The most powerful tool a person is ever given is their imagination. It is granted to every single child at birth. We are not handed our imagination with our social security numbers; we are given a set of eyes to see, a set of ear to listen, a tongue to taste, hands to feel, a nose to smell and imagination to put these tools to work. It is rare for us humans to keep this tool in tip top shape. It dulls in the presence of conformity and authority. Children are told to make believe, to draw, to wonder. Put these bright, ingenious kids into a public school and eighty percent of these children will become adults. They lose interest in what it feels like to understand color; they think it’s dumb to throw a wig on and reenact old 40’s flicks.  God forbid a teacher assigns the class a creative writing piece because “well teacher, I simply can’t write a good essay. I am terrible at writing essays!” I guarantee that if you observed a high school on-level english class, you will be shocked by the number of students who all unite, nodding in agreement. It’s not that these students can’t write. These students can, in fact, put together a well written essay. In theory that is. They have the principles down. They structure the opening and closing thesis statements the same, they understand an essay should have 3 body paragraphs. These students have this theory down to a science.

                It’s this “down to a science” method is where I notice something is wildly wrong. These children have grown up with this technique shoved down their throats and smudged into their faces. If you do not follow this rule, you will fail. DO YOU WANT TO FAIL? No of course not, child. You must follow these rules at all times. No creative expression. There are only two types of Literature teachers in public schools: 1. The stickler. Follow the rules of english. Thesis statements. Ethos. Logos. Pathos. Rules! 2. The creative. There are few rules to follow here. Make your work captivate the reader. Hooks! Use hooks! Vocabulary! Let your audience into your mind! It’s a rare occasion when you find yourself with the latter.

                Now every once in a while you will happen upon a student who understands the difference between structure and freedom. And every day of his or her life, the kid is scolded and ridiculed. Why must this generation dream so big? Don’t they know that they are bound for failure? Do you know how many kids your age want the same thing? You’ve got your head in a cloud, child! An office job is more conventional! There is job security and insurance. You’re young and naive. You’ll learn.

                The thing about creativity, is that there is never enough of it. Just like there can never be enough scientists making new discoveries, there can never be enough artists challenging the rest of us to think differently. Change my way of observation. Show me the world from the underside of a glass bottom boat.

                A few weeks ago I received a call from a small animation company in Los Angeles, California. Those who are familiar with my work know that in addition to my full time position here at Woodston News, I am an animator. I earned my degree at Manhattan Arts University in hopes of becoming that inspiration young people can look towards. I wanted to be the voice of reason, the voice of hope. Listen kids, if you want to be a Studio Artist, prove to these adults that this is the most conventional and realistic job you can do. This world was created in the hands of what we don’t understand. There was no room for being realistic. There still isn’t. We did not create light bulbs and airplanes because it was ideal. There was imagination and inspiration behind those ideas. If I can be that spark to the ignition that is new and innovative, I would die the happiest woman on earth. Animation has always been that gateway for me. Comics, children’s books, tv series, short films. Anything that causes the youth of today to rethink everything they were ever told.

                Readers, today is my last day at Woodston News. It is my last day delivering you modest news and sunday comics. Though my reason for leaving is a legitimate and promising reason, I am going to miss these suburbs. It was here that I earned my first job as an adult. It was here that I earned readers. People who cared about what I said. Some of you wrote to me disgusted with how I wrote an event. Other wrote to me asking to meet me in person to thank me for my thoughtful articles. I earned fanmail. I earned hate mail. I made friends and enemies. And that was just what the fanbase was like. I could not begin to write a book about my coworkers. Then again, I probably could draw about it.

                I fly to LAX on Sunday. Monday I sign employment papers, Tuesday I hit the drawing boards- literally. I hope that my readers will continue to follow my work beyond their picket fences. I hope that my words will still be worthy of your attention when you give birth to a beautiful young boy. I hope that he finds my words comforting and relatable. I hope this child can grow up with my characters and learn from their mistakes and learn from their strengths. I hope your child becomes a superhero. He will save cities and old ladies on farms. He will become exactly what he wanted, because you told him he could.
  

