The Writers Atelier

Easy To Forget

2009-01-28T11:59:00.001-08:00

It amazes me how easy it is to forget principles that we spent years learning. A few weeks ago I went and checked out my blog that I never write on (haha) and I realized that there were Russian words all over the page. I freaked out a little bit because I forgot a lot of the Russian that I spent all last year trying to learn. As I stared at the words the Cyrillic alphabet came back to me and I was able to sound the letters out. However, I am afraid that I don't remember the majority of the Russian language that I used too. It doesn't take much to forget something we have taken time to learn.

As I thought about this it led me to think about my testimony of Jesus Christ. It seems that lately I have seen or heard of people who have lost their faith in the Gospel and their belief in the Savior. It worries me to hear about strong faithful people who suddenly turn away in disbelief. What causes such a turn around? Personally, I think it all goes back to my experience of learning Russian and then forgetting it. A testimony of Christ comes through learning about him and searching out his teachings, then seeking for a witness from the Holy Ghost. However, once we stop seeking knowledge and start ignoring what we learned, with time we will gradually forget what we once knew and the Gospel will become as unknown to us as words of forgotten Russian.

Good Stuff Wednesday

2008-06-04T22:47:00.000-07:00

I turned off the music in my car and parked it on the side of the road by my house and enjoyed the powerful sound of the rain pounding on the tin roof.

I ate a cookie that my neighbor made and soaked it in a glass of milk. It was delicious.

I took a nap with a book in my hand.

I talked to an old friend.

I ate dinner with my parents and attempted to communicate.

I talked with my Mom.

I watched and excellent movie with my friends.

I made into bed.

Maybe try making your own good stuff list. It helps you feel warm and fuzzy all over :) If it doesn't, then do something about it.

Hair Strikes Back

2008-06-03T13:20:00.000-07:00

Those who know me best, know about my very serious and sometimes overly dramatic hair fettish. It doesn't matter where I am, hair simply follows me around. Maybe that's largely due to the thick mop of hair that hangs from head. But even other hair seems to lurk towards me whether it's: in my dinner, stuck on my blanket, in a plie of snow that I happened to land on (another stroy for anther time) or it just somehow weasled its way into my mouth, hair is always there and it is always grossing me out to the max. It's like it is out to get me and me alone. So with that in mind it should seem as no surprise that my very own hair tried to attack me.
It all started about 8 years ago when my family and I moved to utah. My room is located down in the dungeons, but the perqs of dungeons almost solely lie with having your very own bathroom. I really liked this bathroom and that was largely due to the shower and the shower drain. Most shower drains don't have very big holes so after each shower there is this huge build up of hair over the shower drain that I would always have to pick out after each use. It absolutely drove me crazy! So when I saw the big wholes in this shower drain, I figured out a perfect system of getting the hair off my fingers and through the drain with the least amount of human contact possible. If any hair would get stuck on my fingers I would simple stick it to the wall, then point the shower head on that wall unitll all the hair moved down, down, and down into the drain and out of eyesight. I loved this system. It was clean and hair free. I loved this system for about 8 years......then the hair started to fight back. It wasn't unitl last christmas break when I was home for about 3 weeks that I realized my drain wasn't draining as well as it should be. With further examination, I noticed oxidized hair strands over parts of the drain wholes that had gotten stuck there from prior washinngs. I couldn't get it out so I chose to ignore it. That whole christmas break the water would drain less and less but I was in denial about it so I just pretended that everything was hunky dory. Well, each time I came home after that the problem would intensify. Then I moved back home for the summer and the water would hardly drain at all. It seemd as though 8 years of hairl buildup were coming back to haunt me. So, I being a very brave soul, chose to take matters and my yellow rubber gloves, into my own hands. I strategically popped open the drain with a phillips screwdriver, soaked the whole place with Chlorox Bleach, and formed a hair snagging device out of a metal hanger. Then I dove into one of my biggest nightmares: Slimy, black, oxidized, chunkified hair. I dug dip, dry heaved a few times and finally came out with a good chunk of the enemy that was probably the size of a softball, a very large softball. I wiped the sweat off my brow then turned on the water ready to see it rush down that drain like never before. However, to my dismay the water was draining even less this time around than before. I hadn't even come close to the hairy monster. I got on my hands and knees once more, tweaked my metal hair snagging device with a few twists here and there, and dug deep into the dark tunnels of that massive pipe. My first few dives into the dark abyss were failures. Finally, on my last attempt for the day, I felt my snagger catch onto to something and I knew I had scored big. I pulled and pulled on that metal hanger until I could feel the suction of that hairy monster being relased from its slimy pipe. Eventually I was able to grab the end of the hair with my my rubber gloves and I pulled on that suker like there was no tomorrow. I tugged fiercely until finally I got to the end of my hairy monster. I examined it in between my drive heaves (seriously, though I almost did throw up) and what once may have been Hair as Long and as beautiful as Repunsel's hair, was now the size of an over fed, black, tuberous, slug, with chunkies crawling over its epidermis. That hairy creature thing is the very definition of frightening and disgusting.
Thankfully, I am happy to say that just as most Heroes do, I am living happily everafter. However, I do lose some sleep at night knowing that I really didn't get rid of that hair at all, but just moved it to another habitat. I wonder what jumkyard its lurking around now.

