Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 3

Still Waters A Brooks School literary magazine

Vol. III, Issue 3

Still Waters A Brooks School literary magazine EDITOR Dean Charpentier, English Department Chair STAFF Suzanne Egertson Rachel Feingold Emma Gordon Renu Mukherjee Kyle Lawrence April Mendez

I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word.

Sometimes I write one, and I look at it,

PHOTOGRAPHY Hannah Latham

until it begins to shine.

DESIGNER Dan Callahan, Director of Communications

― EMILY DICKINSON

Still Waters is committed to publishing original, exciting material from a diverse collection of Brooks student writers.

While we actively pursue short fiction, poetry and memoir, we will consider any form of writing submitted.

There is no maximum word count, and you may submit more than one piece at a time. Send submissions as an attached Word document via email to stillwaterssubmissions@brooksschool.org.

Please include in the Word document your name, grade, hometown, and a brief 100-word bio.

Decisions are made on a rolling basis, and once submitted, a piece will be eligible for publication in any future issue of Still Waters. Just because you don’t see your piece in the new issue does not mean it won’t appear in the next one.

CONTENTS Vol. III, Issue 3

Memoir 4

GRADUATION by Suzanne Egertson

5

LONGER SHADOWS by Kate Davies

Fiction 6

SECRETS by Rachel Feingold

8

SONDER by Lucas Galli

10 SCREECHES by Bryan Sutherlin 12 SIX-WORD STORY CONTEST WINNERS

Poetry 14 PARADISE by Chapelle Johnson 14 A PRAYER by Chapelle Johnson 15 1ST GRADE WISDOM by Andrea Millard 15 THE MULLIGANS by Andrea Millard 16 CLOCKS by Emily Shoemaker 16 SEA SICK by Chapelle Johnson 16 WAVES by Nicole Patch 17 LINES by Annie Payson 18 I AM by Kenza Bouanane 20 POETRY COLLECTION by Serena Nickson

The Stil l Waters Int erview 22 with Kate Davies Brooks School

1

From the Editor

Recently Richard Lea, on Books Blog at theguardian.com, claimed that “literary fiction has had a problem with happy endings for years.”

Not exactly breaking news — my students have complained forever about the tragic and heartbreaking things I make them read. In fact, this claim is often made about many subgenres of what Lea refers to as literary fiction. The acclaimed short story author Lorrie Moore says about her short fiction peers, “They are more interested in constructing a quick palimpsest of wounds and tones and triggering events. After that, the authors depart, exactly where the reader must depart: pre-noose. That is the part of a story’s melancholy… Leave the bustling communities, cathartic weddings, and firing squads for novels.”

So what is it about tragedy and sorrow that makes for great short fiction? Tragedy and sorrow are raw and cold and uncomfortable: the freezing rain and frostbite of literature.

Familiarity and happy endings are the sun-soaked beaches and warm hearths; we love them, but frankly, those warm and fuzzy scenes often blur together. There is something about shock, discord, or chaos that leaves a mark, and out of those elements is born tragedy.

Most of the entries in our six-word short story contest prove this thesis, perhaps because most of the interpretations of Hemingway’s story — “For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.”

— are tragic. How awful, people think, This poor childless couple, their hopes dashed. But what about all of the other interpretations? Maybe the shoes were too small. Maybe the couple owned a shoe store. Ever heard of re-gifting? Maybe the shoes were hideous.

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 3

In the end, perhaps the prevailing sadness of fiction is more a statement about human nature than literature. Or, on a more uplifting meta note, are even sad endings about finding beauty in the human condition, or in art itself? Is the story not about Gatsby’s dashed dreams, but about his hope? Not about Dean Moriarty as shattered idol, but about Sal’s journey? Not about Celie’s horrors, but about her potential?

Either way, this whole conversation ignores an entire side of literature as art. Part of why we read — even the sad endings and tragic stories — is the beauty of the brush strokes: the meticulously crafted imagery, the metaphors, the rhythm and the comfort of language.

Turns out even the most gnarled and ugly tree can fuel a roaring, rejuvenating fire.

So warm your hands for a while above the dancing flames of this month’s student writing.

Dean Charpentier Editor

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Memoir

Graduation

By Suzanne Egertson

I’m staring down the aisle. His hand is warm in mine, and even though we have barely spoken since freshman year physics class, our palms press together as one.

