Haitian author and editor, Beaudelaine Peierre is visiting Drexel today. The reception will start at 3:00pm followed by a reading at 3:30 in Stein Auditorium, Nesbitt, 33rd and Market Street.

Maya (Drexel University’s undergraduate literary magazine) was invited to attend the ‘09 Mid-Atlantic Student Magazine Conference on October 9th. As the Editor, I’ll be representing Maya and giving a lecture on my research in media/publications as pedagogical tools in higher education. This will mark Maya’s first attendance at a major conference since the ’80s.

The Mid-Atlantic Student Magazine Conference is held every fall to bring together college student magazine editors, writers, artists, and faculty advisors from the mid-Atlantic region. This event is centered on a series of editorial workshops, student lectures, and guest speakers to present new research on undergraduate publishing. Other Philadelphia universities like Temple University, the Community College of Philadelphia, and University of Pennsylvania will also be in attendance.

How many friends do you have that say they are writing a novel? How many of them do you think will ever start, let alone finish? Well I am one of those guys who is currently writing (co-writing with my sister actually) a novel, although I don’t like to talk about it for fear of toolness (so don’t tell anyone). I’ve never found it hard to write, I’ can’t think of a time when I was affected by writer’s block, but “writer’s suck” is something I am very familiar with. Writer’s block? Just whip an alien at the story or kill someone. Good writing? Hmmmmmm……

I’ve taken writing courses before, but I was never sure how much I trusted my teachers. They’re academics, what do they know about dragons, right? (Foolhardy, because as I found out many teacher are well versed in the topic of dragons.) I looked to the experts. You probably won’t be reading this blog unless you’re already into the literary arts, but to those who are beginners, like myself, I think this post might be helpful. I’m not anyone to be giving advise, I can only relay what information I thought was beneficial.

For any aspiring writers The Elements of Style by William Strunk and E.B. White is a great place to start, yet it is more a treatise on the structure of prose, not the structure of character and story. On Writing by Stephen King, part autobiography and part “how to,” was a book I found extremely helpful, and not because it gave me any particularly specific tips on character building or storytelling. Chuck Palahniuk’s tips for writers, found on his website, were also very helpful. Palahniuk and King, both very popular writers, are not what you would call pillars of the “serious” writing community, but they seem to be the least pretentious and most eager to share their knowledge over most other authors. Their tips were strikingly similar.: write often. Both Palaniuk and King knew enough that they knew they couldn’t impart their success onto others, but “write often” is something that many beginning writers, like myself, need to take to heart, even when you have nothing to write about. The muse visits during the act of creation, not before.

I’m not anyone to be giving advise, I can only relay what I thought was helpful. You could read a million books on writing, and King’s On Writing is a very interesting one, but that won’t give you any grand ideas—those will come to you after the first hour of writing. Never mistake writer’s laze for writer’s block, if you’re truly blocked, whip an alien at your story, even if only to be edited out later.

…at least, for myself. I have no illusions about the narcissism-fueled ADD conglomo-giant that is Twitter going down in flames because I have gone horribly MIA.

But for me, Twitter had to go.

I parted ways with my account some 3 days ago. The obituary should be appearing soon in newspapers around the globe, spinning in black and white toward the camera with melodramatic trombone tones announcing the end.

Why delete my Twitter account?

A waste of time, yes. Inherently stupid, sure. Flamboyantly meaningless, absolutely. But what really bothered me about my Twitter usage was that it was sucking blood from my writing. My writing.

Free to constantly rattle off any fragment, any snatch of a sentence that sounded good, what was at first liberating was quick to become tiresome. The phrases I found myself constantly splashing up were pointlessly cryptic, not intriguing. They were lazy, not profound. It’s not as though you can edit “tweets.”

I realize of course that Twitter doesn’t claim to be, or want to be, some powerhouse writer’s tool. It’s a fun, silly little outlet for all the run-over Facebook can’t contain. But I have to be a writer first — I can’t trade off instant gratification for dilution.

