) educational nonprofit organization registered in the United States of America, EIN: 23-7317498.
Flash Contest #53, March 2023: Write a fairy tale where the princess is the villain—our winners and their work
Our March 2023 Flash Contest was based on Prompt #244 (provided by Stone Soup intern Sage Millen), which asked that participants write a fairy tale with a twist: the princess had to be the villain. With such a fascinating prompt, it’s no wonder we got over 40 submissions! Among those 4o+ submissions were a story about a tiger-poaching princess, a story about a space princess, a story about a princess willing to blow up her betrothed, and a story about dueling Disney princesses. As always, thank you to all you participated, and please keep submitting next month! In particular, we congratulate our Winners and our Honorable Mentions, whose work you can appreciate below. Winners “Birthright” by Asha Akkinepally, 12 “Her Carmine Eyes” by Eiaa Dev, 13 “Princess Preservation” by Rhea Kachroo, 12 “The Sun Shines Again” by Pranjoli Sadhukha, 13 “The Princess’s Tiger” by Melody You, 12 Honorable Mentions “The Princess Who Didn’t Want to Marry” by Isabella Bhagwandin, 12 “A Land Frozen in Time” by Aaron Duan, 12 “Within the Tower Walls” by Juwon Ha, 11 “Warrior Princess” by Kaia Lee, 9 “Damsel of Distress” by Emily Tang, 13 Birthright Asha Akkinepally, 12 He lay on the hard, cold floor. He led his sister to the dance floor. His clothes were ragged and overlarge. His clothes were perfectly tailored and brand-new. The ceiling dripped with a reeking, unidentifiable liquid. The ceiling was hung with glowing chandeliers. He winced as someone cried in pain. He laughed as his sister twirled around. Someone shoved a tray of stale bread and unripe pear at him. The table was set with a feast of the finest culinary delights. He raised a tin water cup to his lips. The king drank from a crystal wine goblet. He coughed, sputtering at the foul taste. The king let out a strangled cry as his eyes rolled back and his throat turned blue. With a final scream the ruler collap— He closed his eyes. He did not want to relive those moments–those moments when his father died. Those moments that cruelly threw him into this prison, stripping him, too, of his life. Of all he had ever known. Honestly, he wasn’t sure who had it worse. His father’s passing was supposed to be his rebirth. He was supposed to be in the palace, preparing for his coronation. Instead, he was in the kingdom’s most infamous prison, sharing air with its most infamous criminals. “Get up,” a guard barked. All the deference he had once commanded had vanished, replaced by an almost inhumanity. “You have a visitor.” He rose to his feet, blinking matted hair out of his eyes. Only one person remained from his old life—one person believing his innocence, that he did not poison the king, that he did not wish the worst for his own father. A girl entered into his line of sight then, looking out of place in the damp, dark prison, with her layers of tulle and glittering tiara. “Leave us,” she commanded the guards. “But, Your Highness—” She threw them an imposing glare. “I said leave us.” They scurried off, and he had never felt more grateful to his sister. She looked him up and down, examining his wretched state. He expected her to exclaim at how they were treating him, to demand reprisal from the injustice, but instead—“You are rather disappointing.” He recoiled. “Excuse me?” She eyed him disgustedly. “Look at you, reduced to this pathetic mess.” What was wrong with her? “Pathetic? The throne is my birthright! I’ve been working my whole life for it, and it’s wrested from my grip just as I am finally about to taste it! Of course I’m going—” “It’s your birthright,” she repeated softly. “Yes. You did nothing more than exist and the throne was yours.” She advanced closer. “Do you know what you are right now? Useless. Do you know what I’ve been my whole life? Even though I am, by far, the more deserving between us? Even though I am the one who knows our exports and imports by heart, who is fluent in 10 languages, who memorized all the foreign ambassadors’ names?” They were inches apart, and there was a rage simmering in her gaze that he had never seen before. “Useless.” His world was dying more and more with every drop of venom she infused her words with. Or perhaps he was dying—he felt little more than an empty vessel at the moment. She stepped back, smoothing her gown and her expression. “Until now. I’ve always been an excellent multitasker.” Realization dawned. “You killed Father! You framed me!” He was filled with an emotion he’d never experienced before. How could his sister do this? When had she planned it? “All so you could have the crown!” She tsked softly. “Unfair, isn’t it?” She laughed. “I know the feeling. In my experience, when a game’s unfair,” she said, smiling callously, “you change the rules.” She sauntered out. “Never trust anyone, dear brother. Especially your own family.” It was the last thing she ever said to him. The guards scampered back in, and he had never felt more hateful to his sister. He fell back to the floor. His threadbare clothes spread around him. Wet splattered on his face. Someone moaned in agony. The bread and pear nearly broke his teeth. He didn’t touch the water. It tasted bad. Her Carmine Eyes Eiaa Dev, 13 Chirps, croaks, and caws echo throughout the vast, endless forest. The grass glimmers under the sun’s harsh, unrelenting glare. Drops of the early morning dew cling to its fibers, glistening with a keen freshness. Flowers of all kinds, from the extravagant hydrangea to the lethal aconitum, dance in the soothing breeze. But behind its façade of beauty, the forest holds the deepest and darkest of secrets. Obscured by aging vines, a pair of carmine eyes glow with murderous intent. Who would have thought that the bane of the kingdom’s existence was a lot closer than
