1

Company for the Curious

A Collection of Writings

by

Sarah Fischer

LL ED 597

Fall 2011

2

© 2011 by Sarah Fischer.

All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by

any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written

permission by Sarah Fischer.

3

This collection is lovingly dedicated to

my father, for introducing me to story,

and to my husband, for seeing who I am made to be.

4

Table of Contents

Part One

Poetry “Stones and Sticks” 6

The Story Behind “Stones and Sticks” 8

“Tall and Sturdy Tree” 9

The Story Behind “Tall and Sturdy Tree” 10

Short Stories “A Day at Marvel Creek” 11

The Story Behind “A Day at Marvel Creek” 13

“Donald Donaldson” 14

The Story Behind “Donald Donaldson” 16

Novel Untitled Novel Summary 17

Untitled Historical Fiction Novel Excerpt 18

The Story Behind the Untitled Novel 24

Part Two

Giving Critiques Writing Workshop 9.6, Lindsay Bayer 26

Writing Workshop 10.3, Laura Daveta 27

Receiving Critiques Writing Workshop 4.7, Katie Hoeg 28

Writing Workshop 7.6, Laura Daveta 29

Philosophy of Children’s Literature Evolving Philosophy 30

Part Three

A Note from the Author 32

About the Author 33

What Do Others Have to Say? 34

5

Part One

6

Stones and Sticks

Nobody had known I’d found the treasure

and nobody would ever know.

I remember first spotting the hiding place

in the bottom of the old stone wall

when Adam and I were riding our bikes down the brick driveway.

I remember my mind working on a plot

to come back when I was alone

and hide it there.

I remember relying on my knees and forearms

to steady myself

as I brushed away the red leaves and uncovered the small cave.

I remember the mouth

being the same shape and size

as the wish bone from a well-dressed holiday bird.

I remember working hastily,

pulling out some old twigs

taking up the space where my cache would perch.

I remember placing my prize inside

and restoring the spot

to its “untouched” appearance.

I remember walking away from the spot

and catching a glimpse

of my little brother hurrying away from behind a tree nearby.

Had I been too careless?

I remember walking outside

one crisp Saturday morning

and seeing him excavating the treasure’s tiny lair.

I remember, as I ran up to stop him,

I heard him quietly say to himself,

“There’s nothing here.”

Had somebody gotten to it before him?

7

I remember panic.

I remember the image of him walking away

becoming blurred as I knelt down,

expectant of a miniature empty trove.

But, I remember the smooth river stone,

shaped perfectly like a dove,

was still there,

just as I had left it.

I remember thanksgiving

filling my insides,

relief, more blurred images, and then

curiosity.

I remember thinking back to the week before

when I had first worked hastily,

pulling out some old twigs

taking up the space where my cache would perch.

I remember hearing the front door close

as my brother retreated

and asking myself,

Hadn't they just been a few old twigs?

8

The Story behind “Stones and Sticks”

“Stones and Sticks” is an “I remember” poem based on a secret hiding place I had as a

child. I spent a lot of my playtime imagining that old trinkets or odd bits of nature were valuable

plunder. Soon after I discovered the small hole in the stone wall, my father gave my brother and

me each an old electrical box that he called “secret treasure boxes” and the hole was forgotten.

The intended audience is upper elementary school readers.

The plot is the strongest element of this poem and brings the theme to the forefront. The

climax comes when I see my brother disrupting my sacred treasure. This tension is immediately

followed by an element of surprise. His disappointment in a seemingly treasureless trove implies

that he was looking for more than just a chance to steal one of his sister’s guarded belongings.

Perhaps, he was looking for a treasure of his own.

9

Tall and Sturdy Tree

Tall and sturdy tree,

tired of standing

above all the others,

commanding the sunshine,

taking all the rain.

Prefers, instead,

to lie down softly

on the forest floor,

but roots are still anchored deep.

Raccoons and opossums scurry over

without notice.

Bark loosened and worn

from a winter storm.

Yet—inside,

life is abundant.

Ants take care of details.

Squirrel prepares for the next storm,

making a nest

and gathering nuts

enough to share

with the others who haven't.

The salamander

senses a cleansing rain's saturation

in the rotting wood,

and clings to the fallen tree

for life.

10

The Story behind “Tall and Sturdy Tree”

Metaphorically speaking, “Tall and Sturdy Tree” is a poem about my brother, Adam, who

is four years my junior and my only sibling. Although he is now almost twenty-two years old and

graduating college, I still feel a responsibility to protect and care for him. He has always been

difficult to understand, even for me. He is quiet and complicated, and kind and compassionate.

He lets people walk all over him to avoid confrontation, but sticks up for those who can't defend

themselves. He is a better friend to me than I am to him. I tried to put all of this into my poem.

Because of the representation of the evolving relationship between siblings, the intended

audience for this poem would be the upper elementary through high school reader.

The symbolism presented in “Tall and Sturdy Tree” is its greatest strength and makes it

available to a wide range of readers. Without being aware that this poem is really about a person

and not a tree, a young reader can enjoy its rhythm and descriptive detail. In contrast, an older

reader would take pleasure in unveiling the personifying attributes of the tree.

