Magnolias at Midnight, Acrylic | Shaivi Moparthi, 11 (Sugarland, TX), published in Stone Soup January 2022 A note from Caleb Hello and happy second Saturday of 2022! In exactly two weeks’ time, we will be beginning our Winter 2022 session of Saturday classes. As was the case last session, our founder, William Rubel, will be teaching his writing workshop on Saturdays at 9:00 am Pacific, Conner Bassett will be teaching his writing workshop on Saturdays at 11:00 am Pacific, and Isidore Bethel will be teaching his introduction to short-form filmmaking class on Saturdays at 9:00 am Pacific. We are also excited to announce that Maya Mahony, an MFA student in fiction at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, will be taking over Book Club in place of Laura Moran, who will be spending more time on the Stone Soup Refugee Project! Book Club will continue to take place the last Saturday of each month at 9:00 am Pacific. Both Avery DiBella’s stunning poem “The Moon” and Shaivi Moparthi’s breathtaking acrylic Magnolias at Midnight concern themselves with the moon’s magic. Every line in Avery’s poem begins with “The moon”; at the center of Shaivi’s painting is a bright, shining moon, and, at first glance, it would seem both works are concerned with singing its praises. But, there is a sense of foreboding at play, lurking beneath the surface. Take the fourth line of Avery’s poem: “The moon/ is too/ Bright/ That in the/ Gorgeous/ Night/ I dream about/ The moon.” I’ve emboldened the “too” because it is this word choice that changes the entire meaning of the poem. In essence, the moon’s brightness is so dominant that its beauty takes precedence over the “gorgeous night” and the speaker’s dreams. Without that “too,” the poem’s final line, “The moon/ Feels like/ My pillow/ When I myself/ Am/ Sound asleep,” might only denote how the moon “soothes” the speaker. Instead, the line takes on an eerie significance; in all its dominance, the moon has become so ubiquitous, so inescapable that its presence is felt in the inherently unfelt: the pillow beneath a sound sleeper. In Shaivi’s painting, the magnolias are beautiful; it is their pink color that accents the image. In a literal sense, they take up more space than the moon. The painting is even titled Magnolias at Midnight. And yet, the moon—this bright, shining, floating orb—steals the viewer’s attention. After looking away from the painting, the moon is what remains, seamlessly imprinted like Avery’s pillow beneath a sound sleeper. Shaivi’s painting also reminds me of a famous quote from Shakespeare’s Timon of Athens, which would go on to inspire Nabokov’s Pale Fire: “The moon’s an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.” So, thinking about how Avery’s poem and Shaivi’s painting indirectly take issue with the moon’s dominance, this weekend I’d like you to think about something in your life that is beautiful, marvelous, breathtaking, but for whatever reason rubs you the wrong way. Then, write what appears to be an ode singing the praises of this object, but, perhaps with the help of just a few words, in reality highlights your sense of unease. As always, if you like what you’ve written or created, we would love for you to share and submit it to us via Submittable! Till next time, Avery DiBella, 10 Salem, NH From Stone Soup January 2022 The Moon By Avery DiBella, 10 (Salem, NH) The moon Shines as bright As the stars In the glimmering So glimmering Night sky. The moon Soothes Me In my sleep. The moon Is soaking With new Dreams That can Be discovered… Continue reading “The Moon” here… 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. Stone Soup’s advisors: Abby Austin, Mike Axelrod, Annabelle Baird, Jem Burch, Evelyn Chen, Juliet Fraser, Zoe Hall, Montanna Harling, Alicia & Joe Havilland, Lara Katz, Rebecca Kilroy, Christine Leishman, Julie Minnis, Jessica Opolko, Tara Prakash, Denise Prata, Logan Roberts, Emily Tarco, Rebecca Ramos Velasquez, Susan Wilky.
