teaching writing

Weekly Writing Workshop #17, Friday July 24: Writing About Music

An update from our seventeenth Weekly Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop, plus some of the output published below  The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers. Every Friday, we meet for an hour-and-a-half via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another.  Our session on July 24 included young writers from across the US, from France, and the UK, and was the third one that was led by one of our participants–this time, former contributor and current Stone Soup intern Anya Geist. It was a thought provoking and inspirational presentation: thank you, Anya, for a really great job! Anya guided us through a number of different musical styles, asking us to think about how the music made us feel, what mood it expressed, and what colors it conjured up for us. We moved from Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, via Dave Brubeck’s Take Five, Sousa’s classic marching band tune Washington Post, and a Puccini aria (O Mio Babbino Caro), through to Helpless from Miranda’s musical Hamilton, gathering people’s responses to each one as we went. We talked about the different colors (blue for classical, brown for jazz) and moods (from joy to yearning) each one evoked. We then moved on to consider the impact of different arrangements–from symphony to soloist–and the varied feelings evoked by different instruments, whether brass, strings or wind. Finally, we were asked to consider the sensations conjured up by the setting the performance takes place in. Anya closed with a piece of writing from Matt Killeen’s Orphan Monster Spy, that demonstrates the powerful evocative language that music can bring to a passage: “. . . random drops of high notes, like falling spring rain across the minor bass chords. Raindrops that streak across the windowpane, barely making their presence felt, but ruining the day.” The Writing Challenge: Use any musical element–different instruments, arrangements, styles, and settings–to write about music. It could be about how music makes someone feel, or the story of someone involved in music, or anything else you think up. The Participants: Simran, Abi, Liam, Nami, Maddie, Hera, Shreya, Heather, Sofie, Aditi, Tilly, Vishnu, Gracie, Janani, Michele, Charlotte, Enni, Lisa, Suman, Ever, Scarlet, Madeline, Shreya, Kanav, Anya, and more… Read on to experience some of the powerful, evocative writing created in the workshop! Aditi Dinesh, 11Ottowa, Canada The Storm Aditi Dinesh, 11 Lynn took a deep breath. She sat up straight and started to play. Her fingers flowed over the keys like a stream on a bed of rocks. Her foot pressed down on the pedal. The sharp notes dulled like they had been covered in cream. The richness was broken by the thunder. Dull at first then moving closer from the left. An incoming storm. The cries of children came out of the wood. Seeking shelter. Afraid of the lightning. Then it came. Crackling and booming, paired with the thunder. A gale was ripping through the keys. Then it was calm. The eye of the storm. As suddenly as it came, the calm was gone. The music turned violent. Louder. Louder. Louder. Lynn leaned back, her heart pounding. She looked out the window and saw a bright and sunny day. Liam Hancock, 12Danville, CA My Brother was the Bayou Liam Hancock, 12 “I want to listen to the man tonight,” I said nonchalantly, leaning back in my rocking chair. I glanced over to Mama, who seemed a world away. With needles, and thread, and table cloths strewn about tables. She sighed, her fingers artfully dancing around one another in a timeless ballet. Needle, thread, tablecloth. Tablecloth, needle, thread. “If Pops is in the mood,” she replied, her voice distant as the indigo sky spanned out about the swaying trees and warming bayou air. A small, wooden raft trundled by. “And it’s up to the man, Jackson, if he wants to play.” I shrugged, grabbing hold of our shambled roof and yanking myself to a stand, nodding in satisfaction as the rocking chair rolled back and slammed headlong into our small swamp cabin, sending the precarious boards shuddering in protest. I leapt down to the muddy banks, swatting away an assault of mosquitoes. “He plays when I want him to,” I pressed, the brown-greenish sheen of river water and soppy dirt seeping into my hunting boots. “And when I want to sleep, he stops.” I hesitated. “I think he likes me.” Mama took a pretty second to cast me a quizzical look. “That’s the most fine dandy and rediculous idea I’ve ever heard with these two ears.” She returned back to her knitting. “Pops should be nearby, maybe on Elkdead Island. Why don’t you take the skiff over?” I grinned. “I knew you’d come around!” I cried, leaping into our humble two-seater skiff and unknotting the rope in a supersonic leap. Pops’ favorite hunting stop was Elkdead Island, and on a good day, he’d return back to the cabin with a hunk of deer meat and some camouflage paint smudged over his nose that Mama would fuss over for the entirety of dinner meal until he washed up. It wouldn’t take much too long to find him in the shallow sawgrass. The island didn’t offer much in the way of tree cover, naturally making the job of gator hunting much cleaner than on the other side of the river. I was out onto the river with a good shove of the arms and started on my way. Oars in, oars out. Oars in, oars out. And hope none of the gators are about. Elkdead Island was a fifteen minute skiff ride across the winding river. Weaving like Mama’s fingers through the bayou, easing along with everywhere to go but nowhere to be. Sometimes I’d hear the man marching through the forestry beside me, and I’d ask him to play, and he’d stop and he’d duck back into the trees before I could get a