11

A Day at Marvel Creek

The cool, cloudy autumn day invited Kyle to try out his new 35 mm camera. As he set

out into the woods, he thought about how his mother had saved for many months to buy it for his

birthday. To show how much he appreciated her many sacrifices, he wanted to frame the perfect

picture for her as an early Christmas present. Ever since her illness required her to stay in bed,

she had been mending trousers, and sewing curtains for the neighbors. Kyle wished so much that

he could wrap up a million dollars and put it under the tree. Sometimes when he was alone, he

even wished it out loud as he cried. The thing his mother needed more than anything was money

to pay the bills and cover her visits from the doctor. Instead, he was on his way to photograph

their favorite spot on their favorite hiking trail- the old stone bridge at Marvel Creek.

This time of year, the Scarlett Oaks and Sassafras trees bowed their branches to the

stream, offering red and yellow leaves to intensify the water’s reflection. As Kyle approached the

spot where the colorful canopy would open to the bridge, he stopped to carefully remove the

camera from the fabric case his mother had made for it. In just a few feet, the dirt path veered to

the left, and when he rounded the corner, he would step out onto the bridge. There, his mother

had once stopped mid-stride and said, “This place is magical. It can’t mend a broken body, but it

can heal an aching soul. And that, Kyle, is much more important.” Distracted with the memory,

he let his film canister slip from his gloves and land in a patch of clover on the side of the trail.

He picked it up, loaded the film and continued around the corner in anticipation.

He pulled his camera up to his eye as his right foot planted itself onto the stone bridge.

He aimed it across the structure, making sure to bring the stream into view. Even looking

through the tiny glass rectangle, the brilliance of the scene could not be reduced. But, just his

finger pushed down on the button to take a picture, he blinked. And right in the middle of his

blink, before his eye went all the way closed, he thought he saw something move across the

frame.

He jerked the camera downward, opening his eyes wider than he ever had. If it hadn’t

been for his ears, he might have thought his eyes had deceived him. It sounded as if whatever

had been hurrying along the bank on the other side of the stream had slipped in the freshly fallen

leaves, tumbled down the slope, and landed in the slow moving water with a splash. Kyle ran to

the middle of the bridge. Its arch measured 10 feet from the highest point down to the shallow

12

water, but there was no wall along either of its edges. This made it easy for Kyle to lie down on

his stomach and try to peer underneath. His gaze did not go far, but he could hear splashing and a

strange grumble echo below him. Whatever it was, it was trying to get away without being seen.

Kyle turned around as he got up on his hands and knees, and crawled a few feet to look over the

other side. It was too late. The splashing had stopped. So had the grumbling. His eyes scanned

the woods all around, but there was no sign of it.

Just then, he thought of his camera. What had happened to it in all of the commotion? He

felt for it in his jeans pocket. The case was tucked safely inside, but the camera was not. He

stood quickly and spun around. His heart sank when he saw it resting awkwardly on the bridge

between the rough edges of two large sandstones. He could have dropped it there gently when he

crawled the width from one side to the other. His worst fear was that it fell violently from his

hands when he sprinted from the trail head to the middle of the bridge. When he bent to pick it

up, tears filled his eyes. He mindlessly walked to one edge of the bridge. Still looking down, he

pulled the camera to his eye. The lens was not cracked. He tried the zoom. It worked. In fact, it

work so well that he was able to see a tiny glimmer sparkle up from the bottom of the stream

from where he stood on the bridge.

Just when Kyle had thought his day could not get any more curious, it did. He made his

way to the other end of the bridge, scooted carefully down the bank, and waded ankle deep into

Marvel Creek. He reached down through the cool water to the sandy bottom and pulled up a

handful of large gold coins. He stared down at the coins heavy in his hand, and this time, his eyes

really did open up wider than they ever had before. They stayed that way, too, while he ran the

distance home.

Kyle was never sure if his mother believed his story, but it didn’t matter. The important

thing was that she no longer had to mend trousers and sew curtains for the neighbors. The two

had enough money to pay the doctor for home visits and to purchase medicine. And on

Christmas morning, Kyle had the perfect gift for her. It was not a million dollars. A million

dollars was no longer needed. It was a photograph of their favorite spot on their favorite hiking

trail. It was the only picture Kyle had taken the day he found the coins. It was a picture of the old

stone bridge at Marvel Creek, with the reds and the yellows mirrored in the water. And right

along the bank, captured in the middle of a blink, was the hint of a rainbow on a rainless, sunless

autumn day.

13

The Story behind “A Day at Marvel Creek”

“A Day at Marvel Creek” was inspired by the surrealist stories conjured up by my

favorite children’s author, Chris Van Allsburg. Van Allsburg’s books, generally intended for

elementary school readers, are written to teach a moral in the space between reality and fantasy.

Adding a touch of magic to the life of a character, not much different from the implied reader,

can inspire children to look more closely at the world around them and to continue to be curious

about life. A Day at Marvel Creek, like many of Van Allsburg’s books, leaves the reader with a

morsel of mystery left to ponder once the story has ended.

