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By Peyton K. Dortch I have always wrestled with the shame of being sensitive. I have heard all the advice. “Don’t sweat the small stuff”, “Don’t let it get under your skin”. All of it I have heard and tried to do. But I always fall back into my sensitive ways. I had an awakening while I was somberly taking a walk listening to Frank Ocean. What is so wrong with being sensitive? What’s wrong with feeling a lot? Frank Ocean is my favorite musician because his songs capture emotions effortlessly. They make me think of my own feelings. If Frank is allowed to be sensitive why am I am limiting myself? For the longest time I did not recognize how sensitive I was. It was probably a mix of consciously not recognizing it and subconsciously. But I can put an estimate of when I realized it when I was in middle school. Like most people, middle school was the depths of hell. But it was especially terrible because I just felt so much. Every emotion hit me like a ton of bricks. I was never just a little melancholy; I was fully depressed. I was never just angry; I was filled with rage. Between hating myself and feeling like everyone hated me I was a complete mess. But I came to know that I was sensitive during this time. I was just one of those people that felt a lot. Ever since that realization I have actively tried to be less sensitive. Then the new buzzword “nonchalant” comes into the cultural zeitgeist. Now being nonchalant is the best thing to be. So like most people my age I also tried to be nonchalant. I tried to not care when a boy didn’t like me, I tried to not care when I lost friends. But all that did was make me more sensitive. You may be wondering what my astrological sign is by now, I am a Pisces. Yes, as a water sign I can veer into the dramatics. But no matter what sign you are, you too can be sensitive. I argue that being sensitive is not a weakness but a strength. All of the best literature is written by people who are acutely aware of their feelings and thus they can write those feelings into the characters we love. The best actors of our time are sensitive to depicting emotions on the silver screen. But how could they do that without first being a sensitive person in the real world? The best musicians have a particular skill of writing lyrics to match an emotion. This takes introspection and sensitivity. The world needs sensitive people, people that aren’t afraid to wear their emotions on their sleeve. To get philosophical for a second, what is a life lived without feeling? Who wants to go about life and not feel anything? That’s not a life, that’s a warm body. I want to sweat the small stuff. I want to let things get under my skin. I want to feel. I want to love. I want to be angry. I want to be sad. I want all these things because why not? Why go through life like a robot when I am not? I want to feel the depths of every emotion because that is also where wisdom is plundered. How would I come to know that I am sensitive without being sensitive to start with? Another thing to consider. If you are actively trying to not be sensitive aren’t you then hyper aware of everything so as to control your emotions. Therefore, you are actually just being sensitive. To all my sensitive people out there, embrace it. And to people who aren’t, feel the feelings without fear. Watch a movie and cry. Listen to Frank Ocean and let a salty tear fall down your face. Get angry about something (within reason). Embrace having a crush on someone. Let the feelings come. Let it wash over you like a violent wave. Let the wave pull you out to sea. And when you come to shore let the remaining water stay on your skin, in your hair, soaking your clothes. Let the emotions run through your body without shame.