Weekly Writing Workshop #16, Friday July 17: Mixing Genres in Writing

An update from our sixteenth Weekly Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop, plus some of the output published below  The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers. Every Friday, we meet for an hour-and-a-half via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another.  Our session on July 17 was joined by young writers from across the US, as well as in France and the UK. This was also the second time we have had a participant lead the Writing Workshop; Stone Soup contributor Liam Hancock, 13, led us in a very fascinating presentation about mixing genres of writing. Thank you, Liam! Our discussion started with a brief definition of “mixing genres,” or “cross-genre,” which is when a piece of writing uses more than one genre. This was followed by a clip from the 2009 movie-adaptation Coraline, and more information about the book (which is by Neil Gaiman). Liam talked us through identifying different genres in Coraline, and for the most part, we all agreed that it was a mix of horror and fantasy. After this, we learned a little bit about nonsensical poetry, and how it can be an example of mixing genres. The poem we analyzed was Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll. Next, we looked at a few portraits, and thought about how people can represent mixing genres. Finally, we listened to an excerpt from a jazz song performed by Bessie Smith, Sobbin Hearted Blues, and talked about how music can also include cross-genres. Altogether, cross-genre was a very fun topic to learn about and gave rise to some great discussions! Read on to experience some of the powerful writing created in the workshop! The Writing Challenge: Write a story, poem, or play which mixes genres. The Participants: Liam, Heather, Ever, Nami, Sophia, James, Aditi, Kanav, Simran, Ma’ayan, Sasha, Shel, Charlotte, Suman, Vishnu, Araliya, Tilly, Abi, Anya, James, Michele, Sneha, Sonal, Enni,  Ally, Abi, Madeline, and more… Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA The Boy in the Basement Anya Geist, 14 A little boy Was in the basement Of a house so old and crumbly The doors were rotted The windows cracked The floors creaked and groaned And every night When the moon shone upon A scraggly tree out front The winds would blow And wrack the house In ghastly shivers and chills The little boy did not mind, though For unlike you might think, His basement was not moldy and gross It did not brim with fungi Nor be as cold as ice Nor house the same dreariness as everywhere else The basement was small With concrete walls And a flickering light overhead But the boy had painted the walls Had painted the ceiling, the floor In a flowery garden Meadows stretched As far as he could see And clouds dotted the sky The boy’d rest Upon a drawn willow tree And slowly close his eyes As he rested As he drifted into sleep Dreams would come -But were they dreams? Or was he truly transported To the fields which made up his life? Heather Sierra, 10Mountain View, CA Mio Heather Sierra, 10 Mio Akiyama had always been the odd one out. She tried to blend in, at home, at school, but no matter how hard she tried, she always stuck out. It wasn’t that she looked different, no. She looked nearly identical to the other girls in her class. She had long, black hair, and gray-brown eyes. That wasn’t it. And she wasn’t poor or rich either, somewhere in between. It was that Mio was left handed. . . and because of her friend, the only friend she had that made her stick out from the crowd. Mio stood on the porch of her two-story house, clutching her schoolbag. She watched carefully, hoping she wouldn’t be spotted by any of the other kids at her school. No! Mio thought, seeing two girls walking down the concrete street. One had short, brown hair, laughing. The other had long black hair, and was gripping the other girl by the arm. Mio, embarrassed at being seen, ducked back into the house. I guess I’ll. . . wait. Mio decided. “Mio!” Mio heard a voice, her friend Ritsu’s. Oh no, not now! Mio cracked open the door of her house to see Ritsu. “Hi.” Mio said shyly. “Hi!” Ritsu grinned. She had short, brown hair; her bangs held up with a yellow headband, “C’mon, hurry. We ’ll be late for fifth grade! Move it! Move it!” Ritsu grabbed Mio’s left hand and jerked her down the street, chasing the two girls up ahead. Wham! Mio and Ritsu crashed into the two girls up ahead, the two that Mio had intended to avoid. “Ow-meow!” one of them mewed. Cat? Are they cats? No way! Mio thought. She opened her eyes from where she’d bumped the laughing girl’s back. Instead of the uniformed girl she’d just seen less than ten minutes ago, she saw a brown striped tabby. How could this have happened? Mio thought. “Ritsu! Come back!” Mio yelled, spotting Ritsu up ahead. But when Mio squinted closer at her friend, she only saw another cat, this time a black one. Mio shuddered, breaking into a panicked run. She arrived at school, and leapt into her classroom, only to find the the striped tabby and a black-and-white cat there. Those two girls! They’re those cats! Mio realized. “Oh, it’s you.” a voice sneered. Mio whirled around to find the striped tabby. “H-how c-can I u-understand y-you?” Mio stuttered nervously. She glanced frightened around her classroom. It was normal, like the one she’d had the year before. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just desks and bookshelves. The tabby didn’t answer Mio’s question, but continued, “Mio Akiyama, what are you doing here without your protection?” Mio turned away shyly, but turned back. Ritsu wasn’t her protection! “M-my p-protection?” Mio asked, quieter than she’d wanted. “Haha, Ritsu.