This short story does not contain any dialogue, and therefore, relies heavily on the

development of the main character through the actions in the plot. I attempted to sketch Kyle as a

caring, selfless son who is a bit lonely and heavy-laden with his mother’s illness and economic

struggles. Kyle’s stroke of luck may come as a surprise during a first reading, but reading the

story a second time reveals more foreshadowing about Kyle’s good fortune.

14

Donald Donaldson

Most of the students in Ms. Toulsky’s third grade class had survived the first half of the

school year. Sure, no one had actually come up missing. Of course, none had gone unaccounted

for.

There was, though, quiet Karen who in the first week of school had found the sum of 2+3

to be 6, instead of 5. The very next day, her desk was gone and she was seen mixed into a line of

kindergartners, crying for her mommy like the rest of them.

Frederick Philips made it ten weeks in Ms. Toulsky’s class. But when he failed to cross

his cursive t for the second time, Ms. Toulsky had him sent to Catholic school where he would

have to stare at crosses all day. Ms. Toulsky didn’t care that Frederick Philips was Jewish. “He

will learn one way or the other,” someone heard her say.

The parents or principal wouldn’t dare object to her inhuman methods of instruction, or

shocking teaching strategies. Ms. Toulsky had been a teacher for sixty-five years, and they had

had Ms. Toulsky, too. When Ms. Toulsky would phone with the awful news, they would have

no chance to argue before she would say, “They will learn one way or the other.”

The last forty minutes of the day were the most terrifying for Ms. Toulsky’s third-

graders. That was history. Everybody knew Ms. Toulsky loved history more than any other

subject, and she definitely took it seriously. Her motto, “They will learn one way or the other,”

was often heard by teachers passing by at this time of day.

I once saw a boy crying in the bathroom right before school let out. He managed to tell

me that he had witnessed something horrific in Ms. Toulsky’s room when he passed by the door

at that time of day. He was too hysterical to tell me what it was, but nothing could be as ghastly

as what happened to Donald Donaldson.

No one could believe that know-it-all Donald Donaldson had lasted so long in Ms.

Toulsky’s class. On the bus, when the second-graders would talk about how they’d rather repeat

second grade for the rest of their lives than be assigned to Ms. Toulsky’s class, Donald would

scoff and laugh. He was unaffected by Ms. Toulsky’s petrifying ways. But, last Wednesday, that

all changed.

Ms. Toulsky slapped her wooden pointer on the podium in the front of her classroom and

ordered the class to have their history books on their desks in five seconds. The kids shuffled

15

through papers and folders like lightening. Luckily, everyone made it in time. Everyone except

Donald Donaldson.

One girl said later that he didn’t even open up his desk. He had simply had enough of

history. Ms. Toulsky looked up from her book to find Donald Donaldson seated at an empty

desk, with his stuffy nose high in the air. Erik Arison said her lips were pursier and her eyes were

squintier than they ever had been. The secretary in the office heard what she said next.

“DONALD DONALDSON! Why do you refuse to make this transition?”

He looked her straight in the eyes and said quite matter of factly, “History is a waste of time.”

Next, the secretary heard, “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” erupt from Ms. Toulsky’s

diaphragm.

Laura Lavina reported that Ms. Toulsky began to tremble with rage when Donald replied

in an announcement to the class. “It is completely useless to learn about people that have been

dead for hundreds of years, who have done things that don’t matter to us now, and lived in places

that don’t even exist anymore.”

One kid said it seemed like a raving lunatic was taking over Ms. Toulsky’s body. She

grabbed her history book from the podium and marched to Donald Donaldson’s desk, slowly at

first then picking up speed. Laughing wildly, she slammed the book onto his desk, ripped it open

to a page on the Civil War, and tapped her finger on an illustration of the Battle of Gettysburg.

Most of the third-graders closed their eyes at this point and winced at every sound. But,

Joanie Johnson saw Ms. Toulsky pick Donald Donaldson right up over her head. He kicked and

screamed as she held him up there with her long gangly arms. In an instant, she brought him

down toward the book. Even Joanie had to look away before the impact. But, it never came. The

students opened their eyes and Donald Donaldson was gone. He had just disappeared.

Then, Ms. Toulsky did something very peculiar.

She smiled.

Then, she did something even more peculiar.

She began the lesson as if nothing had happened. “Open your books to page 12.”

In fact, she got back into the routine so quickly, that a lot of those kids said they began to

think they’d imagined it.

But, they hadn’t. There on page 12, in the middle of the Battle of Gettysburg, was Donald

Donaldson holding the Union flag, and they said he didn’t look too happy.

He would have to learn one way or the other.

16

The Story behind “Donald Donaldson”

“Donald Donaldson” is a humorous short story that plays with the phenomenon of myth

creation and exaggeration. As a teacher, I often overhear my students passing on terrifying tales

about the teachers they may have for the next school year. Their stories are most often complete

fabrications, told to them by older brothers and sisters wanting to scare them silly. The spinning

of tales occurs in many places in my school- on the bus, in the cafeteria, and on the playground.