writing workshop
Writing Workshop #54: Informal Writing
An update from our fifty-fourth Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday November 20th, plus some of the output published below This week, Liam led the writing workshop on the topic of Informal Writing. Liam went over the use of common vernacular in stories and gave us examples of why more informal language could be effective in writing stories. The class went through passages from Me and Earl and the Dying Girl by Jesse Andrews and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain. Liam emphasized the freedom of informal writing, encouraging writers in the workshop to experiment with run-on sentences, incorrect grammar, and unusual formats like lists. The challenge: Write a short story, poem, play or other work of literature using an informal writing style. The participants: Liam, Ethan, Sierra, Rachael, Peri, Jonathan, Kate, Aditi, Tilly, Marissa, Kina, Elbert, Samantha, Nami, Sarah, Madeline, Grace, Iago Aditi Nair, 13, (Midlothian, VA) The “Friend” Aditi Nair, 13 I looked around as I spotted Kassie. Why didn’t she save me a seat? I thought. She always sits with her other friends, and most of them don’t like me. “Kassie! Where can I sit?” “Well, hello to you too. Just over there, by the teachers,” replied Kassie. She casually swung her arm to the seat she was saving, “This seat is taken, though.” I glared at her. There was noquestion that our friendship dynamic was well…chaotic, but even so, we were still friends. “I can’t sit near the teachers, Kass. I can’t, and I won’t.” “Well…too bad. You came too late, so yeah.” “But there is a seat, right there. Literally right there–” “Just go Lucy.” I stormed off, and back to the classroom. Throwing my stuff onto the empty desk, I looked around to see a girl in tears. I could’ve just stared at her or ignored her existence, but I didn’t. “Hey, you good,” I asked, as I reached into my backpack for food. Through tears and sniffles, she replied. “Been better.” “Clearly!” I laughed. As the lunch period came to an end, I forgot about Kassie and her friends… just kidding, I didn’t, but I tried. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA Informal, Relaxed, and Unfortunate Peri Gordon, 12 Are you like everyone else? D’you think you can have everything? Ya can’t. D’you think you can work and play and be cool and popular and have it all and have it good? That’s what you think. Well you don’t know! This world’s a cray-cray place. I dunno how to navigate it, and you don’t either. Me and my dogs have been searching for the dude who stole our money for eight years now, and we’re still lost and sad and scared and y’know… As I walk in the rain with Heads and Tails, the dogs, I talk to them under my breath. “Today could be the day, y’know? Like, it’s my b-day and I think we’re pretty close, not like very close but like kinda close, to finding him. C’mon, I wanna get some food.” I tug my dogs’ leashes hard, ‘cause they’re distracted by some dude and his yummy-smelling fancy-pants pasta restaurant. “C’mon,” I say. “Y’know we can’t afford that. So stop listening to his blah-blah-blahing and let’s go get something cheaper. ” We cross the street and a car almost runs us over. We scramble onto the sidewalk in the nick of time. “Yikes!” I shout. “Arf!” I add so I show alarm in my dogs’ language too. We reach a soup place where I can finally talk to other humans. “What’s up?” I ask some dude. I’m always talking to strangers ‘cause everyone I see is a stranger, ‘cept my dogs. “I’m good,” he replies. I guess he talks to strangers too. “You?” “Meh,” I say. “You don’t wanna know.” He shrugs. “Guess I don’t.” The owner comes over. She eyes my torn-up, all-wet-from-the-rain jacket. “Don’t you have an umbrella? You’re drippin’ on the wood!” “Used to have one,” I say. “Lost it months ago. Can I still eat here?” “Fine. Come order, boy.” I get a cheap and pretty much inedible liquid-y thing that they claim is broth. My belly happy and my taste buds mad, I leave with the dogs. “Thanks for the soup,” I shout to whoever is listening.
