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Photo by Joey O'Kelly

Sharing, writing and bouncing ideas off your peers are big components of the story-creating process. Whether
it be poetry or prose, prompts are put together with distinct plots and symbolism with rhymes, all to create something enjoyable. This is done in the Creative Writing Club, a place for aspiring authors or students who enjoy writing.

The meetings fluctuate in pace, depending on what the club members want to do for that day. If there are students who want to share, everyone gives them their undivided attention, along with some feedback.

“It’s relaxed and you can write whatever you want with no pressure, unlike some clubs where you have to show up and do all these things to be a member,” senior Kathleen Wilcock said.

English teacher Chuck Zavos sponsors the club and sponsors many clubs around the school, from Rock Band Club to Lumberjack Club. Zavos felt compelled to take on the job of sponsoring it himself, since he teaches a creative writing class and wants to assist his students.

“What drives me is when students get passionate about it,” Zavos said. “When I was their age, if I wanted to do something in a space within the school, it would’ve meant a lot to me if someone was willing to give me that space and time to do whatever it was.”

Some members joined simply because they thought the club sounded interesting. Many members, including sophomore Gabe Hoops, enjoy the club because of their love for writing and how it aids them in improving their skills. To Hoops, this helps him strengthen his love for writing.

“I can really do anything I want with writing,” Hoops said. “It also helps a lot with my vocabulary and my understanding of situations. There’s something about building a character that helps you understand actual people more.”

To some students, the chance to have time to improve their writing is rare. Balancing homework, clubs, school activities and their home lives while still managing to have time to brainstorm story ideas can be difficult. Creative Writing Club designates a time after school every Thursday for students to brainstorm or share.

In a room with other people who share the same passion for writing, there is more of a chance to get helpful and constructive feedback or ideas in case of writer’s block. The members support one another in both creative writing and personal ways.

“I’ve had writer’s block a few times, but it’s been helping me write a lot, talk to more people and show my creativity,” senior Emily Hubbard said.

Overcoming writer’s block pays off in the club when sharing and having other writing-oriented minds help work out any issues. Someone could be blind to a certain mistake until the work is looked at a different perspective.

Though the work itself is important, it is up to the other club members to decided whether there needs to be constructive criticism or not.

“It’s nice to hear students finding their voices,” Zavos said. “They would write stuff and I’d think, ‘Wow, that was deep,
I hadn’t thought about that.’ The idea of touching someone else’s soul using language is so powerful. You forget you can do that at any age. You can do it when you’re six or when you’re 60. We forget that young people have visions as well.”

At the end of the year, Zavos and the club members hope to have their work shown on display in a place for others to recognize it. Putting together all of their short stories and works could serve as their reminder that they were a part of the club, or possibly even help convince passers-by to join in the future.

They plan to publish an online book of their writing or print all of their work and collectively put it in a book at Woodneath Library Center.

Students Get Creative

Creative Writing club members and seniors MaryAnn Johnson and Kathleen Wilcock share some of their proudest works from the club. Whether poetry or prose, both of these students express themselves through their writing.

 

The Wandering Questions. By MaryAnn Johnson.

What if there was a ladder that went to the stars?

Would you climb it all the way past Mars?
Would you get sick of it and want the moon?

Will you be too busy and say we “will soon?”

What if there were stairs to heaven?
Would you be too soon to take them?
Is this why the good are sooner to die?

Because stairs take a long while to climb?
Is this why there’s a highway to hell?
Is it that much easier than doing well?
What if there was a rope that went to sky?

Would you climb it and grab on tight?
Or are you too scared of the height?
What if you could see all of the world’s creation?
Could you handle the pain, beauty and desperation?
Oh the questions of children that are faded,

Are like an adult; highly complicated

 

How do you Learn? By MaryAnn Johnson.

How do you learn to stand tall,

When everyone else hunches over?

How do you learn to sing loudly,

When the whole world is mute?

How do you learn to be happy,

When the ones you love can’t be?

 

Doing. By MaryAnn Johnson.

I think it’s that time

When I stop asking

“Do you think I can?”

And that I just do

So If you’re reading this

That means I did

And I guess I can

 

Heres to the Kids. By MaryAnn Johnson.

Here’s to the kids who don’t sleep
Because all they can do is daydream
Here’s to the kids who stay up Friday night
Not to party but to read and write
Here’s to the people who don’t dream of fame

But to just get their artwork seen one day
Here’s to the kids who enjoyed school
Before being a “nerd” was cool
Here’s to the kids whose minds are loud
But have no courage to speak out
Here’s to the ones in the football line
Who also march at every half time
Here’s to the kids with cameras and pens

Documenting exactly what happens
Here’s to the shower singers
And the big dreamers
All the crazy creators
And the reality-to-fiction translators
The band, orchestra, and choir kids
The publication and art students
Here’s to the ones whose imaginations never died

I hope you learn that you have nothing to hide

 

The Guilt. By MaryAnn Johnson.

How do I love,

Knowing so many are heart broken?

How do I leisure,

Knowing so many are working harder than I?

How do I laugh,

Knowing so many can barely smile?

How do I complain,

Knowing so many have it worse?

How do I eat lavishly,

Knowing so many are hungry?

How do I be happy,

Knowing so many are depressed?

How do I read,

Knowing so many are uneducated?

How do hope, Knowing so many have lost it?

How do I trust, Knowing so many have broken it?

How do I live, Knowing so many are dead?

 

Running. By Kathleen Wilcock.

I ran. I hid. I sometimes even got away. It was never permanent though. He always found me. Even when I had lost him, even when I should have surely gotten away, he always found me. It’s just a game to him anyway. He makes the rules, and I follow them. I’ve learned to follow them. Once, I was finally tired of the game, tired of running, so I didn’t run. I didn’t escape. I’ll never do that again. So here I am now. Running.

I’ve gotten faster, more skilled. I’ve only run through this forest 786 times, after all. The road is so close that I can hear the rush of cars going by and see the lights from the stores just beyond it. Once. Only once did I make it across that road. Only once was I close enough to touch the man who was walking in front of me. I would have called out for help, had it been allowed, but it wasn’t. That’s the cruelest part of the game. It gives you hope. Over and over again, your body fills with the sensation that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. It never is though.

My sneakers hit the solid pavement of the road, and I see a semi heading straight for me. There is no time for it to stop. I can see the panic, the flash of terror in the driver’s eyes as he slams on his breaks in a futile attempt to stop the truck. I smile to myself. Finally. This game shall end. I don’t care if it ends in my death, it is better than what He does to me anyhow. The warmth of the truck washes over me as it rushes forward to meet me.

—–

I wake. He’s standing over me.
“Do you really think I would let you get hit by that truck?” He shakes his head and wags his fingers as if scolding a child. I see that cursed notebook lying on the nightstand. He had written me out of yet another version of my future.