The story of “Donald Donaldson” is one my elementary students would enjoy.

The most effective element of this story is humor. Ms. Toulsky is an exaggerated version

of myself, which made it easy for me to characterize her in a humorous way. I do expect my

students to “learn one way or the other,” especially when it comes to history. Like Ms. Toulsky,

history is my favorite subject! Donald Donaldson, was inspired by my husband, Donald, a

creative and strong-willed spirit who doesn’t like being told what to do. This personal connection

with the characters made adding humor to the story both fun and natural.

17

Untitled Historical Fiction Novel

Summary

Benjamin Thorton is the son of a wealthy banker living with his family in Pittsburgh,

Pennsylvania in the 1880s. Ben’s greatest fear is that he will mature into a man like his father,

living a life of greed and purposelessness. An effect of this inner struggle is that Ben suffers from

regular panic attacks which isolate him from the rest of his family. When Ben’s father is invited

to join the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club with Pittsburgh’s industrial giants, Ben makes

his first real friend, Aaron. Aaron lives in Johnstown with his parents and younger brothers and

sisters. Aaron helps Ben see how different he is from his father and that his life does have

meaning. As Ben spends more and more time at the clubhouse, though, a new struggle arises.

Eavesdropping, Ben learns that the dam at the clubhouse is dangerous and poses a major threat to

the residents in the valley. He tries to convince his father of the threat, but does not accomplish

this in time. The dam breaks, with Ben and his father as witnesses to the destruction. More than

2,000 people are killed, including Aaron and his family. Ben blames himself, and fifteen years

later, he attends an auction at the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club in which the remaining

possessions of the clubhouse are to be sold. He buys an old cuckoo clock that reminds him of his

life before the tragedy. When the clock does not bring him closure, he destroys it and goes for a

walk through the streets of Johnstown. He stops in a souvenir shop and purchases a piece of

debris from the flood intended to lure in tourists. He remembers the person he became through

his friendship with Aaron and has a renewed purpose and vision for his future.

18

Chapter One

It was the only reason he had denied his comfort and come, the one material thing left on

Earth that he still felt he needed. Heaviness hung in the air, from the amount of people seated in

the room, and from the memories they all carried with them. Lining the once white plaster walls,

now dulled from dust and cobwebs, were costly treasures enthroned upon a dozen cheap pine

workmen’s tables. From his middle-of-the-row seat in the back of the room, he nervously

scanned each one for it, careful not to meet glances with anyone in the crowd. There were four

tables set up along the wall to the left, but they were covered with a display of small silver

trinkets and expensive flatware. He had not attended many of these events, but was sure the

bargaining would begin there. The serious buyers intended to leave with those valuables. They

would not piddle away their spending money on the less desirable items until the contents of that

table had been depleted. He knew money. He understood the minds of the greedy. So he was

confident he would have little competition when bidding commenced on the old cuckoo clock.

But, he still felt anxious for other reasons.

The moisture from his skin began to seep through his clothing, but he dared not

complain, either aloud or in his thoughts. Justice would warrant he endure much more than

simple discomfort for his part in the afflictions of so many. As much as he tried not to think on it,

he lived with that truth daily. He looked to the front of the room from beneath his black felt

bowler and was glad that he did not recognize the faces of those officiating. He was even more

relieved that none seemed to recognize him when he passed by them on the way to his seat.

Fifteen years is more than enough time to disguise a boy behind a man’s face.

19

Trying to scout the collection of small furnishings and large paintings propped up on the

front three tables, he noticed a number of reporters were seated in the front of the room. While

this was not the kind of event they would normally attend to conjure a front page news story, no

one seemed surprised by their presence. When he had first arrived, he brushed by one of them

prepping a camera and attempting to sneak by the stanchions into the restricted parts of the

building. No doubt for some exclusive documentation. It angered him, but afraid of calling

attention to himself, he quickly found a seat in the back. His fear was real, and so was the

possibility that a confrontation with a reporter would invite an interrogation. Are you a local? Do

you remember what you were doing on May 31, 1889 when you received word of the tragedy?

Are you a survivor? The reality was that even though his lungs still had breath and his heart

could still beat, he hadn’t survived that day.

Between the heads of the reporters and their boxy Eastman cameras, he saw a few

familiar paintings next to the podium. He immediately recognized one of them as hanging in that

very room over a decade ago. It was an impressionist piece of an east coast shoreline. Glancing

over his shoulder to where it once hung, he saw a ghostly white rectangle visible against the

aging plaster. He let himself look back to the painting. Two little girls with wide brimmed hats

knelt in the sand, smiling, as they collected sea shells. He lost himself in the scene, allowing

memories to begin to creep in. Behind the girls, a wave could be seen quietly swelling in the

distance. The precious little ones were seemingly unaware of its gathering strength.

20

Suddenly, his heart caught in his throat and he quickly shut his eyes to escape the

moment. Ignoring the smell of sweat made bolder with his loss of sight, he breathed through the

chill that had unnerved him. He had certainly learned not to let his mind wander too far, but

being there for the first time in all those years stripped away the liberty to distract himself with

other things.