Writing Workshop #53: Origin Stories
An update from our fifty-third Writing Workshop A summary of the workshop held on Saturday November 13th, plus some of the output published below In this writing workshop, William asked participants to focus on an origin story of a great character. As William noted in the lecture portion of class, sometimes the origin of a character does not suggest that later on in the story, they will achieve greatness. A character could come from modest beginnings and go on to do amazing things, despite the odds—there are no formulas when it comes to writing a character’s life arc. The class went over some famous archetypal origin stories, including the stories of Moses, Athena and other Greek gods, and Batman. The challenge: Write an origin story for a person who will later achieve greatness in life. The participants: Ethan, Madeline, Peri, Liam, Sierra, Tilly, Aditi, Jonathan, Rachael, Elbert, Marissa, Kina, Grace, Kate, Nami, Iago, Samantha Madeline Kline, 13Potomac, MD Beginnings Madeline Kline, 12 Everyone always focuses on the end. Never the beginning. When people talk about my writing, their comments always have something to do with my endings. People love a strong ending. They love a powerful note, a note that resonates with readers. They always forget the beginning. Always. If life were a story, childhood would be the beginning. The first few notes, the introduction to the song, or the part of a story where the reader goes around getting accustomed to the characters. If my life were a story, I would have too many characters in my beginning to keep track of. Me, my family, the people in my young writers club, everyone else I’ve ever known. The thing is, life keeps introducing new characters, and forgetting about the old ones. It’s almost as if the writer can’t make up her mind. Should she keep this character throughout the story? Should she add someone else as the best friend? Should she add a redshirt, a character who’s introduced only to dramatically leave the show? But it doesn’t matter what she does. Because nobody ever pays attention to the beginning. I find examples of that, throughout my life. When I get a bad grade on an eighth grade assignment because I turned it in fifteen minutes late. It’s the end of the world, but it’s not. Because middle school doesn’t matter. Neither did elementary school. So why does childhood matter? Why do I need to add extravagant language, beautiful imagery, outstanding metaphors, when nobody pays attention, anyway? Does childhood ever start to matter? The answer is no, I think, as I turn the corner, heading uphill towards my high school. I’m alone outside, with no company but my own mind, and my own footsteps. The sun decided to sleep in today. When I left my house, it was still dark, and chilly. Now, the sun is lazily climbing out of bed, yawning. It radiates enough heat to push my jacket off my shoulders, and I pause to tie the jacket around my waist, now that I no longer need it. My shadow follows me to school as I head towards the sun, shielding my eyes with my hand. As I turn into the school building, I head to the seat I usually share with my best friend, Zoe. She’s not there. She isn’t at school at all, I realize, when the teacher takes attendance in our first period class – the only class we share. I pull my phone out under my desk, and send her a quick chat message. Where are you? Hope you’re doing OK. There’s no response the entire day. There’s no response the next day either. Or the next. Zoe’s chair becomes a gaping hole, a black hole that sucks my attention in day after day. It seems to be a vacuum, pulling my mind, all of my energy, towards it, so much energy it’s almost trembling, about to collapse. Over the past week, I’d sent enough panicked texts to overload Zoe’s phone. Not a single one had gotten a response. So when my phone chimed on Friday, while I was walking, halfway to school, I wasn’t going to be surprised when it wasn’t Zoe. But it was. And it wasn’t. I’m sorry, Leah. I thought someone would have told you. Told me what? The three dots dance across the phone screen as I wait, stoppeds in my tracks, the lazy sun reflected into my face. Zoe overdosed on painkillers last Sunday. The sun should have dropped out of the sky. But it didn’t. It stood its ground, sleepily warming the Earth. But I was still cold. And my thoughts turned back, back to when I was walking up to school on Monday. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who figured out that beginnings don’t matter. So she ended her beginning, gave up on the story, not even bothering to add a plot, a climax. And now this is my beginning, too. And no one will pay attention to it, no one will remember it, except me. But unlike Zoe, I will keep writing. I will develop a plot. I will hit my crowning achievement, my climax. And then, only then, will I fall back down with the falling action, until I reach my resolution, my ending. And I already know, I can already tell. My story will be a story that people remember. Peri Gordon, 11Sherman Oaks, CA The Struggles of the Future Peri Gordon, 12 It was the year 2486. Sylvia looked up at the curving crescent moon. My mistress will be up there tomorrow, she thought, polishing the silver jetpack until it reflected her pale face, dark circles under her eyes. It was always a comfort for Sylvia to picture her mistress on the moon. Most people go there within their first ten years of living, she thought. Except me. Sylvia sighed. How many times she had asked to come along on one of her mistress’s trips? She had asked the mistress herself.