The graduating class of 2015, I whisper, the bittersweet words all too familiar in my mouth.

I take a deep breath as we prepare to walk, scanning the teachers, parents, and students of Brooks School, a place where I was once a stranger, but now a queen. I glance at my fellow graduates behind me and flash them a smile. I can’t believe we made it. As we get closer and closer to the front, I feel a sudden urge to freeze time. I’m not ready, I think for a brief moment.

The thought quickly fades as I take in this community. The encouragement around me is spreading through my insides with a fuzzy kind of tickle. I can’t decide whether I’m about to cry or laugh, but I squeeze my classmate’s hand and he squeezes back and I know it’s time.

wanted to give up. Most of all, I remember people saying no, assuming that I could not reach my goals. I sit in this seat with my shoulders back, and head held high, proud that I persevered. I know that this rings true for the people sitting to my left and right, because they made it too. They won.

And that’s the funny thing about winning.

Though I am competitive, and like to be number one, winning is the best when you know you have 93 classmates that are winning with you. Because we’ve all heard, “no”, “you can’t”, and “you’re not good enough” but now the words “yes” and “I can” and “I am good enough” are shining off our backs.

We never gave up.

Though I feel like I may fall over, I put one foot in front of the other, cursing myself for wearing wedges, although it is nice to be almost as tall as everyone else for a change. My eyes twinkle with pride and jubilation as I glimpse the faces of my peers, my advisor, and my family. In each of their faces I see my last four years flash by, and I must reel in my emotions before they get the best of me. This is my last day at the place where I found myself; and yet, I’ll have to leave some of her behind as I start anew. When I finally reach my seat, I allow a tear to trickle down my cheek. I can’t quite tell if this is a tear of happiness or sadness, because I feel complete and empty all at once. I’m hollow as I struggle to capture this beautiful campus one last time, until it’s no longer mine.

I’m so close to the moment now. I sit patiently for the names before me to be called, happy to wait until it’s my turn. Even though I usually want to get things over with, this is a moment that I know has to come to me at the right time. I breathe in and out, expanding my stomach, a technique that I can thank voice lessons for. And I relax. Then the name before me is called, and I once again feel the impulse to turn around and get off this stage. But before I can act on my thoughts, Mr. Packard, with a smile in his eyes, calls my name, announcing “Magna Cum Laude” and the numerous honors I plan on receiving. I beam as I walk across the stage, hearing the cheers of my friends, and it’s exhilarating. I’m almost there, about to reach out my hand for a firm handshake, and grab that golden ticket to a new chapter of life…

As I ponder my experience at Brooks, I remember all the ups and downs, all of the times where I 4

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And that’s when I open my eyes.

Longer Shadows

By Kate Davies Three years ago this March. That’s when it happened. Of course, I had been affected by death before. But I was younger then, and didn’t really understand what it meant. In fact, I’m not sure I ever really understood what death meant until right then. But at that exact moment, I understood it perfectly. My grandmother, the woman who was always there for me, who listened to my childish rants, who was always there to tell me it would be ok, was gone. Permentatly. That’s the scariest thing about death; the permanently.

I sat at her kitchen table, the one my entire family had gathered at so many times. But the air this time was different. It was quiet, and though the sun was high in the sky there seemed so little light in the room. Oddly enough, it was my grandmother’s shadow box that I fixated on. My grandmother had just died, and all I could think about was this shadow box. I didn’t think thoughts anymore. Just pictures and memories, snippets of something that had once been. It was like watching a silent movie when the film is out of order. Just pictures playing.

I saw this shadow box, hanging in the corner of the room. I saw the sun rising and setting, the long shadows it created. I saw a grey wood stove, connected to a smoky black chimney on the right. Opposite was a cherry wood cabinet with little white flowers painted on the front panel. This cabinet was the tallest thing in the miniature room, with a lamp placed atop. In the center of the room was a grandfather clock, and a table with two wooden benches.

This miniature house was adorned with an urn, salt and pepper shakers, and a flower pot. In the evening, when the sun came slanting through the window, the stove created a long black shadow that hung over the entire tiny room. As a little child, I had been fixated on this box. It seemed like a picture out of a movie scene, a perfect picture of a small cabin. But now I looked at it, reminiscing.