The tallest man loitering around the front of the room stepped in front of the podium. The

gentlemen’s pressed grey suit and trim white hair and mustache commanded the audience’s

chattering into silence before the gavel’s rap had a chance to pierce through the room. There was

no trouble hearing the address from the back of the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are about

ready to begin the auction. But, before we do, we would like to remind you that this is not the

appropriate time, nor place, to voice political opinions on the capitalist endeavors that have led

us to hold this event today. There are no members of the club present, and therefore, if you

choose to initiate a disturbance, your efforts will be fruitless. May I also mention, that we will

have you arrested.”

The man in the back felt his palms begin to sweat as he pulled the bowler a little farther

over his eyes. Just then, the gentlemen seated beside him, Jonas Greer #103, grunted, shuffled

out of the row, and exited the building. The man at the podium watched him leave, and showed

no reaction. But his lack of surprise was not shared by everyone in the room. If Mr. Greer had

recognized the nervous man sitting beside him, he would have soon realized that his protests

would not have been fruitless. In fact, the man with the black felt bowler who was now sitting

beside that empty seat got the point. But, as nauseous as he felt from Mr. Greer’s disclosure, he

couldn’t leave. If he made it through the next few hours, he would have the clock and a new life.

21

Chapter Two

Spring had come and was almost gone, a seasonal change that many in Pittsburgh

anticipated. The exchange of cool refreshing nights to hot humid ones could be tolerated,

because the approaching summer heat had begun to stretch the daylight by minutes. Soon, it

would be hours. In a city noted for its growing industrial fortitude, the months with the shortest

names showed the largest profits in the ledger. It was true that the workers in the mills and

factories worked around the clock all year long, but when the daylight lengthened, the companies

were spending less on electricity. The heightened productivity would not come easily, though.

The heat tended to slow down more than just the impending darkness. The foreman needed to

push their workers extra hard to keep up their efficiency. Every penny counted for something

when Pittsburgh’s industrial giants were trying to stuff their next million into the bank. That is

where Ben’s father could help. But, he couldn’t help his son.

Benjamin gave in to sleeplessness and resolved to open his eyes. He stared up at the

maroon pleated drapery canopying his four poster bed. It would not need to protect him from a

draft tonight. Persuaded by a gentle night breeze, leaves whispered softly outside his window.

Unfortunately, no gust would accept an invitation into his bedroom. The nighttime melodies,

though, traveled farther than the breeze and settled into his ears. It was much quieter tonight than

usual. If it hadn’t been for the crickets’ chorused chirps earlier in the night, he might not have

slept at all.

Still unmoving, Ben breathed in deep through his nose, feeling the warm, moist air filling

his sinuses. It was so heavy, that he was sure little oxygen had actually made it to his lungs. He

tried again, sucking in the air through his mouth this time. Still, it didn’t feel like enough. It was

22

surprising, even to him, that he would still manage to let this happen; that he would be so

careless and disarm his vigilance. If he could have seen anything through the blackness, he might

have counted the hundreds of golden fleur de lis crests embossed on the four walls of red

wallpaper enclosing him. Counting helped to distract his mind from itself, but not when his

vision was inhibited. Then, he began to feel suffocation.

It would start when he found himself immersed in darkness or deafening quiet. When it

was so quiet, that he was sure his thoughts were loud enough for those outside of his head to

hear. It was terrifying enough that his thoughts might be audible to himself. Tonight it was dark

and quiet. Most nights, enough moonlight shone through the open window beside his bed to

comfort him to sleep. When a new moon hid itself behind the earth’s shadow, the maid would

keep the bedside sconce burning until he safely abandoned his thoughts to sleep. Tonight, she

was away visiting her daughter. He would have to light it and keep it burning himself.

Ben’s breaths were getting quicker and shallower, some beginning before others ended.

He fought to hold his breath for a few moments and listen. It was a failed final attempt to

hear some sound in the distance that might lull him to sleep. There were no noisy trains

screeching their breaks, sounding their whistles, or spitting steam as they raced the river currents

that paralleled the tracks. It was the middle of the night. He could not comfort himself by

listening to the sounds of others preparing for bed. The dancing leaves and crickets’ song were

not loud enough once he had allowed his panic to progress this far. The tightness had begun in

his diaphragm and was making its way to his chest.

If Ben hadn’t gotten himself into this temporary state of paralysis, he may have mustered

up a cry for help. When Miss Ana was away, it was his mother that would come to his aid. She

would not know what to do either, but at least she would be company for him.

23

The most recent doctor to advise the family on his condition provided Ben’s father with

two glass bottles of chloroform liniment to be rubbed on his chest during a severe episode. At

the doctor’s departure, Mr. Thorton supplied one bottle each to Miss Ana and his wife, Ben’s

mother. Clearly, his father did not want disturbed from sleep in the event of one of Ben’s

nighttime tirades. The liniment might have helped, but Ben would never know for sure. He

declined the treatment after seeing an advertisement for “Chloroform Liniment- A New Relief

for Asthma Symptoms” at the apothecary. Ben knew he was not asthmatic, although he was not

sure what was wrong with him. His father was so angered by Ben’s resistance that he refused to

help his son any further. Recently, Mr. Thorton had begun to vocalize his belief that his son was

an ungrateful thirteen-year-old, but a very gifted performer. Loneliness only worsened Ben’s

struggles, which was another indication that his problem had nothing to do with asthma.