So, I say tweeting is for the birds.

A typical conversation I’ve had with relatives, friends, acquaintances, strangers, and pretty much anyone I’ve encountered in the last year often goes as follows:

Chatty, Nosy Person:  “So, what’s your major?”

Me: “English.”

CNP: “What are you going to do with THAT?!” Or, “So, are you going to be a writer or a teacher?”

What if the answer is “neither!” or, worse, “I don’t know yet. I haven’t figured it out.”? I’m greeted with blank, confused stares when I tell these chatty, nosy –but well-meaning– people that I’m not entirely certain what I’m going to do with my B.A. in English.

One of Google’s more recent features is an updated version of the “auto-complete” search, where users can see what others have recently searched for. I typed in “English majors” on Google’s search engine, and one of the first responses I noticed was: “English majors are useless.”

I guess I can understand why some may have this mindset about English majors. It’s not a major that always leads to a definitive, pre-established career, like engineering or nursing or architecture. But this is why I am an English major: I love the English languge. I love the beauty of words, I love how they fit together, how they can be chaotic or orderly or both, or somewhere in between. I love discovering new words and feeling a sense of accomplishment when I find myself able to use it naturally, without even thinking about what I’m saying. I love correcting typos and grammatical errors, finding continuity errors; it makes me feel like a problem-solver, a sleuth, a modern, copy-editing version of Nancy Drew. I love reading, getting lost in literature and poetry, immersing myself in a fantasy world. I love writing;  it’s my main creativity outlet, it’s the way I express myself, it’s how I vent and put my messy feelings into words.

So are all English majors lost in fantasy land, wrapped up in literature, language, and the beauty of words? Probably not. But I know that I certainly am, and for now, that’s good enough for me. I can figure out the career stuff later.

So the other night–

(I swear, this isn’t the beginning of a bad joke. Bear with.)

So the other night, myself and a friend of mine are watching the remake of Halloween. I should hope, as a film major, that I know a little bit about film, and this friend certainly does. So we’re complaining, a bit pretentiously, about the movie we’ve voluntarily set out to watch: “Ugh, why would you remake such a classic?” “Ugh, Rob Zombie’s directing style is all wrong for the atmosphere.” “Ugh, why would you try to totally explain away all the mystery that makes Halloween creepy in the first place?”

Of course, the movie was terrible. Or at least nothing like the original us horror elitists tend to idolize.

But it got me thinking — why don’t people remake books?

“HAH! Because that’s a terrible idea, it’s completely different,” you automatically think, and how perceptive you are.

But why? What makes it such a different animal?

Films and novels have the same goal: to tell a story in the best way possible according to the demands of the material. That might call for being understated, over the top a la Michael Bay, abstract like William S. Burroughs, or something else entirely.

But if we can, and commonly do, “rewrite” someone’s images — and even, more literally, their dialogue — why not somebody’s words? It’s effectively the same process: taking the meat of a story and revamping the bells and whistles for the sake of modernizing it, fixing a flaw, or fleshing out some murky part of the plot.

Yet no one rewrites books. No one even takes the idea seriously. Does this mean that novels are more personal and unique than films? That a story on paper can only be told one way? That style and content are more closely intertwined than in perhaps any other medium?

Anyway, I’ll be thinking about all this when I do my “surfer dude” retelling of Ulysses.

The small, private Catholic institution I attended for high school is set back in the countryside of Virginia.  Since those years were so precious to me, I love returning to Middleburg; to the rolling hills and through the quaint little town.  Since moving to Philadelphia, Middleburg has been a touchstone for me.  The country town, so far removed from anything like the bustling rush of the city I love going back, but this past weekend was the first in a long time that I was able to make a visit to see my old Philosophy teacher, Mr. Roque.

