Willard and Maple Underground

I have recently learned the news that my school's student run literary magazine has been cancelled for reasons that no one seems to be at liberty to discuss. The news breaks my heart.

I learned about the magazine, Willard and Maple, from my advisor and later on favorite professor during orientation, and I fell in love with the idea. I became a member of the editorial board and got to read an review poems as well as decide whether or not to put them in the magazine. I'm sure I blogged about it plenty, but it was just such a highlight of my freshman year.

This year class schedules conflicted and I wasn't able to attend the Willard and Maple class, but I recently found out that the submissions have been closed, the class cancelled, and now I hear that the magazine itself is permanently cancelled.

I even submitted a few poems to Willard and Maple at the beginning of this year. It was such a huge step to send my work out to a literary magazine that would actually publish it, only to find out that apparently no one is even going to read those poems. It's heartbreaking.

A couple of my friends and I are trying to figure out how to make an underground version of the magazine. We all love this school because of opportunities like Willard and Maple. It was a publication for poets and fiction writers, and it was a huge chance to grow as an editor. When I emailed to ask for details I got a basic, "I can't tell you any details but there's nothing you can do."

I refuse to believe there's nothing I can do. Somehow I'm going to get Willard and Maple to stay alive, even if that means creating a poetry themed blog for Champlain students. It won't be the same, but anything to keep publishing Champlain poetry and give ourselves a chance to be in control of something. I refuse to give up.

Excellent Somehow

Tonight was the Academic Excellence Dinner for my school's Communications and Creative Media Division. People with a GPA above 3.6 were invited and given certificates and then after dinner we sat through hours of specific awards within each major.

I'm a freshman, and freshmen probably don't get awards at this kind of thing very often, and while I'm pretty involved with writing related things I'm not one of those people starting my own magazine or anything. Anyway, my friends and I got in a little late (getting ready for formal events takes time...) and barely found seats. We ended up sitting next to that favorite professor, which made me pretty happy. Also at the table was the head of the language department and I had a blast talking in Spanish again, even if she spoke South American Spanish instead of Mexican.

As we're sitting there my Professor looks over and asks if I'll help him pass out papers. I laugh and say sure and then realize he's serious and wants me to join him on stage and hand out the awards. Of course at that point it's too late, and pretty soon we're standing up to cross the room and get on stage. I stand up, take three wobbly steps in high heels that I really shouldn't be wearing since I can't walk in heels, and then all the envelopes with the awards slide out of the folder onto the floor.

Luckily, my professor didn't notice and just laughed that I took so long to get to the stage with him. I hand out the certificates and envelopes to everyone he calls up (managed not to give the wrong one, not to drop anything else, and not to trip) and of course then he says my name last and talks about how I came from Mexico to chilly Vermont but brought all the flavor and spiciness with me.

So now I have a twenty-five dollar gift card to Amazon, a certificate with my first AND last name spelled incorrectly, and a crazy amount of pride and excitement and reassurance that I probably am in the right place after all, even if winter lasts too long and food isn't spicy.

I know this is probably more than enough writing for today, but it didn't end there. I left the event a little early and as I was waiting for my friends to come out one of the editors of the Literary Magazine, Willard and Maple, came up and said they've been talking about getting me more involved in Willard and Maple. Nothing formal at this point, but he wants me to drop in the office hours and help him and next semester's editors plan out the next edition of the magazine and sort of carry the torch for future classes of Willard and Maple.

It's so crazy, because my favorite professor had mentioned to me the idea of being the Lit Mag editor and since then the idea had seemed really great. But now I've kind of been officially invited to go down that path. You have no idea how excited I am and how much I feel like a writer tonight but also how crazy and surprising this all is at the same time.

A poem (one of those Japanese Tanka's I talked about yesterday).

Excellent Somehow

Sometimes excellence
comes after dropping papers,
trembling hands on stage
while you read off the winners,
and then I see my own name. 

Shaking Hands

So today was a wonderful day. I woke up at 9:00 (all on my own with no alarm clock just because. What kind of a college student am I?) and wrote four pages of a seven page research paper. I then failed at getting breakfast (I'll skip that part of the day. Not being able to access food in the cafeteria because it's so crowded with perspective students was not wonderful) but then I went to read a short story to some of the writing specific possible future students and talk a little bit about my experience at Champlain. 