He blinked. He sat up, pulling the sweat soaked collar of his nightgown away from his

neck. He was gasping for each breath, his heart was thumping powerfully, and his desperation

could not be satisfied. He knew he had to act quickly, to calm himself, or he might faint and

wake up in a worse state. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, and as his feet sunk into the

lush fibers of the floral rug below, he realized that the lower part of his body was numb. He

stumbled across the wooden floor and struggled to focus his breathing in and out. His hands

reached toward the marble pedestal. Even in his fit, he was careful not to knock the porcelain

basin from its place. His sudden, unsteadied grasp onto the stand caused water to slosh over the

sides like a seafaring ship, but it did not fall. Without another thought, his face plummeted

downward into the cool water. He stayed there submerged for ten seconds. Fifteen seconds.

Twenty seconds. Twenty-two seconds. And when he came up for air, his breath went deep and

wide and filled every part of his exhausted lungs. It was over.

24

The Story behind the Historical Fiction Novel

The Johnstown Flood resulted from the collapse of a dam at the South Fork Fishing and

Hunting Club. Over 2,000 people were killed in the flood when it occurred on May 31, 1889.

Many people blamed the members of the club for the tragedy, who were a group of industrial

giants from Pittsburgh. They had neglected to properly care for the dam despite experts’

warnings that it was a danger to the people of Johnstown and was in need of serious repair.

I first heard of the Johnstown Flood of 1889 when I was about seven or eight years old.

My parents, knowing that I loved history, took my brother and me to visit the Johnstown Flood

Museum and the National Johnstown Flood Memorial. It was on this day-trip that I first

understood the necessity for those of us living in the present to learn from events of the past. The

stories of the victims (and the villains) touched me so deeply that I wanted to go back again and

again to learn more. Once or twice every year throughout my childhood, my family would make

the two hour drive to Johnstown. By request, we even celebrated my tenth birthday by visiting

the museum.

The idea for this novel originated last spring, when my husband and I were visiting the

National Memorial. A park ranger briefly commented that she often wonders how the tragedy of

Johnstown affected the children of the clubhouse members. She said that the story of the flood

has never been told from the point of view of the “villains” and that their children were just

regular children who suffered as well. I was moved by this realization.

When I returned to school on Monday and shared my weekend adventures with my

students and colleagues, I was surprised to find that none knew anything about this flood that

received international attention in 1889. I decided they needed to know and that I would be the

one to tell them about it.

25

Part Two

26

Giving Critiques Writing Workshop 9.6, Lindsay Bayer

Lindsay,

I think you are really on to something here. What kid hasn't been curious about coffee and been told "It

will stunt your growth." Such a great idea!

There are many strengths to your story. The figurative language you used in your imagery was fantastic!

My favorite line was "Then they added cream as shiny as a twinkling Christmas light." Although, I

wonder if sugar might twinkle more like a Christmas light than cream. I also love the way you set Harry

up to sneak a sip of coffee. His family leaving the table one by one builds up the moment when he takes

that anticipated drink.

The ending of the story doesn't seem to flow with the rest. I'm wondering if you could end your story here

"It didn't have sugar, or cream, or a cookie, but it was the best thing Harry could ever remember

drinking."Reworking this last line could make a very strong ending without diminishing your point I

think.

Also, your imagery with the adults stirring their coffee with cookies is brilliant. But, churning butter is

not done slowly. It is actually a quite strenuous activity, so maybe something like cake batter would better

serve your purpose here.

Great job! Such a fun idea and one I think my 3rd graders would really enjoy reading!

Sarah

Reflection

In this piece, Lindsay modeled strong use of figurative language. I am not sure if this was

her intention, but I wanted to point out how effective this was at adding to her imagery.

Personally, I have a difficult time writing beyond my characters’ thoughts and adding descriptive

detail about the setting. I struggle to find comparisons that promote the tone I am after, but

analyzing how Lindsay worked this into her story was helpful in thinking about this. The

suggestion I gave about her figurative language was useful, because it reminded both of us that

specificity is helpful to the reader, but can also be a bit risky. As in the case of the “churning

butter” comparison above, it is important to make sure similes are accurate and relatable to the

reader.

I thought that closure to this scene could have come a few sentences before it actually

did. The ending was not as intricate or enticing as the rest of the piece, and fixing this might have

made the whole scene stronger. This is an example of a time when an author might need to let go

of an idea for the sake of the story. This was a good reminder for me, too, because I tend to drag

on my endings as I struggle to find closure.