By Maggie Melnik - Linger by The Cranberries (this one is mandatory)  - Slow Dance by Clairo  - Blue Light by Mazzy Star  - Re:stacks by Bon Iver  - Smoke by Indigo De Souza  - Any Pheobe Bridgers song ever  - Between the Bars by Elliot Smith  - Forwards beckon rebound by Andrianna Lenker  - About You by The 1975 (Also mandatory)  - Halloween by Noah Kahan  - Change by Big Thief  - Blouse by Clairo  - I Know You by Faye Webster  - Motel 6 by River Whyless  - Watching Him Fade Away by Mac DeMarco  - Trouble by Cage the Elephant  - Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division  - Hard Times by Ethel Cain  - Seventeen by Sharon Van Etten  - Bathroom Light by Mt. Joy  - Spit in the Sink by Haley Heynderickx  - Glue Myself Shut by Noah Kahan  - Nectar Of The Gods by Lana Del Rey  - SPEYSIDE by Bon Iver  - Bags by Clairo

By McKenna Casey A man named Blue is walking across the desert. He’s still a boy really, or at least somewhere in between a man and a boy, but everyone has taken to calling him a man on account of his carrying a gun. It’s a revolver, real Wild Wild West, and it matches the rest of his getup. Ever since he’d broken the law, he’s taken to dressing like a cowboy, with the hat and the boots and everything. It seemed that cowboys used to break the law all the time but still got to be all smooth and cool in movies, so Blue went ahead and made himself an outlaw, too.  He’s in search of something, but he’s forgotten what. The desert can do that to a man, make him forget his job and family and even his own name. Blue has been in the desert for a long time, maybe. Or maybe not. He thinks, just keep walking, and you’ll find what you’re looking for . So he keeps walking. At some point in his journey, the mantra gets louder, and Blue realizes he’s started saying it out loud. This makes Blue frown. He knows that crazy people talk to themselves, and he’d rather not be crazy by the time he gets wherever he’s going. Also, it hurts his lips to talk, since they’re all cracked and dried by the sun, just like the ground beneath him. Blue knows he has a pretty face, and he’d like to still have it by the end of his journey, if he can. There are no buildings here, only desert-things: rocks and sand and cacti and scraggly bushes low to the ground. But Blue is not lonely. He likes the quiet, doesn’t really mind the heat. Not much to eat or drink, but Blue didn’t need much of that anyway, not since he broke the law all those years back. It gets kind of boring, though, the same walking through the same desert day after same day. On the fourth day – maybe – it rains. It comes out of nowhere. The sky just opens up and lets all its crying out. Blue gets drenched down to his very bones, but shelters his revolver so it doesn’t get all rusted up. He turns his face up to the thundering clouds and drinks. Takes his communion with all the angels weeping down on him. It is a kind of pilgrimage, this journey across the desert, Blue thinks. Whatever waits for him at the end of it must be holy, that much he’s sure of. What else would send a man into the desert with no one but himself to talk to? The rain turns the whole world blue, and when the sun goes down, it all becomes a shade of violet that he’s never seen before. The storm soaks the earth well into the purple night, turning the dirt into wide swaths of mud. Blue sinks a bit with every step, until he’s taken so many steps that he’s buried up to the hips in mud, and no longer able to take any more. Blue holds his revolver above the clay, and wonders if this is the end of his trek. This didn’t happen in any of those cowboy movies he’s seen. It seems there’s not much that’s smooth and cool about being half-swallowed up by the hungry desert. Blue thinks that if this is the end, he ought to have some good last words. Not that there’s anybody there to hear them, but it’s the principle of the thing. But the only words that come to mind are these: just keep walking, and you’ll find what you’re looking for. Blue has forgotten most other things, but he hasn’t forgotten that. His mantra, his prayer. He figures he better not decide to stop listening now, because it’s probably important. He throws the revolver gently to the safety of solid ground, then throws his hat after it. Blue grabs a scraggly bush, pulls. The bush pulls back, and Blue gets his hips free. He claws and shimmies and pulls. By the time he gets his feet out, it’s day again, and then rain has stopped. Blue lays on the ground beside his gun and his hat and stares up at the sky. He spits dirt out of his mouth and tries to wipe most of it off his pretty face. Then he gets up and keeps walking.  At the end of the fifth day (perhaps), with the sun at his height behind him, Blue sees the church. It’s a small little steeple, glowing white with sunset against the dark background of the desert. Beyond it, lights in the black, the lights of houses, flickering determinedly against the oncoming night. When he sees it, Blue’s memories start to rush back in like a rising tide. His job, his family, his own name. What he’s been searching for all these days in the desert. Blue breaks into a run. When he gets to the church, there’s only one other person there. A man, or a boy really, or a boyish man, sitting in a pew. He’s wearing a bandana and singing a hymn softly to the altar. He, too, has broken the law. Blue sits beside him, taking off his hat because he was raised that way.  The man turns to look at him. He puts Blue’s pretty face into the cup of his upturned palms. They stare at each other, rememorizing familiarities they had forgotten, learning new ones. The man brushes a finger against Blue’s cracked lips. He looks like he wants to say something that both of them know not to say in a church, even when it’s empty, but instead he says, “Did you walk all the way here?”  And Blue wants to not-say the same thing back, but smiles instead. I love you , Blue thinks.  “I’d crawl to you,” Blue says.