A long time ago, my grandmother told me my grandfather had made it by hand for her. Crouched over the long wooden table in the basement, wearing his trademark flannel shirt and giant glasses, his knotted hands had carefully carved out each piece of wood. He had cut out the little wooden chairs and nailed them to the floor, the table, the benches, the cabinets, even the chimney. For hours, he carefully crafted this shadow box, so that years later I could watch it change throughout the day. I loved that shadow box. It was a wonderful, simple miracle to me. Oddly enough, my grandmother never adored it the way I do.

She covered her kitchen with fake and plastic flowers, tiny decorations she bought at places like WalMart or CVS. All the little things you see in checkout lines at stores, the souvenirs you buy from long trips, the tiny plaques that are set out to match the season – they covered every inch of my grandmother’s house. My grandfather had been a do-ityourself man, and while he had been around, most of the household items he had made. He made the shadow box, the doll house, the clocks, and family signs. But my grandmother loved how you could go to a store, and for a dollar and ninety-nine cents, you could have your own designer-made paper weight, bouquet of fake flowers, or holiday themed napkins. She loved how things could be so easily changed with only a few dollars. But my grandfather had never been that way. He saw no reason for buying new things, when the old could be repaired.

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Fiction

Secrets

By Rachel Feingold “I’m sorry I haven’t come in a while.”

No answer.

It’s always easier to apologize when someone isn’t listening.

It’s Sunday morning on Sesame Street. Big Bird sees Oscar the Grouch emerge from his trashcan. Big Bird’s bright yellow feathers flood the screen. With his wide eyes he stares at me, hardly blinking. He wants to know what comes after two. Three! Three!

I scream it in my head, over and over again, but no one hears me. I can’t scream in here.

I’m sitting on a ratty orange couch. It smells of mildew and old people, two odors that are not pleasant. The puppets on the screen are the only source of movement in the room. My grandmother lies on the bed next to me, attached to an IV tube and wires of all different colors. Her chest barely moves up and down. Her eyes are closed; they twitch occasionally. I think she’s having a bad dream.

“Anyways, did you know I just got my green belt in karate? I’m ahead of all my friends, it’s because I practice the most.”

talk very much, only listens. I think mom pays for her to be my friend because mom’s too busy to listen to me talk about my problems. Her office is comfy. Huge beanbag chairs and pillows all over the floor. We talk a lot about how mom and dad fight.

They scream at each other, mostly nonsense. I don’t understand it. They don’t think I can hear them.

The walls are thin in our house.

“Tell me what death is, Nana. I don’t understand. Is it better than life here? Ivy told me that good people go to heaven, where they live in a perfect world.

Does that mean in heaven my parents won’t fight anymore? Would I get the chance to sleep through nights without hearing them argue? If it’s true, I want to go there.”

Suddenly, the machines go off. The screen reads 180/110. I think something is wrong. My nana’s chest is completely still. All I hear is beeping; the sound masks the singing Muppets on the screen. A nurse rushes in with another huge machine, one with two metal paddles attached by a spring. I’m pushed out the door, into the deserted hallway.

They don’t know this, but I can still hear the loud gasps through the door. One of the nurses in the hall crouches to my level and asks me if I’m with anyone else. I shake my head. She takes my hand and leads me to the foyer.

Only the monitors beep in response.

It’s safe to say my secrets will be kept today.

“I saw Dr. Anderson earlier; she’s very nice. She always seems interested in what I need to say. She’s like a best friend, but not like one at all. She doesn’t

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 2

My mom picks me up outside. I walk through the rain to her car. She smiles a genuine smile. I can see it in her eyes. She turns up the radio, keeps her gaze forward, and doesn’t look back. The rain pounds on the windshield, and I can barely see three feet in front of our car. We enter the tunnel that leads to

Route 93. Silence. Darkness. Something I’m used to. I can’t see my mother next to me. I can’t see my hand in front of me. I can’t see my grandmother’s fragile body lying on her hospital bed. I hide my emotion, my sadness and anger and confusion. I hide the secrets I just confessed. I’m masked. I grin and then I frown. I hide my knowledge.

We reach the end of the tunnel and are born into the rain again.

“So what did you and Nana talk about?”

“Not much. The usual,” I say.

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Fiction

Sonder

By Lucas Galli You walk along a forest path, aware only of your thoughts.