Weekly Writing Workshop #15, Friday July 10, 2020: Writing With Alliteration

An update from our fifteenth Weekly Writing Workshop! A summary of the workshop, plus some of the output published below The Stone Soup Weekly Writing Workshop is open to all Stone Soup contributors and subscribers. Every Friday, we meet for an hour-and-a-half via Zoom to respond to a new writing challenge, write together in our virtual room, and then share what we have written with one another. Our conversation on July 10 was attended by young writers from across the US, as well as in France and the UK. Our topic was “writing with alliteration” and how alliteration can enhance what we write. (Alliteration is where the words in a sentence start with the same letter. For example: Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.) We started off by reading a few tongue twisters, since most tongue twisters rely on alliteration. Next, we listened to the opening measures of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, since they contain a rhythm that repeats itself over and over again, similar to alliteration. We also thought about using alliteration in a more precise way, and how we can put it into certain places in our writing to give off a specific effect. To see how this worked, we all found a story or poem that we had written and tried to add alliteration to it. After sharing out a few examples, we then set out to create a new piece of writing which used alliteration. Read on below to get a feeling for some of the powerful writing we were given a glimpse of in this session! The Participants: Allie, Rhian, Liam, Enni, Nami, Maddie, Simran, Sophia, Peri, Shreya, Kanav, Ma’ayan, James, Raeha, Janani, Heather, Gracie, Ally, Abi, Lena, Simone, Charlotte, Sneha, Tilly, Anya, Madeline (x 2!), and more… Araliya, 11Sandy Hook, CT Ted the Terrifying Tiger Araliya, 11 Ted the terrifying tiger Tiptoes through tangled trees His twitching tail thumping. His terrible teeth terrifying turtles. Who tumble away. Anya Geist, 14Worcester, MA Raindrops That Rattle the Water Anya Geist, 14 rain drops rattled the water sending rolling hills of ripples far, far out into the lake. the water itself was a grinning sort of grey not gross, but fresh and free. kids sat on the dock, on the raft watching rainwater splatter down onto the worn wood   and then the monumental clouds the monoliths, the master of rain shirked off, sliding out of the sky the water was blue and kids burst into it soaking themselves as their splashes were the new rain drops that rattled the water Peri Gordon, 10Sherman Oaks, CA The Waterfall Place Peri Gordon, 10 A waterfall dove down into a rushing river, vivid in color, reflecting the calm cerulean sky. The land was lush, and lagomorphs would launch into the air and back down again. The waterfall watched as it steadily streamed down, down, down until it reached the beautiful body of the river. Surrounding the river were ponds, perfect pools of water in which ducks would float as gaggles of geese grazed the surface. It was a pleasurable area, precious as a pearl, picturesque as a painting. There was never a cloud in the sky, nothing but blue, with the exception of rare rainbow beams. Sophia Hou, 10Short Hills, NJ Penelope Pricklebottom Sophia Hou, 10 Penelope Pricklebottom was a particularly peculiar porcupine with prickly purple spikes. Penelope pondered, passing time under a pine. The sky shimmered and the sun sat high. She smelled something, sugary and sweet. Perhaps a papaya, parsnip, or pistachio pie? Piano prodigy Penelope Pricklebottom surmised she had perfect performances, others simply said a single word: pompous. Kanav Kachoria, 11Potomac, MD The Dry Desert Kanav Kachoria, 11 Everyone knows about the dry desert. Its soft sand and drifting dust flings into the air making the sky so unclear to see. It rarely rains in the dry desert, as there still is not even a wet wonderful cold drop of water since 10 years ago. The torching temperature can reach up to 115 degrees some days, maybe even higher! The rattling snakes and small scorpions raid the desert. You don’t want to come close to them, as they will make you suffer severely stabbing pain everywhere in your body. It’s a whole different world out there, so beware beware of the dry desert. Madeline Kline, 12Potomac, MD Art Contest Madeline Kline, 12 The first one I pass Flower field with towering trees The second one I pass Dreary day with boring books The third one I pass Cantankerous child throwing torturous tantrum over delicious delicacies After I pass more And time for awards Blue ribbon goes To Cantankerous child Because torturous tantrums Are relatable realitiesmmmm Madeline Nohrnberg, 13Cambridge, MA Silver Swans Madeline Nohrnberg, 13 Seven silver swans Silently swim seaward Swooping softy, Steadily, swiftly Out into the opaque open ocean Gracefully gliding home.