Forgotten Gully

2008-05-09T16:45:00.000-07:00

Yesterday after dinner, I decided to go for a walk through the Gully just by my neighborhood. I walked up Segolily Drive and through the neighborhood until i reached one of the paths into the gully. I turned off of the main sidewalk and walked down a miny alley made up of fences, and before I knew it I was away from the city. As I began to trail up the cedar mulch path I felt like I was walking in my own meadow in the Lake District. The mountains were green and majestic; I had forgotten how big they were. The tiny canyon in the gully had green spreading like wildfire up and down every hill and hidden nook. I had forgotten how green the world could be. As I climbed up one my last hills for the night, I walked down a little side trail off of the main path until I found a wooden fence. I climbed up the fence and sat on the top for awhile and just listened to the numerous birds all around me. I had forgotten how much I loved the sound of birds. After enjoying the peace and quiet I found hidden in the busy suburb, i treked back to the main path I was on and headed back home. As I looked down into the valley, the sun blared in my eyes begining its trek downward. I had forgotten how much I missed watching the sunset. Being surrounded by vast and open lush beauty, I almost felt like I was running through green meadows in Europe. Then I realized at that moment that even though I stil have mountains to climb and sites to see in foreign plcaes, I still have so much to discover in my own backyard. I had almost forgotten that.

The Benefits of Dumb Summer Jobs

2008-05-09T15:54:00.000-07:00

When I catch myself begining to hate my job all I have to do is think of the benefits and then I'm okay for a few days. For example, when my manager hovers over my shoulder waiting for me to make any type of mistake I say to myself "Hey, I get paid for this!" and then whatever criticism I get blows right over me becuae I know that that just cost them 15 cents.
However, money is not always good enough to keep me happy, so on those rough days when not even money helps, I look at the other pro's of my job. For example, if it wasn't for "Sasquatch Shadows" (company name has been changed for protection) then I would never know that I hate retail, would never want to own my own business, and absolutely despise barberry bushes. I also would have never discovered that the best way to help an angry customer is to say "Im sorry I can't give you cash back, but I can give you a hug!" The power of a simple hug would have never been discovered if I never got the chance to embrace those angry consumers. Yes, these are the benefits. these are the nuggets of truth that cuase to me to sit for hours and wonder and say to myself "wow.................."

Vaseline

2008-04-24T22:17:00.000-07:00

I'm not quite sure what it is that has me so hooked on this petroleum jelly. Maybe it's the pure pleasure of dipping my finger in a gooey jar of junk or the refreshing satsifaction of lathering the gunk over my lips that has me hooked on this wonder substance. I mean it really is amazing all that Vaseline does for the profit of mankind, especially that part of the human species which neglects themselves and therfore suffers from severe dry and often crusted skin. I fall under the dry and crusted skin category and can first handedly witness of the effectiveness of Vaseline: premium petroleum jelly. My once crusted over lips have been rescued by this substance, and my dry caked elbows have had many cracks filled by Vaseline. But the realy testimony of the petroleum jelly can be told simply by the great improvement of my bear like feet. Yes! my callouses are diminshing!

