By Regan Tam
“A writer, I think, is someone who pays attention to the world.” - Susan Sontag
All good stories have a good beginning.
For Dr. Sara Schlemm, this beginning is in Montreal, with three younger siblings and an affinity for the arts and the outdoors. She continues to enjoy hiking and running in her spare time.
Going to school, Dr. Schlemm loved both History and English - subjects that would, ultimately, dictate much of the future chapters of her life. In fact, she received a Bachelor’s in History from Yale University and both a Master’s and a Doctorate in English Language and Literature from Cornell University.
Before coming to Collingwood, Dr. Schlemm worked as a management consultant, taught classes at Cornell University, and completed her PhD. A long resume, to be sure!
And of course, what would a story be without a little adventure? Dr. Schlemm likes participating in improv comedy, trying out new restaurants, and exploring art galleries and museums in her free time. All of these activities culminate into a vivid, descriptive writing style that draws from real-world experiences.
Dr. Schlemm describes her own writing style as, for lack of a more specific word, descriptive. Like any good artist, she draws inspiration from the world around her and loves to witness her characters take form in unique ways that are vastly different from her own personal character. A majority of her work studies how style and science intersect throughout the fabric of history. With her words, Dr. Schlemm crafts elaborate tapestries, threaded with personal touches and lively words. She loves the thrill of anticipation whenever she begins a new project.
One of the books she’s read most often is Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, but despite this, she finds mystery to be the most engaging genre to read. Though she’s familiar with the nuances and subtleties of many different genres, she hopes to one day try her hand at writing a mystery novel.
Like all good works of literature, Dr. Schlemm also finds inspiration from others in her life. Namely, her mother, who she says gives great advice, and “has a knack for coming up with brilliant ideas at the best possible times.”
The latest chapter in her journey, aptly titled “Collingwood School,” takes place here, where she works with students in Morven’s English program across a wide range of courses. In the second module of the 2020-2021 school year, she taught the Creative Writing 12 Class, where students read extensively, wrote extensively, and, overarchingly, created extensively.
So, what’s the moral of this story? Is there a meaning? A message? Something to take away? In Dr. Schlemm’s words:
“Writing and literature can give us access to new realms of experience.”
From Austen to art galleries to improv comedy, Dr. Schlemm has certainly discovered a lot of what life has to offer. Throughout the years, she herself has also become more open to experimenting with different types of writing, and even the advice she offers to amateur writers, to “read poetry even if you are not a poet,” places emphasis on experiencing new things outside of your own field of prowess.
“My whole life experience feeds into my writing. I think that must be true for every writer.” - Gene Wolfe
Many thanks to Dr. Schlemm for her contributions to this article, as well as to Farnoush Toupchinejad, Amelia Parry, Jessica Zhang, and Jonathon Nie, whose works from Creative Writing 12 are featured below.
“A writer, I think, is someone who pays attention to the world.” - Susan Sontag
All good stories have a good beginning.
For Dr. Sara Schlemm, this beginning is in Montreal, with three younger siblings and an affinity for the arts and the outdoors. She continues to enjoy hiking and running in her spare time.
Going to school, Dr. Schlemm loved both History and English - subjects that would, ultimately, dictate much of the future chapters of her life. In fact, she received a Bachelor’s in History from Yale University and both a Master’s and a Doctorate in English Language and Literature from Cornell University.
Before coming to Collingwood, Dr. Schlemm worked as a management consultant, taught classes at Cornell University, and completed her PhD. A long resume, to be sure!
And of course, what would a story be without a little adventure? Dr. Schlemm likes participating in improv comedy, trying out new restaurants, and exploring art galleries and museums in her free time. All of these activities culminate into a vivid, descriptive writing style that draws from real-world experiences.
Dr. Schlemm describes her own writing style as, for lack of a more specific word, descriptive. Like any good artist, she draws inspiration from the world around her and loves to witness her characters take form in unique ways that are vastly different from her own personal character. A majority of her work studies how style and science intersect throughout the fabric of history. With her words, Dr. Schlemm crafts elaborate tapestries, threaded with personal touches and lively words. She loves the thrill of anticipation whenever she begins a new project.
One of the books she’s read most often is Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, but despite this, she finds mystery to be the most engaging genre to read. Though she’s familiar with the nuances and subtleties of many different genres, she hopes to one day try her hand at writing a mystery novel.