By Abigail Weidenfeller As the air gets a little colder, the sun sets a little earlier, and the leaves begin to exude warm colors, fall begins. As a firm believer that there is a playlist for every mood, or a soundtrack for every season of life, I have collected some songs that feel like fall. Now what does feel like fall even mean? There is no science to it, it is purely based on vibes, but I like to think that they all have an element of coziness. The leaves may be starting their dying process, but that just means they will be ready to grow again in the spring. To represent this I included a mix of older and new, some songs you have probably heard, and maybe one or two you have not. I hope you give some of them a listen, whether on a fall walk, right before a cozy nap, or maybe even drinking a hot chai latte. My Love Mine All Mine - Mitski Leaving on a Jet Plane - Peter, Paul and Mary Sun Self - DoomFolk StarterKit cowboy like me - Taylor Swift Clay Pigeons - Michael Cera Landslide - Fleetwood Mac Reflecting Light - Sam Phillips  Bags - Clairo So Far Away - Carole King  In time - Tyler Burkhart Fall With Me - The Wild Reeds Quite Like You - Andy Shauf 1999 - beabadoobee

By Abby Tredway In recent years, it has become routine for people to term their music taste as “everything but country”, but I feel that is a fatal mistake. I simply disagree that all country music is inherently unlikable and therefore of no value. In actuality, a lot of country songs are not that different than songs of other genres like indie, folk, etc. Additionally, people of the AmLit audience should have some degree of appreciation for country music, as the storytelling in many songs shows some real talent! As a Texan myself, I just cannot support the rejection of the whole genre itself. So, I am here to provide some of my favorite country songs to hopefully open your mind a bit more to the genre. Angel from Montgomery - John Prine, Bonnie Raitt This song is up there for me as one of the best of all time. Angel from Montgomery was originally written and released by John Prine, but is more famously covered by Bonnie Raitt. These two got together to perform this song live, and something beautiful happened! The lyrics themselves are enough to make a grown man cry (my father), but the voices of these two excellent country singers finish it off beautifully. Always on My Mind - Willie Nelson When making a list of the best country songs, Willie Nelson always has to be included. Although I will admit I could be displaying some bias, as he currently lives in my hometown. In this song, Willie is lamenting about a past lover that, although he may not have treated as well as he should have, was always on his mind. This song perfectly encapsulates the overwhelming feeling of regret many have when thinking about past relationships, and Willie’s voice holds all the needed emotion. Certainty - Big Thief Certainty is another song for me that has to be in my top five of all time. I love Big Thief and Adrianne Lenker, but they really outdid themselves here. Although Lenker is a Minnesotan, she is able to perfectly capture the twang necessary to rip a beautiful song like this. The way the band is able to go about expressing this theme of undying love that is not constantly the same but lives in its variance is so beautiful to hear and is incredibly country in its nature. Say You Will - Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals Say You Will is a Tredway family favorite, so I feel the need to share this one. One element to a good country song for me is its ability to be sung in the car, and this one might just take the cake. Ben Harper’s voice is so incredible and fun to sing along with, and his passion is very easily felt even through the first listen of this song. This song does some genre blending, but it also holds a lot of elements of country that are mainly held within Harper’s lyricism and voice. Mostly Water - Bap Kennedy Similarly to the last one, this song has a personal connection, as it is my Dad’s favorite song of all time. Bap Kennedy admittedly has a bit of an odd voice, but it makes this song that much more fun to listen to in my opinion. My Dad loves this song because it keeps him feeling “unaffected by the haters”, as he once told me on one of our many long car rides tomorrow (talking about his office job). Although I do find that silly, I do think he has a good point. Sometimes a person does just have to sit down with their guitar and tell you their outlook on life, which Kennedy does extremely well here.