Absolutely Nothing

2008-04-23T11:15:00.000-07:00

It feels like ages since I was in Rexburg Idaho busy with my finals, trainging for my Half Marathon, and goofing around with my crazy roommates. At the time I was stressed and ready to go back to utah where I would find a clean home filled with food and my fortress like room free from roommates. During those last weeks of school I wanted nothing more than to sleep for days, not do homework, and avoid runding at all costs. All I really desired was to do absolutely nothing, and absolutely revel in it.
Well, my deepest wishes came true. Infact, I have been doing absolutely nothing for the past three or four days and to my dismay I feel more discontent than I did just two weeks ago. Is it just me or does this seem like a huge paradox? Why is it that being lazy is only fun and rewarding after you've over worked yourself and are about to kill over from fatigue? It's like our sole purpose in this life is to be productive and make something of ourselves. Who would of thought?
So I found my solution. I got myself a job, found a few new races to run in, made a reading list, and set some goals to fill in the extra time with. I figure if I start filling in my time with some somethings, than I can start enjoying those abosolutely nothing moments a little bit more.

America's Individual Identity

2008-04-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

It seems a common search among many American’s to discover what their role and identity is as an American. Many agree that American identity is founded upon empty pockets and calloused hands, ultimately reaping gold-filled dreams. Others concur that democracy and freedom of rights is the basis of their nations character. While others see their national identity built upon their foreign fore fathers homage to America. No matter the idea the list of what American Identity is could spring on, but perhaps that springing of possibilities is where the true answer of American Identity lies. It isn’t just one defining quality that makes an identity, but rather it is the abundance of character and uniqueness that creates the American Identity. American Identity in and of itself lies within each citizen’s individuality and personal experience.
Perhaps there is no better way to create and share the individual experience as a whole than through the varying mediums of art. Such shared but unique experiences are shown by: the art of Maynard Dixon, the poetry by Edgar Guest, and the music by Duke Ellington during the mid 1900’s. Each artist tangibly depicted his own experience through artistic mediums, which American’s clasp to today for their identity.
Maynard Dixon’s painting, Forgotten Man, is his dismal but poignant depiction of an individuals struggle and loneliness amidst a busy successful America. From the viewer’s eye, one is drawn into a gray city sidewalk containing only: a fire hydrant, busy businessmen and women seen from the legs down only, and a downtrodden man sitting on the curb. This man’s expression of helplessness draws the onlooker into the picture and creates a lasting connection. This connection reveals this man’s vulnerability and loneliness although he is surrounded by many fellow American’s monotonously rushing to their various places. They are too busy to even notice their struggling and forsaken brother on the street.
This powerful depiction of abandonment and difficulty among a seemingly busy and prosperous America acts as a reminder for every American to not forget the individual, and more importantly, not forget that most men will one time or another fall onto their own curbs. Dixon is prompting his fellow American brothers and sisters to not march with the bustling crowd, but live up to the identity of America and rescue their fellow individuals in need of lifting and sustenance struggling on any street of life.
Just as others need rescuing, the American poet Edgar Guest reminds the individual to not forgo rescuing him/herself personally. His poem rings with the rhetoric of virtue, integrity, and the value of ultimately being able to live with oneself. “I want to live with myself and so, I want to be fit for the world to know…I want to be able as days go by always to look myself straight in the eye…so whatever happens I want to be self respecting and conscience free.” No messages, than living unique and distinct lives lacking personal guilt and regret, are more important or powerful. American identity founded upon individual character and experience can only strengthen when each member is living a life of integrity and self respect.
Perhaps there is no smoother synthetic interpretation of individual experience and freedom than that expressed by Duke Ellington’s Mood Indigo. The song begins its introduction with a strong piano solo immediately followed by an interpretive and individualistic trumpet solo with the subtle beat of the bass heard beneath the trumpets independent tone. Before long the listener is not only encapsulated by the trumpeters tune but by each brass instrument. The band further compliments the individual solo experience to form a rare but complete identity as a group. America’s Musical Landscape explains that Ellington “used the jazz band as his real ‘instrument’ exploring its entire range of sounds with unprecedented imagination and creativity. By juxtaposing instruments in nontraditional combinations and using them in the extreme limits of their range, he transformed their sound, sometimes effectively obscuring their identification” (Ferris 217-218).
In a sense Ellington’s ability to “juxtapose instruments in nontraditional combinations” as well as Guest’s and Dixon’s depictions of individual experience, is the essence of the American character; the ability our nation has to contrast one another’s differences into distinctive combinations, a distinct American Identity.