I pulled into the long shady driveway, past Goose Creek and by the hills we used to run in Cross Country.  The driveway seemed longer now that I wasn’t driving and running up and down it everyday.  Finally the foliage cleared and the school came into view.  The dark wooden cross sits directly in front of the school.   During the Lenten Season there is a purple sash draped across its arms.

I picked a rose as I walked in, and a few minutes later found myself sitting in Mr. Roque’s office.  He’s the Dean to Students now.   (The last time my friend visited she replaced the “D”  so the sign reads “Mean to Students.”) This wouldn’t be funny if it were true- Mr. Roque is one of the most generous and caring people I know.  He taught me a lot, and no matter what, he always has a story with a moral that directly relates to the issue at hand.

I could easily get carried away here and talk about Mr. Roque’s good character and how much fun his classes were- but I specifically wanted to share Mr. Roque’s love for books and literature.

When I had him as a senior for for Philosophy the classroom’s bookshelves were filled with all kinds of books- he’d read every one.  We once had him give us “Roque’s Top Ten Books” (but the only one I can remember off hand was the Movie Goer.)

We read articles in class non-stop- short stories, news articles, opinion pieces- things that sometimes didn’t seem to relate, but then had a definite purpose for what we were learning.  Once or twice after we graduated Mr. Roque sent us some articles to read, and when I returned over Memorial Day weekend he gave me a few more.  I always trust that they will be good and have intricacies that may be first unnoticed.

Sometimes class discussion or Mr. Roque’s lectures might begin by a question or comment from a student.  One particular class we were talking about hi book collection, “Are these all yours Mr. Roque?” someone asked.  Mr. Roque replied that they were and that his wife said he had too many books.  He then told us that a philosopher had the idea that every book you give away you’ll have in heaven,
“Isn’t that nice?” Mr. Roque asked, cocking his head to the side and smiling in thought, as he often does when he remarks on such things.  Then a sparkle came to his face, “My wife will have some really good books in heaven- she tries and gets rid of as many as possible.  Me on the other hand- I only give away the crappy ones!”  We laugh together.

When we graduated Mr. Roque lent my best friend and I books to read over the summer, “To bring you back,” (to return them to him) Mr. Roque said.  I’ve returned many times since I graduated high school, but last Memorial day, almost three years since I graduated high school I finally returned the books he lent me that day.  And as I was leaving he looked through his bookshelves, “Lets find you a book…bring you back”

He gave me a C.S Lewis book that I have yet to read, but as I was leaving he said, “you can keep that one” and opened it and showed me his name in the front, “It’s a Roque original too,” which made the gift all the better for me.

I left the school the way I came, down the curvy driveway- flower in my hair and new book in hand.  What a little piece of heaven this school has been to me, and now, Mr. Roque will have one of his original books in his Heavenly Library.

A lot of my friends have majors in Lebow, and they’re all getting ready for four to five finals. They are always telling me that I have an easy major. I give them that impression because I’m always reading. Many of my friends can’t fathom actually enjoying their homework. More often than not, I get lumped in with communication majors with the “easy major” stigma. It is frustrating, because my friends don’t see me pouring over my essays to get the right words, and they don’t see me rereading the same passage again and again.

But you know what? English is an easy major. I’m not going to apologize for it, either. It is easy because I’m doing what I love. Nobody likes crunching numbers for accounting or reading stale textbooks about the expediture schedule. Duh. The reason why people with majors in the hard sciences or business feel they have hard majors is because they hate reading about their major. Then on top of it, whenever I have to write a paper I just have to write what I feel or think (emphasis on “feel” because it is just so girly to feel things). Whereas my friends have only one answer, and if they don’t get that answer they are wrong. It is easy to see where there is a lot of stress for them and pressure. All I have to do is defend my argument clearly and not make up BS.

Of course, then they never see preparing for any finals because most of my finals are final papers, and not nerve wracking final exams. In literature courses, there really isn’t any type of cumulative exam you could do except for maybe testing me on if I have read the material. Of course, I have been in classes where we have a final exam and it amounts to writing a couple of mini essays about themes discussed in class. But seriously, we can all admit that is less stressful than rote memorization of business facts.