27

Giving Critiques Writing Workshop 10.3, Laura Daveta

Hey Laura,

In 300 words, you sure did give me a lot to chew on! So, Devlin lost the love of his life to keep her safe. And Galen, Ellie's father, decided against sending Ellie's mom away. I also learned that the brothers

actually have something to "battle." I am to wonder what genre this will turn out to be. It is pure fantasy?

or just a little fantasy? or will it turn out to be realistic fiction? I am left wanting more! In a good way :)

You do a lot of things well in this excerpt. Your balance of narration and dialogue is fantastic, and you

use both to reveal information slowly without ever revealing too much. You also do a really good job at using metaphors and unique descriptive language to avoid cliches. This line was AMAZING!! "Devlin

stared across the water, stone atop stone."

One suggestion I have is to give us more of a clue about why Sarah is so important to Devlin. How they

known each other long? Were they engaged? I know you were trying to accomplish this in 300 words, but if you were to expand it, knowing more about their relationship would make the reader feel the emotions

Devlin is feeling when saying goodbye.

The only other suggestion I can make is that your descriptive language seems to be sometimes minimized

by your punctuation and word choice. Like here for example, "Devlin growled, grinding his fists into his

eyes. “You know why.” Devlin's action seems aggressive and angry, but his words don't really convey

that to me.

I love Ellie's story and I will miss her when the semester is over. I am really happy to have had the chance

to read bits and pieces of your writing. Great job!

Reflection

One suggestion for Laura’s piece that I thought would give the readers more of an

emotional connection to the text was to clue us in on more of the back story. At times, a writer

can take details of their own plot for granted, leaving the reader confused. This is something I

have to remember, also. The reader cannot see into an author’s thoughts and intentions. For this

reason, we must read our own writing as if the rest of the story is not in our own heads, as if

we’ve never heard it before.

I also thought her punctuation made a big difference in how I read and interpreted this

excerpt. I have really learned about work breaks and punctuation from working on my poetry this

semester, but I thought it was interesting that it made such a big difference for me in this story.

In a tense situation, or at the climax of an argument, trading a period for an exclamation or a

question mark could make all the difference. This piece encouraged me to look at my own

writing and experiment with the change in tone punctuation can bring.

28

Receiving Critiques Writing Workshop 4.7, Katie Hoeg

Hi Sarah,

Excellent work in creating a setting for your historical novel. I, too, felt connected with your protagonist,

but was unsure of what exactly was happening. Since you said that's your goal, I would say you hit the

nail on the head! I seem to understand that Ben is undergoing a panic attack of sorts and that he needs to

talk himself through his thoughts.

My question with your setting, however, is relatively vague. Is it possible to add more detail (or

clarification) to allow your reader into Ben's thoughts a bit more? I mean, I understand the need to keep

things "general" and to keep the reader guessing. Yet, Ben obviously knows what's going on. Maybe you could connect the reader with a past story of Ben and when he has had a similar panic attack. He might

reminisce about the instance and that would provide us with some further information about Ben and

what we can expect from him. As my protagonist, I want to put my faith in him - but I don't know him

quite yet. Know what I mean?

Excellent job, Sarah. I am very impressed with your work in the historical fiction genre. :) I look

forward to reading some more!

- Katie Hoeg

Reflection

This critique was extremely helpful in ensuring this introductory scene for my novel

hooked the reader. As Katie noted, she felt connected with the protagonist, but implies feeling

some discomfort about not knowing exactly what is going on with him, which is what I wanted

to accomplish. She goes on to challenge me, though, to reveal more about the setting and context

in order to create more of a connection to the story. At this point in the semester, I was struggling

to balance temporarily omitting and providing information. I was worried that revealing too

much about Ben’s condition would leave too little mystery. I decided to take her advice in my

revision and told more about Ben’s track record with panic attacks, while still withholding the

reason for them. Katie’s critique helped me find a good balance.

29

Receiving Critiques Writing Workshop 7.6, Laura Daveta

I like that you challenged yourself like that. I usually don't have the nerve - or the patience. (Or more

often than not, the time, as I tend to procrastinate.)

I enjoyed this story, and did moreso because you never revealed what the "grumbling" presence was -

although we can make assumptions based on the picture having captured a rainbow. I think too often the

mystery is shattered because it is taken away from us too soon. You avoided that trap - and your story is

stronger for it.

There are some fantastic moments here: the trees bowing their brances in offering to the stream; Kyle's mother's wisdom; that moment of panic when we're not sure if the camera was damaged. I found myself

wishing you had lingered a little longer in certain places - what is wrong with Kyle's mother, how Kyle

felt at having "seen" something so odd ... So I might suggest that you go through and find if there is anything in the story you are willing to give up in trade for spending more time in moments to which you

have a deep attachment.

Great job!

Reflection

I was nervous to stray away from my historical fiction writing and try something new.

The critique above was given for my surrealist short story about Kyle and his day at Marvel

Creek. I appreciated Laura’s note that I gave just enough information to allow the reader to make

inferences without taking away from the magic. This was a major goal of mine for this piece of

writing. I do wonder, though, if the piece would have still been effective if I had left out one or

two clues, or given one or two extra.

Laura’s most helpful suggestion was, “So I might suggest that you go through and find if

there is anything in the story you are willing to give up in trade for spending more time in

moments to which you have a deep attachment.” She was definitely correct about this, and

encouraged me to look at my novel in this same light. After reading her critique I began to ask

myself question like, Is this necessary information? What would happen if I took this detail away

and added this one?