By Kendra Papanek Huge thanks to my dear friend Jack Dickinson ‘27 for the cover image. I. The bed frame gives a benign, cheerful chirp as I slide off the mattress and trot over to the sink on my tiptoes as I usually do. I was too beside myself to remember to close the window last night, so I can hear the sound of Sunday morning’s emergencies while I wash the weekend away. The call of an ambulance wanes as it rushes by. I don’t recognize the dialect. The “wee” is the same length as the “woo.” And it’s a shrill one, too. Red eyes open. The sink is all choked up again. I don’t think she likes the taste of chunky mascara. I rest my convulsing hands against her cool, healthy skin. She doesn’t need concealer like I need concealer. I withdraw and shoot her an apologetic look, and she responds with a resentful gurgle as she finally swallows the cloudy water. At least she knows not to talk with her mouth full. II. I leave home and wait in the Metro’s hollow den with my feet pressed together and my lip quivering like a homesick child. I let my wet gaze waddle amongst sparse garbage nestled like plaque in the arteries of the track. I like to think that if I ran my hand along the third rail, I’d feel the mumbling of a heartbeat. The urge scuttles away to safety as the platform lights up and a train groans into view. She’s a new one. I can tell. I wonder if she and her sisters resent the voice that speaks for them with its inhuman timbre. I wonder if she, too, rouses in the fragile hours of the tar-black night and prays for a failure, a friend. I fix my foundation and let her cradle me. She whistles a tone-deaf tune and rocks me back in her warm, whispering womb, echoing beneath indifferent earth. She has a certain stench about her.

By Arin Burrell I have come to enjoy watching the sun set earlier and earlier each day as I sit on top of my house. It is the tallest house on the street, and I envy the family that lives under the roof. It is starting to feel more like fall now, I can see the atmosphere around me finally embracing this. The trees are changing colors rapidly it seems. I see less animals each day. Did change always come this fast? The people around the neighborhood have noticed this too. They take longer to wake up, leaving their houses right after the sun comes up to go to work or school. I feel sorry for them coming home with the sun setting at the same time. I am not a fan of the darkness, and I don’t think they are either. It takes away my view as I do my job. I often wonder, sitting here, what it would be like to leave with the birds. They fly overhead of me with their families, in search of a new place to stay. A short vacation until it warms up again. They sometimes stop near me before their flights. I would say hi if I could. Would they let me join them if I could ask? I think I would have to be a part of their group already if I wanted to take flight with them next year. But still, my design is not made for flight, as light as I am. I imagined befriending the sparrows that nested in the backyard last spring. The nest is still there but I was in the wrong direction when they flew away, unable to say goodbye as the host left for the rest of the year. I hope they’re somewhere nice. There is a family across the street that reminds me of the sparrows. They are new to the neighborhood and only come out for grocery shopping or something related to the kids. They talk about taking a winter vacation as they pack the car before driving away. Could they allow me to join them? The wind blows softly this evening as the sun starts to set. It can be nice on the roof, especially when there is no rain or snow hindering my view.  I am moved to another direction, looking at the house on the other side of the street now. No one’s home. Maybe they left with the sparrows. When the rest of the neighborhood gets quiet, I’ll still be up here. Telling the direction of the season’s winds and waiting for their return. There is not much else a weathervane can do.

By Hope Jorgensen In this century, it was getting harder and harder to haunt. I know that you would agree. The usual techniques of flickering illumination and silhouettes in mirrors is just overdone. You would look down your nose at such cheap gimmicks. Call them tacky or cliche. I’m dead so clearly those words can’t hurt. I haven’t felt pain in over two centuries. But, I’ve known defeat. Follow me along for the story.  For a time, the house, my home, had been silent as a morgue. The emptiness was my own much deserved staycation. I spent that time rediscovering my abode. I traced its plum blue wallpapers, glided up and down the mahogany spiral suitcase, lit the entire chandelier. My fondest memories were reacquainting with the darling black widow in the basement. The mischief we got up to would have you rolling with laughter. I should’ve known all peace is temporary.  My leisure time came to a complete stop decades too quickly. The end arrived with a family; two wives, one with a sleek bob, the other with tousled braids, and a baby with angelic curls and a hellish wail. At the sight of them, I had a feeling deep where my guts once was that they were the last. My final family to haunt. I would muster the last of my strength to haunt them before the great unknown took me. You know that this had to be perfect. I spent my midnights plotting and calculating in the attic. There was no room for error, no time for pathetic measures such as spoiling milk. I don’t believe any of them even drank whole milk; even the baby drank a strange formula. The witching hour came on the thirteenth day since their arrival, and my haunt was ready. Floorboards creaked beneath my phantom tread. Moonlight fell through slanted blinds across the child’s round face. A whisper sent the baby mobile twirling. I tried to squash down the part of me that felt this was the lowest point of my haunting career. A