They bombard you from every direction, deafen you with unheard sounds, and grind the gears of reality to a halt. It feels foreign, being out of touch with reality, no ideas of where you are or where you are going. The forest thickens around you, coils you deeper into its abyss, and holds you tight. It begins to morph, to fundamentally change completely all around you, but you’re not aware of this. You walk along a beach, strips of amber sunlight streak across the surface of the water, and carefully lap at your intentions. Where you’ve come from, what you’re doing.

Questions you don’t know how to answer. You begin to wonder where you are, but before you get very far you are whisked away to the peak of a great mountain, where you struggle for each breath, as if your lungs have failed you and they lack the ability to sustain you. It’s oddly calming, this effect. The lack of

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oxygen in your brain has rendered your once roaring thoughts immobile. You find yourself in an abandoned town, but one that feels oddly familiar, in a sickening way. As if you were what caused the abandonment. You try to step forward, but you realize this is no longer possible. You begin to see faces in the windows, faces of people longing. Longing for what, you wonder. Perhaps for times past when all was well and their lives were complete. In a desert, you see a mighty cactus, rigid and unforgiving, as it must be in this harsh landscape. It is exactly what it must be to survive. You sit in a chair in a house. You know not who lives here, but you feel uncomfortable. As if you don’t belong, an unwelcome guest to a despotic host. You hear the stairs creak, and wish only for familiarity, for the welcoming embrace of the known. You feel yourself sinking down into the abyss that has formed below you, and are overcome with the

urge to flee, but you cannot. You know you must face what waits for you below. You wake up sweating, confused and dreary in your new bed, in your new apartment, in your new city. You look down at the passing faces, and wonder. You begin to realize that each scurrying person is living just as lucid and intricate a life as you, with their own dreams and aspirations and acquaintances, their own conflicts and morning routines.

A maze that spins all around you with infinite branches to millions of other lives that you will never glimpse. In which you are simply an extra, the end of the line at a movie theatre, or a flickering headlight in the distance. You begin to feel tiny, infinitesimal, to the point where all you can do is sit in your new bed, in your new apartment, in your new city, and wonder about all the lives of the people around you, and whether they feel as lost and as dizzyingly insignificant as you do in this moment.

Fiction

Screeches

By Bryan Sutherlin

C

rossing the street, oblivious to the world around you, you have no regard for human life. It’s rush hour and from the windows of The Black Rose, visibility is reduced to nearly zero as a slew of sedans, coupes, and eighteenwheelers create a Berlin Wall separating the northbound side of Route 212 from the south with just a few spaces between traffic, each barely wide enough for the summer breeze to slip through.

Ten Sam Adams’ deep you’ve gracefully stumbled your way from the creaky old stool, only comfortable after the liquid gold numbs the body, to the door. Your grandfather used to tell you stories of his days during the Second World War, sleeping outdoors for days, even weeks, in dirt trenches just below ground level. This was your home, your safety he would say. Leaving your home gave no guarantee on waking up the next day. You are now a soldier, like him, leaving the safety of the trench and stepping into the no man’s land of the sidewalk near the highway, where not even the bravest of men dare to approach, sober or drunk.

You’re a chicken trying to get to the other side.

Frogger, hopping and dodging moving vehicles, risking life and limb to get to your beat-up ’85 Chevy you parked across the way to hide it from your wife. First lane crossed and approaching the second. The only thing running through your mind is the job you won’t be returning to tomorrow. Standing over the dashed white line as cars whip by you, blaring horns, yelling to get the fuck out of the road, you are back in the boss’ office as he delivers your verbal pink slip. Blind to the surroundings, thousands of thoughts trespass your inebriated mind until they come to a sudden halt.

Screeching tires grab your attention, a sound all too familiar. You’re a deer in the headlights.

Frozen. Paralyzed.

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 3

You’re ten, sitting in the your room, door shut, trying to drown out the yelling and cursing coming from the living room of the double wide you creatively call home. Through the blankets draped around your head, stuffed into your ears, bits and pieces are heard. Another man. Her boss. Your body jolts at the crash of the slamming door and cringes at the screeching tires of the family Oldsmobile you’d never see again. Your father comes in, saying over and over again It’s just the two of us now, buddy.

You’re seventeen, slouched at your desk, unenthused by everything except the final bell and the weed tucked away in a third floor locker that guarantees a hefty profit. Staring out the window across the horizon, three knocks at the door grab your attention as you instinctively glance in that direction. Two officers ask to speak to you outside.