Hilary Shayne
Woodston News
Thursday, February 16^th

There are some mornings, much like Tuesday, where it feels almost impossible to force yourself out of bed. Then there are mornings like Wednesday, or perhaps even Christmas, where you can’t wait to throw off the blankets. And this is exactly what Hilary did. The alarm had barely gone off a millisecond before she grabbed her phone to shut it off. She jumped in the shower and completed her hair and makeup before her roommate was able to sit down for her morning joe.

                “Damn honey. Who are you trying to impress today?” Brita’s voice was as groggy as her appearance. She still had sweatpants on and her curly brown hair was piled into a bun on the top of her head. She was wearing her thin framed glasses, which magnetized the freckles on her face she often covered with makeup. Even with Hilary wearing a pantsuit and most conventional, yet flattering, blouse, Brita still somehow managed to look better.

                “Nobody in particular. I just want to look the part. It’s classy and professional, yet I don’t look like a lawyer. It’s my best reporter’s outfit.” She placed one hand on her hip and slouched that side of her body to make an exaggerated pose.

                “Well I think you think Daniel is going to be impressed. But you do know he is going to show up in those awful khaki’s and perfectly accentuating t-shirt.” Brita’s eyes glazed over as she snapped into a daydream.

                Hilary just rolled her eyes. She refused to admit her friends was right. Even if she was. But who said that? She walked over to the fresh brewed coffee and poured herself a mug “if I wanted to impress him, I would have done a much better job of it by now.”

                “That’s my point. You have been putting so much effort into trying to come off as putting in little effort. It’s really cute, and I’m honestly jealous that he’s the person that’s making you nervous, not me.” She looked up through the top rim of her glasses and winked playfully at Hilary.

                “You are disgustingly in love with me.” She joked, walking back to the table to sit next to Brita. “You and I both know we’re getting married at 35 when all other options crumble in between our fingers.”

Once Hilary arrived at her office building, she had Brita check and make sure she was clear of coffee stains and her teeth were void of poppy seeds. With the nod of approval, Hilary opened the doors to the building and made her way to her designated cubicle to pretend she was busy for half an hour. This mainly consisted of refreshing her email and sending /receiving texts about her business date.

                “Well it’s 9:29 but those who rise early catch the bug, or whatever you art students say.” She looked up from her phone to face the slyest smile she had seen on a grown man.

                “I think it’s the overeager arrive promptly one minute early.” She shot back quicker than her mind could keep up. He pushed his shoulders back in shock. His eyebrows raised up and his mouth quickly opened into a full smile.

                “I’ve underestimated you.” He said, still pleasantly shocked.

                “I hope it’s something you don’t make a habit of. Then again, it was really satisfying to see that look on your face.” She responded quickly. She looked down at the desk where her stuff was piled up and made quick work of shoving everything into her black satchel: a few small notepads, a handful of pens, her wallet, and a map of the area so she could circle the places she’d like to revisit. “So my car or yours? Or I can just follow you in mine?”

                “Well I just bought myself a new Elantra and I’ve not been able to drive around with it much, other than to work and the convenience store. I think this is the perfect opportunity for me to put some extra miles on her.”
                “Well lead the way then.” Hilary remarked, holding her hand out to insist they leave her Cubicle. Daniel nodded and guided Hilary out of the building and into the parking lot. He walked up to a dark blue Hyundai Elantra, definitely this year’s release. Hilary’s eyes examined the vehicle, admiring the exterior. She wondered to herself how long ago Daniel graduated. There was no way a recent graduate would be able to afford the newest model of any car.

                Daniel pulled out his keys and unlocked the doors for the both of them “The inside is even nicer” he remarked, noticing the fond look on her face. Hilary opened the door and crawled in, situating herself on the light brown leather seats. Daniel climbed in besides her and buckled his seatbelt. “Isn’t it nice?” he exaggerated his words jokingly.

                “How are you able to afford this? I mean no college grad would have this kind of money.” She said, thinking out loud. “Shit, that was rude. Fuck, I’m sorry.” Hilary frowned, looking at her feet feeling ashamed. 

                The drive was no longer than three hours outside of the city. Nobody was complaining. Woodston was their destination; a small town just west of Albany. Hilary Shayne rode shotgun. Hands on her neck and eyes on the horizon. It was probably a metaphor. The 22-year-old art school graduate teamed up with her 4 year roommate to take on one of the world’s most uninteresting suburban towns. It was a well populated town, so not that teeny town most young adults promise to run away to. There was purpose to this trip, believe it or not. The goal in mind was a (temporary) full time job at the local newspaper: Woodston News. Though Hilary never told anyone this job was temporary, she knew it would never be her purpose. Her life had to have purpose. Her purpose was animation.