The talking part wasn't as smooth as it could have been, and half way through I completely blanked on everything and just stared at my professor and shrugged. Anyway, a couple people specifically came to talk to me about the story after. 

Also, I'm totally friends with  the upperclassmen writing students and they're so cool and it's pretty great that I'm a first year and can still sit on a table and laugh with juniors and seniors. Just saying. Champlain is pretty neat. 

Then I came back, lounged on the floor of my room with a few friends as we browsed Pinterest to plan our future hairstyles. (I'm pretty sure I'm going to get a haircut tomorrow and I'm really excited...) 

Then everyone left and I wrote the rest of my paper and then worked on my journalism News Commentary and got a phone call from one of my best friends who had found a poem she wanted to read to me. Michelangelo's, um, something about grapes. It was fantastic. 

Anyway, I then went to an end of semester poetry/story/moth/improv presentation put on by the school's Literary Magazine class I'm part of, and got to spend the rest of my afternoon eating guacamole and listening to some amazing poets. I read that Hole-y Sky poem way back from April 2nd. 

Anyway, I got back just in time to call my sister and talk to her a little bit, and now I'm just crazy excited at the thought of getting to spend my summer with her. Agh! I can't wait!!!

Without further ado, here's a poem about how it feels to read your creative non-fiction to a group of awkward high school wanna be writing students and their uncomfortable, nervous, soon to be empty nest parents.

I clutch the paper tightly

and pound my fists against the wood

to keep my hands from shaking

my words sound foreign

in the crowded air

but I try my best to swallow,

let the words come smoothly

keep the crackle from my voice

I finish and sit quickly

my face red

my hands hot

and try to laugh with someone else

to ease the tension in my chest

when it’s all over

someone comes up

“I liked your story”

his eyes meet mine, familiar

though we’ve never met

“What mission are you with?”

and for some reason I forget

"Latin America World United Mission"

I stammer and bite my lip

He tells me about Wycliffe friends

and I miss Oaxaca

Someone else comes up

“I liked your story”

He says he wants to write fiction

He’s not much of a poet

wants to write screenplays

I let the others talk about filming

and the specifics of each major

and I sit there and feel my face turn pink

and try to keep my hands

from shaking.

Write Write Write

What? Does this thing still exist?

I really haven't been gone that long. It's just that there have been so many time where I have every intention of looking at this and posting something... and then... life. Or distractions. Or laziness. Or food. Most often laziness, to be honest. Not actually life.

Despite what I attempt to trick you all into believing, life isn't all that exciting and demanding. But it is awesome; I'll give myself that much.

Writing in a Tree. Because, why not?

First big news, I was hired this week by my school's Publishing Initiative, which is this really neat thing that I don't exactly understand but sounds really cool. So my professor recommended me to the woman in charge of the Publishing Initiative and told her that I should be a writer for her. So I am going to write for their online magazine, which is pretty darn exciting. And it's, like, a job. Wow.

On the same hand, though, I've never written for a magazine. No idea what I'm doing. I'm totally going to play up on my professor's theory that different is better and this is going to be a like-no-other-totally-exciting-not-at-all-boring magazine and I'm just going to do my own thing and hope they like it, or at least don't hate it.

Also, I'm mentoring for kids in the middle school through a program called Word Play. The main goal is basically to get them super excited about reading and writing, which I can definitely do. "Hey, you guys are complaining about writing one page? Yeah, I wrote a novel in eight grade. But whatevs. A page is a lot."

What else? I'm also in a class called Literary Magazine, and we read submissions and decide whether or not to put them in this other magazine which is called Willard and Maple and is pretty cool. So I'm, like, an editor for that magazine as well.

And my Intro to Professional Writing Class is awesome, and our homework assignment for this week is to submit a project we've been working on to yet another magazine. Hm, I'm thinking my college really likes magazines.

Chai Tea, Music, Friend, Writing. Life is good.

Basically, life is crazy as a writing, so exciting. I can see myself moving forward. Like, this is happening. I'm not just some crazy kid in my room writing novels that no body ever reads. I am a writer. I feel like a writer. I feel like I can do anything.