Escaping their grasp in front of the classroom, you take off, sprinting through the hallways of what is soon to be your former high school. Turning the corner, a wall of uniformed men meets you; the screech of your J’s as you abruptly come to a stop fills the corridor and sparks the crazed barking of the canine high off the scent of pot. You are trapped. Cuffed.

You’re twenty-two, perched high above ground level, looking down at the dark water of the Charles. Hanging over the edge of the Zakim Bridge, hands gripping tightly to the railing behind you, you begin to let yourself go, to fall freely towards your final resting place. A loud screech sounds behind you. You regain balance and tighten your loosening grip. An unknown woman races towards you in panic. She yells to you not to jump and once an arm’s length away, in a calm tone whispers, It’ll get better.

You’re flying through the air. Time travels in slow motion as tires continue to screech all around. The potent smell of burning rubber. You bounce off of the pavement like a 25-cent bouncy ball you couldn’t afford as a child. Your whole life, piercing screeches etched memories in your mind, for better or worse. The screech, only heard but never felt until now as you ascend into the air, ascend into the universe, comes to a close and you lay motionless, gasping for another breath, trying to tell your wife, who waits patiently by the door of the home you share with her and your two children, of the

bad news and of your love for her. Your final words are murmured growls, capped off with one last exhale.

It’s the middle of the night and the phone echoes through the house. Your wife answers, lets out a devastating screech, one felt for miles, one that shivers the spine of a dead man. She lays awake on your side of the bed into the early morning, staring off into the distant sunrise of no man’s land, filled with uncertainty, reminiscing. Your final words never reach her ears, but in this moment, she knows.

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Six-Word Story Contest Winners The winners of our Hemingway six-word short story contest all have one thing in common: they are original. Most deal with the tragic and the sad; all imply a rich, deep back story the reader is forced to fill in – forced in a good way, as in compelled or driven out of curiosity, not because of anything lacking in the story itself. In the stories, we get a whiff of the Romantics (the poets, not the 80s band) from Erinn Lee; a little meta-commentary from Kyle Lawrence; a hint of filmmaker David Lynch from Rachel Feingold; a surprise ending from Sophie Hord; and a theological paradox from Renu Mukherjee. All in six words.

“Dance, little fool,” the Lord whispered.

Parents – I have one of them.

— Sophie Hord

— Renu Mukherjee

That’s how girls end up dead.

— Rachel Feingold

“Ignore,” Forgiveness nudged. “Remember,” Pain insisted.

— Erinn Lee

“I’m going to run out of ” — Kyle Lawrence

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 3

Poetry

Paradise

By Chapelle Johnson My friend Larry has light, skin colored hands Medium sized and hairy on the knuckles He shows me pictures of some place far away, on his phone: The Galapagos Islands, like paradise.

Do you wanna go there one day? I ask What do you mean one day? Why not now?

A Prayer

By Chapelle Johnson Before I went to sleep I would get on my knees to pray With folded hands.

Looking toward the heavens I closed my eyes, Spoke softly like I imagined a baby angel would speak — Audible, delicate: If I should wake before I die, I would eat an apple pie.

I said this all the time Like a joke between Him and me.

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 3

1st Grade Wisdom

by Andrea Millard Stand up straight, Don’t bite your nails, Keep your hair tucked neatly behind your ears.

Don’t let the headband slip and cover your eyes.

Pick a good seat, Don’t jump when the bell rings, Don’t scuff your shiny red Mary Janes —

The Mulligans

by Andrea Millard

they’re brand new.

Don’t lose your lunch box,

There’s one in every neighborhood

eat neatly, use a napkin, be polite.

no matter how rich yours is.

Remember to smile —

In mine it’s the Mulligans.

somehow you always forget to smile.

They never cut the grass;

Don’t blink when you’re nervous,

it grows various shades of brown

it makes you look shifty.

and makes the yard look like a safari.

Raise your hand when necessary.

Their fence always needs fixing,

And above all,

their dog always gets loose,

Make a good impression.

they never buy raffle tickets, wrapping paper or cookie dough.

They never chip in when old Mr. Stebbens can’t afford a new hip.

Their children run wild, always dirty, never full.

They steal things from your toolsheds.

On Christmas, you can hear them yelling from all over the block — but no one ever bothers with the Mulligans.