30

Evolving Philosophy of Children’s Literature

September 2011

I read an article once that quoted C.S. Lewis, saying “… a children’s story which is

enjoyed only by children is a bad children’s story.” I have never forgotten this, because it lends

support to what I believe about children’s literature. Literature written with the child as implied

reader provides its audience with truths about life and experiences that can teach and nurture

growth in some way, and should not avoid tough topics. The child-reader has not yet developed

the ability to communicate all that he or she sees, thinks, and experiences through words.

Literature can personify these thoughts and make them more tangible for the child to think about

and apply to life. Children’s literature has the potential to take children into an experience in

which they feel safe to face questions and fears, even if it is before they experience them in real

life. This type of literature should also embody the newness of childhood experiences, when

ordinary things seem mysterious and worthy of exploration. In this way, children’s literature

must be delivered in a clear and relatable way, through adventure and discovery even, but also

possess all of the cultural, social, and spiritual complexities present in adult literature. Children’s

literature should be able to grow with a child into adulthood.

Reflection

Before beginning this course, I would have classified myself as a children’s literature

expert. “I am receiving my master’s degree from the Pennsylvania State University in children’s

literature,” I would confidently proclaim to any student, colleague, librarian, or Barnes & Noble

children’s book shopper that came my way. With seven courses under my belt, covering all

genres of text, I was quite surprised when Writing for Children began to shake up my world.

This course has taken my linear “outside in” approach to understanding story and given me the

tools to peer at it from the inside out, as well.

My core beliefs of children’s literature have stood firm throughout the semester, and I

believe that my original writing is a direct outpouring of these heartfelt convictions. Literature

for children need not avoid difficult matters of life, but should speak truth into souls of every

age, young and old. This principle was threaded through my historical fiction novel about the

Johnstown Flood. The main character’s search for purpose and identity is made more difficult by

pressures from his father and the loss of his best friend. It is also present in “Tall and Sturdy

Tree,” as the reader is reminded of the complexity of individual personalities.

Stories for younger readers should also celebrate the newness of life experiences, while

inspiring growth and self-actualization. My short stories, as well as the poem “Stones and

Sticks,” are anchored by this idea. All three are meant to promote curiosity and encourage

readers of all ages to ask themselves, what might I be missing if I don’t stop and look around

me?

31

Part Three

32

A Note from the Author

I am a reader. Of all of the material things I own, I treasure my books the most. Over the years,

they have proven to me time and time again that they are worth treasuring. Nestled within them

are some of my worst fears, my greatest adventures, and my dearest friends. I have laughed at

their illustrations, shouted at their words, and cried onto their back covers. As a quiet, curious

child, they were company for my passionate soul. As a serious adult, they are good company

when my soul is weary or heavy-laden. I love my books, and they never disappoint me. They

have always made me feel safe.

That is, until I became responsible for creating one!

When I registered for this course, I was completely petrified. My inner critic went to work before

the first day of class. “Are you really going to open up your writing journals and share your most

prized ideas with a real author?” “It’s a good thing that your group members are all over the

country, because when they laugh at your work you can hide behind your computer!” It didn’t

take long for her to disappear.

Working with all of you has been one of the most splendid experiences I have had while working

on this degree. The tone for sharing and critiquing was always so positive and encouraging. You

are all brilliant writers, each with your own voices. You have challenged me and stretched me,

and given me the confidence to continue to write and share my stories. Thanks for a great

semester!

Happy writing!

33

About the Author

Sarah Fischer teaches 3rd

grade in Uniontown, Pennsylvania, where she is mistakenly

referred to as “Mom” once or twice a day. Her favorite subject to teach is history, because it

helps her students more intricately understand themselves and their relationships with others. She

would love to write books that inspire children to think about the past. Sarah is currently

applying to doctoral programs with the hope of studying the censorship of children’s literature.

Besides being a teacher and student, Sarah wears many other hats. She loves Ukranian

egg decorating, people watching, making greeting cards, volunteering, and reading. Her favorite

children’s author is Chris Van Allsburg, because he trusts his readers to make inferences. Sarah

loves rainy days and coffee. She is a vegetarian, and substitutes meat for chocolate. Her favorite

color is green, because it represents growth and life.

Sarah has been married for 3 ½ years, and has two former farm cats, Kupida and Sundae.

34

What Do Others Have to Say?

“Sarah leaves me thinking about her writing, even after the story is over.”

Kristin Donofrio

Rowley, MA

“This collection is creative and diverse! A reader of any age would be able to enjoy one of these

pieces.”

Donna Crider

Connellsville, PA

“Sarah’s stories touch on important issues of life. The reader learns something without even

realizing it.”

Adam Crider

State College, PA

“The descriptive detail and original plot lines in Sarah’s stories really serve as an example of her

development as a writer.”

Donnie Fischer

Uniontown, PA

“When Sarah asks me to read one of her stories, I always know my day will be a little bit better!”

Kara Krivus

Connellsville, PA