green light pulsed from beside the crib, a small device I’d observed the parents’ voices omitting from. When they hear the pure fear from their beloved babe, it’ll be over. From deep within, I pulled out my essence. The outline of a past life grew around me; limbs and hands and a face. All pure white. Wind whipped through the room which sent loose diapers and small dolls flying. The crib began to rock back and forth, at an increasingly violent rate. A cry began and that monitor’s light flashed red. The babe’s eyes blinked open. I waited for the fear to cloud them. You might be on the edge of your seat waiting too. The baby cooed. Squishy little hands reached out for me and a toothless smile grew on their face. Shock flooded what used to be my nerves. There was also a separate, warmer feeling. The crib stopped abruptly but the child didn’t even bat an eye. Voices streamed from the monitor and a door slammed open. My haunting career was over, but I found myself coming back the next night. And the next. The baby ceased wailing through the night with me by their side. Humans have rapid lives that I never bothered to track before, but I watched as this child grew and grew. Until the day the child was no longer a child and stopped seeing me. I think you would understand why I’ve chosen to finally move onto the true afterlife after all these centuries.

By Stevie Rosenfeld The American cowboy is a myth in itself. It conjures images of tumbleweeds rolling across a dessert plain, leather coats and wide brim hats, lively bars full of gambling and oil-flavored whiskey where the music only stops after a mysterious stranger takes a step onto the creaking wooden floor. The cowboy story might be the closest thing the post-colonial United States has to folklore. Unfortunately, the story hasn’t come very far since actual cowboys herded cattle in the real old west. Kelly Sue DeConnick changed that. Pretty Deadly is a graphic novel series that began in 2013 with The Shrike. The series follows Deathface Ginny, a vengeance driven marauder as she tracks down the beaten and blinded Fox and his young charge Sissy. While the reader doesn’t immediately know why Ginny hunts the two seemingly harmless panhandlers, they know one thing: she will not be stopped. The cowboy myth is defined by a single, hardened man—the lone ranger. This is someone who cares not for the rules of law, but holds his own fierce moral code. He’ll never start a fight, but he won’t leave one unfinished. He’s charming and attractive, but knowingly silent. DeConnick makes no attempt to separate Ginny from this trope, she falls into it gracefully and elegantly while still carving her own path in the genre. Perhaps this is why I, and so many other readers, have a hard time calling Ginny a “cowgirl.” The few female cowfolk in the media are usually depicted as mirrors of male characters, usually as a weaker, less developed version. Yet Ginny’s drive and power doesn’t serve to contrast her to other characters, but to frighten them. Even when Ginny is in service to her father, the audience is acutely aware that he can only push her so far before the rubber band snaps back. This is all before the trip to the underworld and back, of course. That’s the miracle of DeConnick’s writing; she builds the world before you even understand what kind of world you’re in. As Sissy spins the fantasy tale to an audience for pennies in the introduction of The Shrike, you don’t immediately recognize it as more than a fantasy. After all, why would a ten-year-old in a raven feather coat reading tarot and passing a hat know anything about the reality of life beyond death? But as the story unravels, you realize the childish fantasy had some truth in it, as they often do. Fantasy books often have to choose between worldbuilding, story, and character. And while the mystery surrounding many of Pretty Deadly’s characters often makes it difficult to discern their exact intentions, the world of Pretty Deadly and the people within have a depth and life of their own that only grows as the story moves forward. Even before you truly know who each character is, you feel as though you still Since many characters embody the “man of few words and loud actions” type of cowboy, you always feel they have a deep and noble cause. Such as the reaper Alice, a servant of Death, whose only indicator of a past is her coldness to Ginny. Yet rather than feeling that something is lacking, DeConnick makes the reader lean in closer when Alice does speak. Part of this compelling nature is of course due to artist Emma Rios, whose mastery of facial expressions and body language makes emotions jump from the page. From Fox’s stiff gait to Johnny Coyote’s loose gesturing, Rios drawings appear to move and speak like actors on a stage. Adding to the cinematic elements, the panels of Pretty Deadly are diverse in shape and size. Close ups of violence interspersed with wide shots of rolling skylines, the life of a single insect depicted larger than the entirety of hell and heaven. The paneling choices display a masterful understand of contrast and similarity’s coexistence. Rios demonstrates the way things so wildly different have a sameness at their core, something seemingly ever-present in the untamed west our characters trek through. The image of one man, his horse, and his gun against the world is compelling. It conjures ideas of independence, strength, and triumph over enemies. Yet, in building her fantasy world of reapers, witches, and spirits, DeConnick creates a more realistic image. One in which people are alone, and find each other, and lose each other again. One in which good guys win, and lose, and aren’t perfectly good all of the time. One in which people do their best, and don’t always succeed, but keep trying anyway. This may not be the wild west American Dream readers are used to, but it’s one they love and understand.