                Practically since birth, Hilary had a pack of crayons on her. The earth was her canvas, to the dismay of her mother. Though her passion was never an issue with her parents, it was her choice of medium that was so frustrating. Yes, the walls. And carpet. And couch. And brother. She was an imaginative soul. It wasn’t an arguable topic, that’s for sure. Maybe it was at the beginning, but when she stole her mother’s old purses to carry her drawing books and crayons to the dentist, and the movie theatre, and the neighbor’s birthday party, it was clear that she was a very dedicated munchkin.

                When the crayons started disappearing and the appeal because less cool, she began experimenting with different hobbies. There was a ballet phase. It lasted about a year. The recitals were tedious and the dance coach was a questionable man with a questionable mustache. Then there was photography. It lasted two years. For a while it seemed like this was her creative outlet. It was expressive. It was deep and meaningful. That’s what she told herself anyways. Eventually she realized there was something missing. It was in plain sight. It was something she did not want to admit she needed.

                At age 16, Hilary quit photography and pulled out one of her many unused journals from her bookshelf. On the first page she wrote: You Will. A tiny reminder that whatever goals she had in mind, she would accomplish them. The next few days, she was attached to these once blank pages. Each page was something different. 79 pages of ideas, colors, failed attempts at understanding body language.

                6 years, numerous used journals, and a degree later, Hilary Shayne had taken another wrong turn. In the eyes of her adult figures, however, she had become that brilliant, successful young lady they knew she would be. Funny how people view success. It’s much like the saying “beauty is in the eyes of the beholder”. In Hilary’s eyes, success was far from this job opportunity. She was quite aware of how lucky of an opportunity this was, never once did she take this position for granted. Her college roommate, Brita, was the one who made the phone calls and pushed the pair of them to do this move.

                Brita was the true journalist. And the true photographer. To this day, Brita still has not seen any of Hilary’s old high school photography shoots. It was shameful. Brita had grown up in a left wing household. The news was very important. The facts. The hard cutting facts. Instead of game nights, the Spes household would watch the news as a close knit family. So naturally, Brita chose a career she felt passionate about. Reporting the news with photographic evidence.

It was the juxtaposing career choices that made these girls interested in each other. Hilary having chosen a career that promotes make believe, and Brita having chosen to put an ending to false accounts, they had the most intelligent and obscure conversations. They argued about comic book heroes and Sarah Palin. If the dorm was silent, it was probably because neither could agree on which satirical new source was better. That, or which Saturday morning cartoon had the most potential. It was a reward to those who mutually knew both girls. God forbid you got the two of them started on something they could agree on! It was a never ending conversation that could go on for weeks. Usually this consisted of mainstream television, recently released films, or underground bands. Friendship was handed to them with a “Welcome to College” registration packet.  

                The change of scenery was a key hint the destination was close. Brita veered the piece-of-crap black ’98 ford explorer off the ramp, out of the city, into suburbia.  The trees were a bright summer green. June. A quick month after graduation. Life was happening and there was about zero chance it was going to slow down. Best get used to it. As the shrubbery became denser and denser, and the building became further and further away, it was safe to assume they had arrived. Neither said a word as the vehicle pulled into the driveway of their newly rented townhome. The only noise top 40s band hummed in the background underneath the hum of the explorer’s engine. With a deep sigh, Brita shut off the engine and placed her hands in her lap. “This is the ugliest place you could have picked.”

                The townhome was a soft grey, almost blue. The door was black and the windows had fake shutters. According to the homeowner’s association, this place was built in the 1950’s. The walls were probably coated in lead paint.

                “Well, it’s home.” Hilary was the first to put her feet on the ground. The air was thicker than expected. The comfort of an air conditioned trip did nothing to help adapt to the weather. The quicker they could unpack everything from the SUV, the quicker a glass of lemonade could wash down the day. Brita stepped out of the door and made a whiney noise that sounded much like an exhausted dog. “Brits, please. There are worse places we could have picked. It’s a step up from an apartment. This is actually an improvement.”