My Toenails

2008-02-19T21:29:00.000-08:00

Today was my roommate Robin's birthday. She turned the big 2 - 0 and as such Kelsey and I wanted to make this day a memorable one. So we did what all crazy college students do on their birthdays and woke up early to make Wobbs (robin) a birthday breakfast feast. Once her omelette was made the three of us sat on her bed helping her eat her eggs and toast. While we sat there we contemplated Robin's big day and what exciting things would happen to her. While thinking through all the possiblites, Wobbs suddenly got silent, glanced at my feet then my face, and said "Hidi, for your birthday you should clip your toenails and clean up your feet for my birthday.....that would be the best birthday present I could ask for!"
All I can say to that is....there are definite perqs to having bad feet, becuase that's a few bucks I saved on a birthday gift.

The Snow Building

2008-02-15T09:46:00.000-08:00

Every thursday around 10:3o am, I have the rare privelege of entering the Snow Music Building on the BYU-I campus every week to attend my piano lessons. Until this semester I have never really needed to go into this building unless there was a concert in the Barrus hall or some other activity. Normally the snow is strictly for the use of Music Majors and is therefore taboo to the average joe student here at school. Perhaps I am beginning to now realize why the Snow building is located on the Siberia of campus, or, why I don't have more friends who are ingenius musicians. Let me explain...
It seems that every thursday, with out fail, I see or smell something bizarre. As soon as I enter that building I am overcome with the stench of musicians, consisting of spit and bad body odor. It really is the most intersting, stale smell, I have ever inhaled...posibly in my whole life.
Besides the staunchy stench, I see the musicians themselves. My personal favorite was the man sitting on a couch with a huge jar of Jiffy Peanut Butter (lets say chunky Peanut Butter for more texture). I look over at this boy and he is digging his fingers into the jar, scooping out mounds of peanut butter, and then licking them clean with his tuba caloused tounge. Then, once his fingers have been sufficently cleaned from peanut butter, he dives into the Jiffy Jar for another adventurous, and possible hazardous scoop of peanut butter. I would hate to know how long he had been sitting there with his peanut butter prior to my entering the snow building, and I would also hate to know where his hands had been before the peanut butter, and where they were going to be!
I really could go on and on about my weird experiences in this building, but I just couldn't give them justice. Besides, I have come to the conclusion that when I enter the Snow Building, I am no longer the "normal" one, but rather become the strange outsider who is by no means a musician...trust me, they know just by gazing into your eyes if you are one of them. It's in comparison to an American going to Tokyo, your no longer on your home turf, so proceed with wisdom and caution.

2007-12-12T08:53:00.001-08:00

The Whistling Season

Author
Ivan Doig was born in the year of 1939 in White Sulphur Springs Montana. Most of his writing includes a Rocky Mountain Front Setting. Doig has many accolades such as becoming a finalist for the National Book Award, acclaimed to his novels (Doig www.ivandoig.com).
Doig graduated from North Western University where he obtained a Bachelors and a Masters in journalism, after which he attended the University of Washington where he received his PhD in history, Doig’s so called “creed” for his writers is that they “will take with them…this belief…that writers of caliber can ground their work in specific land and lingo and yet be writing of that larger country: life” (Doig www.ivandoig.com).