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Poetry

Clocks

by Emily Shoemaker People talk about time And how it runs out so quickly And sometimes I think it flies Faster than anything on earth Because one day you can be here And we will be laughing

Sea Sick

By Chapelle Johnson

And it seems that you Saying goodbye will never come

Ocean waves crash onto the jagged rocks,

And then I blink

The boat bounces up and down

And suddenly

Sending me into the air like a bird.

It’s tomorrow

I grip the side of my seat as

And you’ll be gone

My head spins with every right turn

And maybe I’ll see you again and

How did we even get out this far?

Maybe I won’t

The blue footed boobies squawk at my misery

And the thought of you so far away

Like the sound of laughter.

Hurts so much But I know that one day it will seem like forever Since you’ve been here And that will hurt Even more.

People talk about time

Waves

By Nicole Patch

But they never say Just how much

Gentle breeze from the west,

It burns

Sand between her toes.

When it’s over.

Waves crash on the shore, but She acts as though she doesn’t notice.

Angelic white lace blows in the gusts, As soft as a breath, A man on her arm.

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 3

Lines

by Annie Payson Thirty different languages echo and crowd the thin, cold air at the very top of the Arc de Triomphe.

Bodies bundled in warm wool coats

She stares at a different wonder:

push and lean closer to the

the silhouette of her toes

precipice over the busy street.

over the glinting

Canons shoved between

blurred lanes of traffic below,

shoulders for a better image of the magnificent Paris skyline

awestruck

shrouded in stunning steel gray

at the ease with which

and white clouds.

her body leans, the speed with which

One woman

she is able to grab the railing

on the corner overlooking the

at the very last second.

plain side of the city ignores the stark silhouette

How thin some lines are,

of the angular buildings

unlike those of regal cement buildings

and the graceful sloping spike

against cold clear skies.

of the Eiffel Tower.

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Poetry

I Am

By Kenza Bouanane I am made of words no one can understand I am a thief because I am a writer I steal people, places and feelings.

I am the song I listen to by myself at 2am.

I am the art I have yet to marvel at and the people I haven’t talked to and the music I haven’t listened to.

Ask me who I am, and I will not hear you, for I am deep in a crowd calling out my own name.

I am a dark alley, because I fear the illumination of the moon.

I am the essay I got an A+ on and the test I got a 60% on I am the secrets I’ve kept and the promises I’ve broken.

I am a ballerina’s love for twirls and grand jetés.

I am a garden of withering flowers.

I am a priest and an atheist, because I profess my own truth.

I am an unwritten song, sonnet, haiku, novel, I am made of words no one can understand.

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Poetry Collection

by Serena Nickson

The Warmth of Winter The aroma of fire smoke draws me to the living room Yellow light illuminates the space Even in the dark winter night.

Dad sits content on the lemon couch, A book beside him; I know he hasn’t read much.

He likes to sit and think.

The faint whistle of the kettle Echoes from the kitchen Followed by my mom’s footsteps down the hall Tea tray in hand.

We gather, consumed in thought Surrounded by the pop of sparks from the fire And little sips of earl grey.

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Laughter Throws her head back Releases a booming howl Rocks back into her seat.

Continuous rhythmic noise of joy Bouncing off the crevasses of my ear.

Closes his eyes His smile spits out a hiccupping repetition of sound He slams his hand against the table Eyes his friends in appreciation of the joke

Tuscany

Her smile barely produces noise A modest indication of happiness She giggles softly inside

Daisies. Daisies everywhere.

Blending with the loud crowd’s uproar.

Eternal faceless fields extend, Loud fresh rosemary sings — The aroma collides with the garlic incense Rising from the kitchen pan — “For ze bambina?”

“Spaghetti Bolognese, grazie!”

Louisa Her hands are wrinkled, soft Fingers intertwined, her thumbs twirl around each other in circles.

Her pace around the house slows day by day Hunched over, her hands gently support her back Are you in pain?

I’m perfectly happy, dear.

Brooks School

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The Still Waters Interview Kate Davies is a sophomore at Brooks, and her memoir piece, Shadows, appears in this issue of Still Waters. In the Still Waters Interview, she shares her thoughts about her writing, ego, Charles Dickens and much more.

SW: What’s it like seeing your work published — now in two consecutive issues of Still Waters?

KD: It’s really cool to see my writing published in Still Waters. Because it’s online and so accessible to a bunch of people, I’m actually super excited. The new layout is so awesome, and it’s an honor to be part of it. I guess most people who write hope to get published. While I’m far from a professional, it’s still cool. We all have to start somewhere, and I think it’s amazing that Brooks fosters anyone serious about writing in this way. Everyone has a chance to be published by Brooks.