                Brita groaned, throwing her head back. “It’s not that. I can deal with the living situation. David just text me. He wants to know when I’ll be back in the city.” David was Brita’s most recent breakup. She cut it off, in truth, because she was suffocated. He rear ended her at a stop light one day on her way to class. It was the most inappropriate place to meet someone, but when they exchanged information he felt so bad he insisted on dinner. Two months following, it had been made official. And another two months passing, she told him she was moving out of the city and didn’t want to continue long term and it broke her heart to say goodbye. A regretful choice of words it proved to be. She should have made it clearer that she was no longer interested in playing New York’s Most Annoying Couple.

                Hilary made walked to the backside of the vehicle, opening it to reveal the materials that would provide evidence of a permanent home. “He’s a motivated fucker. Mail him a stop sign, maybe he’ll start understanding the signals you’re issuing.” she laughed to herself. Brita walked around the explorer, squinting her eyes in frustration.

                “You’re really funny, you should start publishing these jokes.” Her words even tasted sarcastic. She reached in the truck and started pulling out boxes, stacking two or three at a time, depending on the weight. There was no furniture to unpack to put together, thankfully. Brita was a master at calling in favors and arranged for everything to be built the business day following their arrival. It was Saturday. So for two night they had to sleep on $30 air mattresses that was rated online with 2 stars in comfort. Not a big deal for two young college graduates. Comfort was something that became less important with age. The cheaper and more convenient the matter, the happier the girls.

                It took only half an hour to relocate the boxes into the appropriate rooms. It took an hour of unpacking until they were too exhausted to continue. Besides, they weren’t expecting company for a long time, and a lot of unpacking had to wait until there were drawers and bookshelves. The clothes were placed on hangers and dangling neatly in the closets and there were cups in the cabinets. They had dealt with what they could in order of importance. All that was left to do was change the dry house status. It was then and only then, that they could call this place home.
 

With the air mattresses set up in the living room and a 6 pack of Rolling Rock in between the beds, the girls proposed a new tradition. Slips of folded paper covered the blankets and wood floors. “The idea is, you write what you are welcoming in to your new life. Then when you’re ready to be handed your destiny, you burn the paper. Well technically you’re supposed to bury it, but I’m not keen to be the crazy new neighbor.” Hilary was hesitant about her friend’s proposition. This felt like a middle school sleepover. In fact, it probably happened once or twice a few years back. Though it seemed childish, she reluctantly picked up a notepad and began scribbling a couple sentences: “I am going to build my resume. I am going to build my credibility.” As the shreds of paper landed Hilary’s lap, Brita reached over and opened them up, reading what ‘new and exciting’ experiences they had in store. “You are the most uninteresting creature. How can you call yourself creative if all you want from this move is some words on a document?” I rolled my eyes, insisting that she shouldn't care because it was what I wanted.

                “Well what about friends? Adventures? Stories? Don’t you want any of that?” Brita sighed and put her hands on her chin. “We moved here to start a life. I understand that this isn’t your ideal career, but you’ve been given a career where you can still offer your wit and knowledge. The creative writing column is being handed to you. You are in charge of what goes in and what stays out. How are you supposed to be able to write anything worth the public’s interest if your only motivation is your credibility?” Brita wiggled herself of her mattress and onto Hilary’s. “You’re always saying how you want to be a voice worth listening to. So go ahead and start planning.”

                Hilary cut up more slips of paper and started brainstorming. “I want to meet people who can surprise me. I want crazy random happenstances. I want to welcome in dangerous situations. I want to understand what it feels like to surprise someone. I want to see unwritten stories in my neighborhood. And write them.”

                Once the ideas started flowing, her phone lit up. It was her future Boss, Mr. Gary Douglass. She answered with a very professional “This is Hilary.” The conversation was brief. There were a lot of yesses and sounds goods. She set her phone back in her lap and looked up to her housemate. “So I’m missing a few documents and have to go in tomorrow to put my signature on some papers.”

                “What other documents is he having you sign?”

                “Just some missing ones. Probably got lost in the difficult process that is faxing. I can drop by early in the morning and deal with all that hullabaloo. Once that’s done, I’ll turn around to pick you up, and we go do adult errands. Deal?”