Like all good works of literature, Dr. Schlemm also finds inspiration from others in her life. Namely, her mother, who she says gives great advice, and “has a knack for coming up with brilliant ideas at the best possible times.”
The latest chapter in her journey, aptly titled “Collingwood School,” takes place here, where she works with students in Morven’s English program across a wide range of courses. In the second module of the 2020-2021 school year, she taught the Creative Writing 12 Class, where students read extensively, wrote extensively, and, overarchingly, created extensively.
So, what’s the moral of this story? Is there a meaning? A message? Something to take away? In Dr. Schlemm’s words:
“Writing and literature can give us access to new realms of experience.”
From Austen to art galleries to improv comedy, Dr. Schlemm has certainly discovered a lot of what life has to offer. Throughout the years, she herself has also become more open to experimenting with different types of writing, and even the advice she offers to amateur writers, to “read poetry even if you are not a poet,” places emphasis on experiencing new things outside of your own field of prowess.
“My whole life experience feeds into my writing. I think that must be true for every writer.” - Gene Wolfe
Many thanks to Dr. Schlemm for her contributions to this article, as well as to Farnoush Toupchinejad, Amelia Parry, Jessica Zhang, and Jonathon Nie, whose works from Creative Writing 12 are featured below.
A Play of Nymphs (Dramatic Monologue by Farnoush Toupchinejad)
Oh gods, set your sights upon this, by the cobalt pond!
Don’t delay now, time is a delicacy not to be dulled.
Here, set your sandals upon the sands, and your fist against the forlorn fonds
and gaze at the sprites, singing along the lily pads who roam a lonely lull.
They chant for two effigies, by the lichen-clad boulders.
You, unlike I, cannot notice faes fluttering beneath rippled reflections,
showered in a sunlit glow from their iridescent shoulders.
Their femme figures face each complexion,
oh so tantalizing are limbs, unbearably itching to inch closer.
Slender legs faintly touch beneath silk fog, wandering among
the ominous fog with a yearn to reach one another.
Straggles of hair, too untame to join the others, are blown forth by the soft wind of tongue.
It’s a shame their words are muffled, louder than a hush, they must not dare to humm.
They’re amicable you know, companions, and yet here we see a different portrait.
Since none as ‘amies’ dare to blow a desperate gaze in the other’s spectrum.
Their eyes, too distant for a patent tint, instead preserve a light circlet,
they carry life, a whisper of two souls entangled within one another.
Do you dare to know a secret? I grant it only to devout youths.
Yes? Very well, raise your ears at this hymn, like none-other;
Those resting at the tarn are said to be shackled to distant roofs,
already promised, yet offenders of their own kinds, unruly.
How do you like it, ‘des vertus’?
Their admiration, devoid of platonic, these are the efforts of yours truly.
Like leaves, my golden touch mothers melodrama, a magick gifted by the wife of Hephaestus.
The dulcet of grapes soothes the zest of conflict, fed by Cytherea, we sink
under clouds, we witness the spectacle sirens sing.
Unpredictable pawns wander through the board, restricted in a repressed rink.
Actors play adolescents, however unaware they are playthings.
Thou may have perceived such an affair as a crown,
yet captive of their hearts, failing to notice the judgement of men
fueled by corrupted pride.
Quick!
Shrink!
Sheathe your head beneath the ticket,
become a shadow to the tale, and feast your gaze upon this finale;
Limb by limb, they are torn apart like a sheet of papyrus,
weakly constructed.
They are set aflame, by passion previously and by fire now.
Watch as their sparks diminish,
fade into the splinters of the underworld.
What an enticing scene that was! Your gaze says it all to me;
Your eyes, they entrapped a puckish pixie, a rogue imp,
I never fail a beloved audience, pride’s parasite permeates my golden veins.
For replenishing my ego, I feel dearly thankful,
so I bestow upon you an enchanting plot;
And in the pandora's box held a cardinal attraction, mystic and calloused.
What may your answer be, my oh so cherished Psyche?
Oh gods, set your sights upon this, by the cobalt pond!
Don’t delay now, time is a delicacy not to be dulled.
Here, set your sandals upon the sands, and your fist against the forlorn fonds
and gaze at the sprites, singing along the lily pads who roam a lonely lull.
They chant for two effigies, by the lichen-clad boulders.