SW: Both of your pieces are memoir. Are you particularly drawn to this genre for some reason?

KD: Both of these pieces are memoirs because, at the time, it seemed fitting. I personally don’t have a favorite style, it just so happens they are both memoirs. I wrote them both within a month of each other, and I guess I was in a self-reflective mood, which leads to the memoirs. But I definitely don’t stick to just one topic; I’ve written a bunch of creative pieces and have a lot of poetry as well. I mainly write what I want to write, and play with the structure of it based on my mood.

SW: Do you see a difference in writing memoir and writing fiction, aside from the obvious?

KD: I honestly don’t see much of a difference between memoir and fiction. Fiction always reflects the author in some way; no one can be so removed from themselves as to not have a piece of themselves in their writing. However, memoirs aren’t entirely factual. I played with wording in my memoirs, the same way fiction writers play with the ideas in theirs. I wanted to be really descriptive in both pieces, and so I played with the words until I found exactly what I was trying to say. With fiction, I find I play with the characters or plot until I convey my message. While different, both forms require the author to be able to manipulate words and language to convey ideas, which is, in my belief, the entire purpose of writing.

SW: Do you have a specific writing process? A certain place?

KD: My writing process is probably the poorest of all the processes out there: I turn on my music, turn up the volume until I can’t really hear anything else, and just start writing. I’ve found brainstorming never helps me, and in fact when I brainstorm I tend to do worse. I write down all the thoughts going through my head that are related to the prompt or topic, just to get them on paper. Then I go back and revise. I tend to get rid of a lot of my ideas during the first revision, and focus on finding the point of my piece. I revise a second time, this time finding ways to add examples or key points. Finally, I edit grammar. I always check verb tense, and simple grammar errors. But I still make a lot of mistakes!

SW: Is writing important to your life? Why? KD: Writing is important to me not for any really concrete reasons. I just like how it is, how it’s mine.

While that might sound egotistical or self-serving, there really isn’t another way to describe it. Writing, to me, is putting all the thoughts I’ve had on paper. Each piece has a point, an idea. And publishing it is showing the world my ideas and thoughts. It’s terrifying and exciting. So, to me, writing is creating my own ideas and opinions, and then sharing them. It’s my beliefs and outlooks, and I guess I’m proud of it.

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Still Waters, Vol. III, Issue 3

SW: Are there any authors that have influenced your writing? Who do you like to read? (And, do you prefer books or an e-reader)?

KD: I’m not sure any authors have influenced my writing directly; in fact my writing is still changing. It continually evolves, based on a number of things. I personally love Charles Dickens, and at one point tried to mimic his style. But his style was his, and as much as I wanted to I could never perfectly mimic his writing. I love how he describes things, and pulls the reader into the story. In A Tale of Two Cities, I fell in love with Sydney Carton. Dickens is able to make all his characters likable. But I couldn’t say his book influenced me, much as I tried to copy his style. Everyone has his or her own signature style, and it is often something that is hard to get rid of. I have mine, and while it may fluctuate, themes stay the same. As for ereaders versus books, I have to have a hard copy. It just doesn’t feel the same to me without the physical book.

SW: Where do you find ideas to write about?

KD: I don’t know where I find my ideas to write about. I guess the best advice I’ve ever heard of for a writer is just to observe. Observe, and then write about things you see and others don’t. And to write about things that bother you. To write about that thorn in your side you can’t shake. It seems to work for me; I always write about things that bother me on some level. You get passionate about the topic and because of that the writing means so much more.

SW: Your writing is very self-reflective — internal monologue is important. Is that purposeful or something that evolves in each piece?

KD: I don’t think I mean to make each piece self-reflective, I think that is just my style. I write each piece with an idea and a goal in mind, and the reflection comes by accident. However, this comes across in a lot of the things I write about. Perhaps it’s part of what makes my writing mine.

SW: How would you like writing to be a part of your life as you get older?

KD: When I was much younger I always dreamed of becoming an author when I grew up. I can honestly say now I have no idea how I will incorporate writing into my life as an adult. I would love to still be able to write. But I don’t know if I could do it as a profession. I’m only sixteen, and have no idea what I want to do with my life. I would love to keep writing, but if my job can’t allow it, I may just write for fun on my own time.

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