Brief Excerpt from the book with parenthetical documentation
“The Rembrandt light of memory, finicky and magical and faithful at the same time, as the cheaper tint of nostalgia never is. Much of the work of my life has been to sort instruction from illusion, and, in the endless picture of gallery behind the eye, I have learned to rely on a certain radiance of a detail to bring back the exactitude of a moment. Perhaps it might be the changeling green of a mallard’s head in a slant of sun, as back there on Father’s pothole Lake District. Or the gun gray of my thermos jug when I pulled over to the shoulder of the road in The Cut to sip at coffee while reliving a race: the shadow tone of a wolfer’s horse” (Doig 152)
Summary
The Whistling Season takes place in the early 1900’s in Marias Coulee Montana. The story opens with the main character Pual Milliron reflecting on his childhood in Marias Coulee and before too much thought, the reader is thrown into Paul’s complete nostalgic story of his past.
At a young age, Paul’s mother died leaving a husband and three boys behind. The mere male family seems to fare just fine, (excepting poorly cooked meals) but nonetheless Paul’s father decides to hire a woman as their permanent housekeeper. Thus Rose Llewellyn and her pensive yet sophisticated brother in law enter the lives of the Milliron family forever. The story thickens as Paul continues to reminisce his childhood life in Montana. But only the reader himself can discover the purpose and charm in this eloquent novel by personally eating the words one page at a time.

Intended audience
Young adult and adult readers alike would best receive this book. This novel takes place in the west but does not feel overly western. Rather, it serves as a realistic fiction where the reader can relate to the characters and events in a light hearted and enjoyable way.
A charm and wonderful strength of this book is Doig’s use of language. His sentence fluency and vocabulary is so rare in American society that it is a relief to read. It is also is enlightening to read a novel that flows so beautifully yet keeps the reader on his toes with the unexpected but captivating vernacular.

Potential impact of the book on the reader
The characters in this novel are a major strength in this book. Whether it’s the pedagogic yet demur Mr. Morgan, or the classic antagonist Brose Turley, the readers will find numerous characters to relate with and in turn either love or hate, depending on their own person al experiences.
Besides the characters, another strength that readers can benefit from in this novel is the idea that knowledge is power and even those things which seem most complex, have simple truths and liberating attributes. Through out the story, the reader will com in touch with these simple truths and begin to desire to expand their understanding on numerous things and enjoy the simplicity and beauty of many different aspects of their lives. This yearning for simplistic yet involved knowledge will leave the reader with wonder and excitement, and if acted upon, will help the reader discover something new and meaningful for her/himself.

A formalist review of the literary elements
The language is an immediate and continuous strength in this novel. Literally from the first paragraph to the very last sentence, vernacular and sentence fluency is so complete and beautifully written that it does not take long for the reader to become consumed in this novel.
The characters development in this novel is also highly effective. Everything from the name, descriptions, and even the minute actions of every character, paints a vivid image in the readers mind, which brings the characters to life. The realness of each character makes this story easy to relate too as well as find personal meaning.
A weakness of this novel however, is the rushed ending. The plot and structure is so well put together until the last 45 pages where it seems as though the author threw in an interesting twist but did not give the reader enough time to consume, enjoy, and think about the surprise ending. Rather, the end almost feels like taking a delicious bite out of pumpkin pie and then swallowing the rest whole with out enjoying the taste or flavor of the rest of the pie. It’s good, but not satisfying because there was no chance to really enjoy it.

A brief analysis using at least one literary theory
Reader Response: The Whistling Season is a nostalgic novel in which many Americans can relate to because of the main bases Doig hits in the novel pertaining to American life. One of these main bases that readers will love to absorb and analyze, is that of childhood perspective and becoming of age. Throughout this novel, the reader grows with Paul Milliron as he starts with his naïve out look and worries on life and enters the raw stages of adulthood by the end of the novel. As Paul begins to mature, the reader will remember their days of childhood ignorance and bliss as well as recall the days when responsibility slowly crept into their lives forever. It’s interesting to look at the stages of maturity from an outside view because it can help one decipher those changes in him/herself and use those stages as a gate to further growth and maturity in the future.

Works Cites

Doig, Ivan. "Ivan Doig". Dec 5, 2007 .