By Gianna Piroso It’s September 3rd, the day after Labor Day.  I woke up at 6:30 and did what I always do when I wake up at the crack of dawn: open the blinds, letting the sun sparkle into the dorm as an angelic tune plays.   Okay, no I didn’t, I checked the weather app. But what I saw was truly divine. The weather in Washington D.C. read 58 degrees.  Tell the meteorologists to ring the bells, fall had officially (unofficially) arrived on the East coast, and I knew exactly how to celebrate.  There I was, about to take on the treacherous trek to the Don Myers Building for the feat of 8a.m. statistics class. My earbuds were in position, and the moment had arrived.  With a deep inhale, I pushed play on the first Spotify search result titled “Dark Academia Fall,” a playlist branded with a photo of a gothic cathedral and that was definitely made by an honorable 15-year-old girl. The iconic lyrics of “Dark Red” by Steve Lacy guided me across the campus like a guardian angel holding my hand.   This is who I am meant to be. Every drop of excruciating, summer sweat has bled into this moment.  As the wind blew back my hair, I imagined I was not walking, rather I was hovering through the air on a broomstick. I breathed in the chilly air and exhaled pumpkin spice and wool fibers of infinity scarves. The green leaves washed themselves shades of burnt sienna and orange as they danced through the air (they were very green and very stuck to the tree). Finally, the start of my own “Dark Academia Fall.” One outside of my Spotify fantasy, during which I will wear thick turtlenecks and find non-prescription round glasses. Finally. But then, I regretfully checked the weather app once more, this time with childlike hope.   It is now September 6th because I needed time to process what I am about to tell you. I was in a state of denial, some may say. Are you ready?  Tomorrow, September 7th, the high in Washington D.C. will be 81 degrees.   I hope you heard my ghastly sigh.

For as long as I can remember, my family has maintained an annual Halloween tradition of watching the 1966 TV special It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown at least once every October. In it, many of the characters dress up as ghosts to go trick-or-treating on Halloween night by throwing bed sheets over their bodies and cutting two eye holes—or a dozen of them, in Charlie Brown’s case. While cuddled up on my childhood couch during one of the rewatches, I asked my mom why the ghost costumes are white sheets. After thinking about it for a grand total of one second, she dismissed the question with, “I don’t know—I guess it’s meant to be scary.” When you’re twelve, that answer holds up, so you shrug and immediately forget about it, attention easily shifting back to the screen. Now, though, you’re twenty-two with unfettered Internet access, and God help us all but you will make it everyone’s problem. Anyway, you’re twenty-two, and you hear certain lyrics to a Better Oblivion Community Center song (“They say you’ve gotta fake it / At least until you make it / That ghost is just a kid in a sheet”) that awaken the long-dormant part of your brain that has wondered about ghost costumes for over a decade. You take a deep dive to find the answer, and you come out of the water with a newfound appreciation for the religious context from which your favorite holiday was born. Let’s get into it. The story of ghost costumes originates from ancient folklore relating to the Gaelic festival Sanheim, which celebrates the end of harvest season and the beginning of winter. While Sanheim now typically occurs in early November, it used to fall on October 31st, overlapping with Halloween. During Sanheim, it was believed that the boundaries between the living and the dead became blurred, allowing spirits (ghosts) to pass through to the mortal world. To protect themselves from the spirits, civilians would disguise themselves as fellow paranormal figures by donning costumes and masks. White bed sheets became a popular vehicle for blending in during this time due to its simplicity and accessibility; the color white was also heavily associated with death and the afterlife in many cultures, adding another layer of symbolism to the costume. In addition to its practical uses, a white sheet contributes to the overall eerie look associated with ghost costumes, especially when lit up by candles or fire in otherwise total darkness. The uncomplicated and easily DIYed white sheet has persisted as a representation of a ghost throughout the cultural attitude and commercialization of the entwined traditions of Sanheim and Halloween shifted from a religious context to a secular one. The costume has even made its way into popular culture, including indie-rock banger Dylan Thomas and classic TV special It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. The ubiquitous ghost costume is beloved by adults and kids alike and is now seen as more of a playful costume than a spooky one; nonetheless, its rich history has been left behind in favor of a simplistic one: it’s (meant to be) scary for kids, and it’s silly for adults.