English may very well be an easier major, but too bad for everyone else.

I recently won a writing contest. Okay, that’s cool, I’m pleased. Part of the deal is a hundred bucks — being a college student (and not one of those “John Ritters III” type college students who populate certain nearby campuses that shall go unnamed) — and that’s pretty cool too. But there is one other little thing — you have to read your piece aloud.

Say what?

(To get the full effect you have to hear the “Say what?” in a drawn-out, falsetto squeal.)

First of all, I’m Irish. That means I’m pale. And that means that I blush like [insert various clichés to your heart's content]. Not only do I have the skin tone of a dead fish before my slight summer freckling comes along to barely mask it (oh boy), I have a voice that’s been compared to Daria’s on more than ten occasions. So I’m basically pretty primed for these reading shenanigans.

But besides the personal awkward factor, it got me thinking. What is it about reading aloud that’s so elusive? You’re good at it, or you’re not. It’s rare to just be able to rattle off a page with good pacing, good breathing, using intonation without lapsing into children’s-show voices à la Lamb Chop… It’s tricky business. An audience member even commented on the reading of a participant in the reading marathon, who had gone up before me. She remarked on the gap in interpretation of an author’s work, between reading it to yourself, with the tone and literal voices set in your mind, and having it interpreted for you. Is reading aloud an art that’s fallen along the wayside?

(That’s mostly rhetorical, don’t stress yourself out.)

Okay, we’ve all seen them: there they sit, compressed into the very deepest and darkest corners of Starbucks, corners just barely deep and dark enough to contain the black abysses of their tortured souls, pounding away, sweating through that woolly black turtleneck, on the keys of a Mac laptop, transforming their latest ex into the next Great American Novel…!

Alright, I can’t lie. One, I like Starbucks. Contrary to popular belief the baristas are always super-friendly, and their Frappuccinos are freakin’ awesome. Two, I like writing, and unless the weather is particularly gruesome, where better to write than… well, a coffeeshop?

And while Starbucks — ever easy to find, being located conveniently in three or four locations per block — is a good standby, sometimes you just need a different (pardon the pun) flavor. And when the need for a location change in the old writing routine strikes, where in Philadelphia can you go?

Well, I’ve found a few decent spots, and I’m just nice enough to share them with you.

Intermezzo on the edge of Drexel’s campus is my prime alternative to Starbies. (Yeah, Starbies. Take it or leave it.) Generally, the servers are decent, you can get sandwiches and (pre-made and pre-wrapped) muffins or cookies to go with your beverage of choice, and they tend to stay open to midnight – minimum. The hours change daily, so call ahead, but if you’re pulling an all-nighter and need to escape your roommate’s endless Guitar Hero renditions of Freebird, bank on this place.

Hausbrandt might serve up a little more pretension than some can stomach, but the atmosphere is airy and pleasant, and the menu, while a tinge pricy, is quite broad.

The Saturn Club Hair Salon & Café — don’t be put off by the name, it’s simply two businesses sharing a building around Penn’s campus, near Bubble House — is a cute, comfy little joint. On the opposite end of the spectrum from delightful Euro-pretension, Saturn is better described as (hate to use the word) “funky” or earthy.

Walnut Bridge Coffee House will be our last sampling for today. The space is tiny, but artsy decor with no expenses spared and a luxurious offering of chocolates and truffles behind an inviting glass case makes it feel cozy rather than cramped. The sofa and fat chairs that provide much of the limited seating adds to the homey atmosphere as well. The only caveat with this place is, the hours are somewhat short, so if you’re looking for a late-night experience, skip it and head back to Intermezzo.

At any rate, hope anyone who likes to read or write or god forbid chat with friends will find something enjoyable in at least one of these Philly coffeeshops. Happy hunting!