Hi Julie,
My beautiful daughter has just started studying your Help for High School. I thought you might like to read how she answered one of your questions.
We only changed one word “gust” to “stampede.”
Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Carolyn
Archive for the ‘Students’ Category
Student Spotlight: Libby
Enjoy this adorable poem by Brave Writer, Libby!
The Bare Bear
by Libby (age 12)
There once was bear named Clare
And this bear named Clare had no hair
No fur and no fuzz,
the coldest a bear ever was,
Yes poor Clare had no hair, she was bare!
The Georgian Theatre Royal
The Georgian Theatre Royal
In the heart of England, in the Yorkshire Dales, amid the shops and supermarkets of Richmond, lies the Georgian Theatre Royal. It doesn’t look much: a small building between a hotel and a pub, hemmed in by a chemist and a bakery on the other side. But creep down the cobbled alleyway and heave open the solid stage doors… and wonders are waiting inside.
The soft, black curtains swish around the sturdy planks of the stage, which creak as actors step on them. There is a constant hush around the dark corners behind the curtains; the air is thick with the smells of dust and excitement.
Deep in the theatre’s belly there is row upon row of exotic costumes. Coarse fake beards that have tickled a hundred chins; strange felt hats, pointing forward like giant ravens’ beaks; billowing capes of crimson with mysterious designs stitched into them; dresses that went out of fashion two hundred years ago. I’ve worn green and yellow waistcoats that clash spectacularly under the spotlights, and bright blue trousers with golden rosettes sewn on.
It’s crowded behind the curtains and uncomfortable when you’re jostling for space with half a dozen other actors. It’s not much better in the dressing rooms – every surface is strewn with clothes and scripts, and there’s usually only a couple of chairs. The floor gets saturated whenever it rains, and the lights overheat if left on too long. It’s a battered old building, it’s true, but within it we can create entire worlds that last for a few hours at a time, then burst like soap bubbles.
High in the rafters, countless beams and metal poles illuminate me with their glaring lights. The audience is a sea of unpredictable darkness. Will they laugh at the jokes? Will they sit in silence? I feel tiny on stage, someone else’s words on my lips – but then they laugh and I feel like a giant again.
I’m thirteen. I’m standing in a pool of blue light, dressed in black, eyes filled with defiance in the face of defeat. I raise my arm as I deliver my monologue. The audience is silent, but I can feel hairs standing on end. It’s an electric moment.
I’m fourteen. I’m bursting with adrenaline, as I’ve just kicked another boy to death. The other characters stare at me, appalled, but I don’t care. Fifty seconds later and I hit the ground myself, the hero’s knife in my stomach. There is silence.
I’m fifteen. I’m in a crowd of international teenagers in white and red – we’re chess pieces. And we’re dancing. Left, right, forwards, backwards, hands thrust up to the ceiling, shimmying and spinning and loving every second, music bursting all around us.
I’m sixteen. I’m dressed in a seventeenth-century coat, mostly hidden by a bright red tabard that makes me look like a playing card. I draw my sword and snarl an insult. Three heartbeats later and I’m in the centre of a bloody duel. All of my comrades fall and I have to dash off stage, hat and dignity both gone. Why do the heroes always win?
It’s addictive – the thrill, the nerves, the glory of holding an audience spellbound. Come into our world, we say, conjuring realms in our wooden O. Quite simply, it’s magic.
This is a place where anything can happen. If you have the patience to sit upon the unforgiving hard seats for a few hours, magic will unfold before your eyes.
At the Georgian Theatre Royal, everyone is ever so slightly mad – but it’s a place where everyone is accepted. This is a place where I belong.
“The beautiful art it truly is”
Becoming a Brave Writer
by Hannah Hayes
I remember my life in vivid blurbs of sensory details. The feelings of dark, light, hot, and cool are strong aspects of my memory. I can still feel the hot fire in the fireplace and the trapped feeling of my body pressed between my warm sweater and searing chest as I sat at the kitchen table staring down at the sheet of paper I needed to fill with the stuffy requirement of a five paragraph essay. Before switching to Brave Writer, we used a different writing program. Every Friday, in this curriculum, we were to write essays, but soon Friday became my least favorite day. I grasped the edges of the cool metal table and rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans. Glancing at the clock, I hoped my dad would come home soon so we could eat dinner and I would be spared from banging my head against the table. I knew that with the ticking clock came an ending of one sort or the other, and I was hoping for rescue.
After suffering through many Fridays with this program, my mom finally found an alternative—Brave Writer! At first I was skeptical and dug in my heels. “I don’t like the idea of other people reading my work,” I moaned. But, once again, my mother was determined, and soon I was watching her post my work on a private online classroom. To my delightful surprise, it wasn’t scary! Instead I was writing about things that interested me, and was even praised by the teacher for what I wrote. “Wow,” I thought, “this is actually fun!”
The first complete paper I wrote was about my daydreams becoming realities. It was so much fun to write, because I could dream on paper, and then hold those dreams in my hand. Even my dad, who sort of brushed writing off as being an irrelevant skill, was impressed. “This is great!” he told me. I beamed.
I credit that first paper as being the turn-around to my writing education. After that, I wanted to take as many Brave Writer classes as I could manage. I loved the freedom I had—to imagine, to share my thoughts, and to have encouraging teachers who inspired me to do my best. My favorite classes were the literary analysis courses. I enjoyed them so much that they didn’t even seem like school work. Delving into timeless novels and uncovering the mysteries the authors left for their readers was a wonderful game to me. I would pour hours into writing the weekly posts, so much so that my mom would jokingly tell me to “just wrap it up.”
Brave Writer has motivated me to express myself well through words, and to love written words like individual people—two qualities I will forever be grateful for. Now when I think about writing, I think of cool breezes blowing through the lace curtains in my room, and sunlight dappling shadows of leafy trees upon the cement. Thank you for making writing come alive, and for exposing me to the beautiful art it truly is.
Student Spotlight: Seth
Brave Writer parent, Dawn, sent us this wonderful story by her son, Seth. She said he watched a Franklin movie and afterwards wrote his own inspired version of the story. He was seven years old at the time.
We are so impressed! Seth has such a lively writer’s voice and makes great word choices (love “wobbly”). Plus he created the illustration above. Enjoy!