Doig, Ivan. The Whistling Season. Harcourt, Inc., 2006.

2007-11-22T08:27:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is time of refetion. A whole 24 hours given to the contemplation of blessings, comforts of life, and overstuffed bellies. I never would have guessed however, that on this particular thanksgiving of 2007 I would be rejoicing over my freshly greenwrapped middle finger, currently located on my left hand. Eventually in place of the obnoxius but festive green wrapping over my finger, there will be a scar probably in the shape of a lighting bolt, to ever remind me how my finger was miraculously salvaged and saved.
Although I accidentally brutally cut my finger yesterday, the fate of my fair middle friend, began weeks ago when a strapping young man (who will stay anonymous) came to our house selling 100$ knives that supposedly cut through everything. (Apparently he was an honest salesman) My Mom and Dad got their knives and put them to use right away. They sliced magnificently through bananas, cheese, and even rare pieces of meat. My parents were satisfied with their hundred dollar purchase....the knives however were not. The sweetness of fruit or the bite of crisp cheese could not appease these Cutco knives.
I walked into the kitchen yesterday ready to assist my Dad in making pulled pork sandwhiches for my Grandma. I grabbed some bread out of the freezer and tried to pull it apart. Eventually I gave up and resulted to the microwave defroster to make the bread softer to peel. After the bread had been defrosting for a few minutes I grabbed the loaf and began to attempt seperating the bread once again. However, the bread would not budge. So, I decided to take measures into my own hands. I looked around for a knife and a few inches away from my plate of unbudging bread was the beloved 100$ dollar cut co knife. I grabbed the knife and began to reslice the bread myself. In matter of seconds, I felt something sharp and aggresive snag into my fingernail. I looked down noticed the cutco knife had founs its way into my finger. I pulled the knife out with an exclamated "OW!" My dad quickly went into calm action; He rinsed my finger and stuck a paper towel around the wound and walked back and forth in the kitchen muttering and pulling his thoughts together before we drove to the emergency room. As I was patiently, yet very anxiously, waiting for my dad in the door way, my Grandma who saw the whole thing happen stared at me, then calmly stated "Next time use a butter knife." I nodded my head in polite agreement then strolled out the door with my father finally ready to take me to the er.
Whether it was the efficency of the cutco kinfe and the cleannes of the cut, my Grandma's sound advice, or even the oriental woman in the er, (that's another story) I am grateful this thanksgiving for an intact finger and a plethera of wisdom newly flourished.
Happy Thanksgiving!

Waiting, Thinking, Sleep

2007-09-05T07:28:00.001-07:00

Last night I went to bed tired and exhausted, but ready for sleep. I pulled down the covers, slid onto the soft bed, and nestled into the perfect postion with my pillows and blankets cushioning me. Then, I closed my eyes and waited. Waited for sleep to take me over. About a half hour later, I rolled around peered at the clock and realized that I wasn't asleep but still waiting for the phenomena of sleep to occur. Eventually, I got tired of waiting, so I laid there and thought for a long time. I thought about a lot of things, some more important than others, but all thinking still the same. I thought about the fact that when your extremely tired often (for me anyway) its harder to fall asleep. I thought about how I would write about this in my new blog. I thought and thought until suddenly my mom shook me on the shoulder telling me to take the car down to "Master Muffler." Blast! Did I ever sleep? Or was I thinking so much my mind just went blank? I'll never know. I hope tonight, there won't be so much waiting so I can skip the thinking.

The Purpose

2007-09-04T21:38:00.000-07:00

To be completley honest, I don't know what compelled me to create my own blog. I was just sitting on the coach, busy reading posts off of other blogs and before I knew it I was picking a template for my very own. So here it is, The Writers Atelier.
For those of you who don't know, Atelier is defined as a workshop, or studio. T hus came the inspiration for the purpose of my blog. This is my writing workshop. I decided that if I want to become a better writer I should probably write a lot, and then write some more. And although I like writing the old fashioned way, a blog will hopefully break up the monotony of a pen and hand cramps, as well as hopefully provide me with some constructive critiscim on my posts from those of you willing to read. So here goes nothing...