You, unlike I, cannot notice faes fluttering beneath rippled reflections,
showered in a sunlit glow from their iridescent shoulders.
Their femme figures face each complexion,
oh so tantalizing are limbs, unbearably itching to inch closer.
Slender legs faintly touch beneath silk fog, wandering among
the ominous fog with a yearn to reach one another.
Straggles of hair, too untame to join the others, are blown forth by the soft wind of tongue.
It’s a shame their words are muffled, louder than a hush, they must not dare to humm.
They’re amicable you know, companions, and yet here we see a different portrait.
Since none as ‘amies’ dare to blow a desperate gaze in the other’s spectrum.
Their eyes, too distant for a patent tint, instead preserve a light circlet,
they carry life, a whisper of two souls entangled within one another.
Do you dare to know a secret? I grant it only to devout youths.
Yes? Very well, raise your ears at this hymn, like none-other;
Those resting at the tarn are said to be shackled to distant roofs,
already promised, yet offenders of their own kinds, unruly.
How do you like it, ‘des vertus’?
Their admiration, devoid of platonic, these are the efforts of yours truly.
Like leaves, my golden touch mothers melodrama, a magick gifted by the wife of Hephaestus.
The dulcet of grapes soothes the zest of conflict, fed by Cytherea, we sink
under clouds, we witness the spectacle sirens sing.
Unpredictable pawns wander through the board, restricted in a repressed rink.
Actors play adolescents, however unaware they are playthings.
Thou may have perceived such an affair as a crown,
yet captive of their hearts, failing to notice the judgement of men
fueled by corrupted pride.
Quick!
Shrink!
Sheathe your head beneath the ticket,
become a shadow to the tale, and feast your gaze upon this finale;
Limb by limb, they are torn apart like a sheet of papyrus,
weakly constructed.
They are set aflame, by passion previously and by fire now.
Watch as their sparks diminish,
fade into the splinters of the underworld.
What an enticing scene that was! Your gaze says it all to me;
Your eyes, they entrapped a puckish pixie, a rogue imp,
I never fail a beloved audience, pride’s parasite permeates my golden veins.
For replenishing my ego, I feel dearly thankful,
so I bestow upon you an enchanting plot;
And in the pandora's box held a cardinal attraction, mystic and calloused.
What may your answer be, my oh so cherished Psyche?
Villanelle by Amelia Parry
The red barn sits impatiently in the overgrown lawn,
The moon peeks over, with the cluck of a hen,
As a bright day becomes a dark dawn.
Maple leaves rustle and crunch, swept away until their gone,
Foxes attack, every now and then,
The red barn sits impatiently in the overgrown lawn.
A sole man, in muddy boots, withdrawn,
Walks the streets so mean, again and again,
As a bright day becomes a dark dawn.
A rusted rake, with sharp ends, live on,
Until it’s discarded, but when?
The red barn sits impatiently in the overgrown lawn.
The horses whinny and neigh, in an old stable in Saskatchewan,
Tucked away by their wise men,
As a bright day becomes a dark dawn.
The snow covers the land like chiffon,
Turning everything white, including the cow pen,
The red barn sits impatiently in the overgrown lawn,
As a bright day becomes a dark dawn.
The red barn sits impatiently in the overgrown lawn,
The moon peeks over, with the cluck of a hen,
As a bright day becomes a dark dawn.
Maple leaves rustle and crunch, swept away until their gone,
Foxes attack, every now and then,
The red barn sits impatiently in the overgrown lawn.
A sole man, in muddy boots, withdrawn,
Walks the streets so mean, again and again,
As a bright day becomes a dark dawn.
A rusted rake, with sharp ends, live on,
Until it’s discarded, but when?
The red barn sits impatiently in the overgrown lawn.
The horses whinny and neigh, in an old stable in Saskatchewan,
Tucked away by their wise men,
As a bright day becomes a dark dawn.
The snow covers the land like chiffon,
Turning everything white, including the cow pen,
The red barn sits impatiently in the overgrown lawn,
As a bright day becomes a dark dawn.
Message to Humanity from a Shadow (a short film script by Jessica Zhang)
There is no realistic way to tell anyone this.
I walk in the same steps as you do. I wear the same shoes. The same clothes. Yet, I am always forgotten.
When you win, I win with you. When you lose, I am always there with you.