Summer Bucket List Item: Reach Out to Your Favorite Author! What if sending out your internship and job applications was whimsical, nostalgic, and FUN? I don’t have a way to make that happen, but I might know of the next-best thing. Here’s my pitch: whether you’re an avid reader or you haven’t read for pleasure since middle school, spend a moment this summer to reflect on a book you love and let its author know what you think! It really only takes a few minutes to draft an email, a direct message, or a letter (unless you get carried away, which is also cool). Once you’ve sent out your message, it’s best to try to forget about it; forgetting, or pretending to forget, is the best way to trick your author into responding. The day that response comes in will be a thrill. And what was the impetus for writing this blog post? Well, my passion for the artform was sparked again just a few weeks ago… My great friend and roommate Will Rokicki sat me — and Jaime Browning, another of our roommates — down to watch one of his favorite shows: Amazon Studios’ Just Add Magic, based on Cindy Callaghan’s middle-grade book series by the same name. It turned out that Ella Forsyth (roommate number three) was also a fan of the series, and they joined us for the pilot. We were electrified. Shortly thereafter, Will had a stroke of genius and gathered us to write Cindy an email expressing our love of her story. We ended it with the following sign-off: Warm regards and pluots forever, Will, Olivia, Jaime, and Ella (casted Darbie, Kelly, Hannah, and Buddy, respectively) You might notice how extremely subtly and tastefully we referenced Cindy’s characters and motifs. This was part of an elaborate and meticulous plan to persuade her to respond. And I’ll be damned if Cindy didn’t email back the very next day. You are all so kind to reach out to me. Your email got my day off to a great start as I'm working on a new project. Needless to say, we were absolutely flabbergasted. The rest of the email feels too classified to share, but you can imagine that it made our day, too. All this excitement had me thinking back to fifth grade English class, when I received letters back from Trenton Lee Stewart of The Mysterious Benedict Society and Rebecca Stead of When You Reach Me. Trenton got back to me with an automatic response-style Q&A packet and a signature inside the hardback book I spent money to send for that purpose. Hopefully I didn’t make that last part up, because my correspondent (my sister back at home) has not actually managed to locate my copy. Rebecca, I must say, went above and beyond. I did not have to do the pretending-to-forget act in this situation, as I am pretty sure it was a year or two after I sent my letter and book that a package arrived on my doorstep. I am still fangirling. She sent me back a box. Inside was my book, freshly autographed, as well as a bookmark and a postcard. Are you kidding me? On the bookmark, printed with a symbolic When You Reach Me key, she wrote the following: For Olivia, Hoping you find many books to love in life - Rebecca Stead And on the jazz music-themed postcard: Dear Olivia - Sorry this was so long coming! Thank you for your wonderful letter, and I’m so happy to finally get the book back to you - (with a bookmark) Yours, Rebecca Stead Utter brilliance. And that second message should clue you into a key part of my postal outreach strategy… send your author a personal belonging so they feel they have no choice but to deliver it back to you. However you reach out, I suggest you make it personal, and maybe even a little bit out of pocket. Entertain yourself in the process! As a bucket list item, this activity is as much for you as it is for your author. And now that you know that great opportunity lies ahead, I hope you will pursue it. Read on, AmFam and co.,  and make sure to let me know if any of your ventures are successful. Yours, Olivia Citarella