Until the gloomy weather sets in. Or when the skies aren’t blue. Or when the sun falls over the edge. Or when there is no wake-up call.
But I am always there.
Watching,
Observing,
Knowing,
Copying.
When you cry, I wipe the non-existent tears under my eyes. When you lie in your bed all day, I wish that I could walk over and open the windows so that you could see how beautiful the sunset was that day. When you cannot pick up the clothes on the ground, I wish that I could help.
But I can’t, as I am attached to you. As my body is thinner than paper, as light as air. I appear the most visible when light from a light source is blocked by an opaque object, which is you.
You control me, and I will listen. Of course.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life might be like if I was three-dimensional like you are.
I wonder what it is like to be you… instead of being a two-dimensional silhouette who is incapable of doing anything, besides thinking and imagining.
So that I can smell the scent of the daisies that sit on the bathroom window sill. Or travel to the beach to feel the air of the crisp winter nights. Or taste the berries in the backyard on a warm summer day. Or feel the snow land on my tongue, like you and your friends.
I wish that I could control you for one day. So that you can see how much worth life holds.
There is no realistic way to tell anyone this.
I walk in the same steps as you do. I wear the same shoes. The same clothes. Yet, I am always forgotten.
When you win, I win with you. When you lose, I am always there with you.
Until the gloomy weather sets in. Or when the skies aren’t blue. Or when the sun falls over the edge. Or when there is no wake-up call.
But I am always there.
Watching,
Observing,
Knowing,
Copying.
When you cry, I wipe the non-existent tears under my eyes. When you lie in your bed all day, I wish that I could walk over and open the windows so that you could see how beautiful the sunset was that day. When you cannot pick up the clothes on the ground, I wish that I could help.
But I can’t, as I am attached to you. As my body is thinner than paper, as light as air. I appear the most visible when light from a light source is blocked by an opaque object, which is you.
You control me, and I will listen. Of course.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life might be like if I was three-dimensional like you are.
I wonder what it is like to be you… instead of being a two-dimensional silhouette who is incapable of doing anything, besides thinking and imagining.
So that I can smell the scent of the daisies that sit on the bathroom window sill. Or travel to the beach to feel the air of the crisp winter nights. Or taste the berries in the backyard on a warm summer day. Or feel the snow land on my tongue, like you and your friends.
I wish that I could control you for one day. So that you can see how much worth life holds.
“Fire Drifting” (an excerpt from a literary memoir by Jonathon Nie)
As the night waned, more and more people flocked onto the central street. Where my family and I gathered was at the very front where the street intersected the Yellow River, letting us gaze all the way to the other side. Twelve O'clock was coming and everyone was starting to chatter louder. I was so excited that I could smell the gunpowder in the air.
In a matter of minutes, red, green, blue, and purple filled the skies with blissful explosions. I heard continuous blasts, cameras clicking, and hundreds of people chatting in joy, but as a four-year old child, I couldn't see the whole sky above me when people walked past me left and right.
So when my father finally went to tie his shoelaces and let go of my hands, I drifted away, carried by the blasting lights above. I sank under the gentleman in front and then the lady, and then another. Yet just as I was about to let loose and run to wherever I was going to get a better look at the sky, a voice drew me back. I was in shackles. I could no longer drift away. My sister, just as my family was about to lose me in the ocean of people called me back. She saved me (and them) from a considerable amount of worry on a beautiful Chinese New Year’s Eve.
As the night waned, more and more people flocked onto the central street. Where my family and I gathered was at the very front where the street intersected the Yellow River, letting us gaze all the way to the other side. Twelve O'clock was coming and everyone was starting to chatter louder. I was so excited that I could smell the gunpowder in the air.
In a matter of minutes, red, green, blue, and purple filled the skies with blissful explosions. I heard continuous blasts, cameras clicking, and hundreds of people chatting in joy, but as a four-year old child, I couldn't see the whole sky above me when people walked past me left and right.
So when my father finally went to tie his shoelaces and let go of my hands, I drifted away, carried by the blasting lights above. I sank under the gentleman in front and then the lady, and then another. Yet just as I was about to let loose and run to wherever I was going to get a better look at the sky, a voice drew me back. I was in shackles. I could no longer drift away. My sister, just as my family was about to lose me in the ocean of people called me back. She saved me (and them) from a considerable amount of worry on a beautiful Chinese New Year’s Eve.