The sun is shining down upon budding grass, the birds are chirping, and spring is finally here…
    Just kidding. It’s overcast and I’m skiing in mid-April on the ever-present snow Alaska just doesn’t seem willing to part with. The Writers’ Workshop class is on an adventure once again! We make our way toward the tree line where the trail begins when Huck Hobbs, our guide, turns around and addresses everyone. “It’s a good day for a six-mile ski trip, huh? Is everyone ready?”
     I begin to laugh.
    No one joins me.
    My chuckles slowly die down and choke in my throat. Hobbs is giving me a confused smile at my reaction; he’s obviously never met me. “You’re serious? Six miles?” When he nods – still smiling, but with more perception – my head whips around to Mr. Voley… who looks completely and utterly unfazed.
    A small whimper rises within me.
    When we arrive at about two and a half miles, I’m at the back of the herd – no surprise there. Mr. Voley and my mom are behind me as I continuously trip and stumble, yip and grumble. I keep most comments to myself, and my inner thoughts are clouding my mind, distracting me from the rhythm I’m supposed to be maintaining. There are a few sarcastic ones that slip my lips as my eyes stay trained on my skis though. “Mr. Voley?” I pipe after a while.
     “Yeah?” he responds.
    Casually, I speak my theory. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re planning my self-destruction. I mean, when you think about it… first the glacier walk in Kennecott and now this…” I tried to glance up to throw him a cheeky grin, but I falter and my eyes zero back on the ground.
    He throws his head back and laughs. “Right – you’re probably going to read the syllabus real close next time!” Mr. Voley jokes.
    I nod. “Gotta read the fine print. I’ll get a lawyer to go over it.” When I look up, I see we’re coming across the group. They’ve stopped and as we ski closer, Kat and Mrs. Hobbs appear. Kat’s skis are being held in her hand and a forlorn expression is on her face.
     “She broke the screw on her pair,” Mrs. Hobbs explains, gesturing to the cradled equipment. Mr. Voley and she converse, deciding that it’d be shorter for her to walk back the two and a half miles than the three and a half we have left to go.
     “Well, who’ll go back with her?” Mr. Voley questions. He looks around quickly, and his eyes land on me with my ruffled hair, askew hat, and ruddy cheeks from the couple of hours we’d been skiing.
    I can already feel my jaw setting. I know what he’s going to ask before it’s out. “Do you want to go back with Kat, Amber?” My brain doesn’t even consider it. I don’t know what comes first: indignation, offence, or pure Lenard stubbornness. Whichever one, my mind is made up. If I let myself give up early, I know I’d be embarrassed and kicking myself later. So, looking him straight in the eye, I say, “I started this. I’m going to finish it.” It feels so cliché saying it aloud, but it expresses exactly what I’m thinking. I’ve never been a quitter, and I’m not starting any time soon.
    Something crosses his face. Understanding? Respect? Simple acknowledgement? I’m not sure, but I stick to my guns anyhow. I know that I won’t regret it.
TO BE CONTINUED...

 

"This is children becoming pawns in a diplomatic game. The bottom-line victims are children." -Adam Pertman
     On January 1, 2013, the Russian Adoption Ban took effect, causing quite the uproar in both America and Russia. The Dima Yakovlev bill, named after a Russian child who died following his intercontinental adoption, bans U.S. citizens' from adopting Russian orphans. It’s seen as retaliation from Vladmir Putin, the Russian leader, against the Magnitsky Act signed by President Obama on December 14. The Magnitsky Act punishes Russian officials thought to be responsible for the death of Sergei Magnitsky. The political debacle has people crying objection on either side of the Pacific.
     In Moscow, over 20,000 protesters rallied on January 13 in the streets with posters in opposition to the adoption ban. To say it was a hefty, surprising conflict against the Russian parliament is an understatement. Shouting "Hands off the children!" and "Shame on the scum!" they were avid in making their voices heard. The populace was speaking for their youth. In my opinion, Russians shouldn’t have such a “policy.” I’d be standing right there with the activists if I could, because the U.S. gives children a chance – perhaps even better opportunities! Using them as pawns will ruin prospective lives and possibilities.
     With over thousands, perhaps even millions of young Russian castaways, the orphanages are overflowing. Some can hardly be called acceptable institutions. Crowded with children who suffer from malnutrition, health conditions, mental illnesses and lack of familial love, the orphanages contribute to bodily, emotional, mental, and cognitive problems for impressionable children.
     It was 1991 when a Russian orphan boy by the name of Vanya was abandoned by his parents and sent to a "baby house." Most of his time was spent lying alone with "incurables" because of premature birth defects. Days went by without socialization. Without human contact. He was a bright child though, and somehow taught himself to speak. It was in 1996, Vanya was around the tender age of six, when he was subjected to an adult insane asylum on account of an assessment based off the outside world - something he knew nothing of, had never experienced. He was automatically diagnosed with Oligophrenia.
     In other words, he was marked with mental retardation.
     The year 1999 marks the year he was saved from the denial of the love of a real family by a US citizen, Paula Lahutzky, after she persevered through complications to adopt him. The single mother brought Vanya, now known as John Lahutzky, to America where he grew up. John even wrote a book: "The Boy from Baby Home 10." His life was one of the few that blossomed with a light of hope shining like a beacon against the bleak and desolate orphanage.
     America has medical advancements that Russia has yet to achieve that can help young individuals in desperate need of care. The percentage of Russian children who suffer from issues that can affect them in life is high; more than half of their orphans are categorized as socially or physically inadequate. Accompany that with the fact that Russia has been the US's third highest intercontinental adoption country, providing youth with the opportunity of having a caring family - even if they are from an alternate country - and one can't argue that it's wrong for Americans to adopt a Russian child.
    The big picture should be to provide children with a future… for a chance to have a doting circle of people around them. Not to be collateral damage in a petty reprisal of government affairs.

    Oh, how this tale is long overdue…
    It was last year sometime, I remember. I must have been picking on my older sister, Mariah, about her short height to show my sibling love, when it became obviously apparent that I had grown a great deal taller than her. Somehow the topic was stringed with Russian stature; apparently they’re enormous in Mariah’s eyes. Anyways, our height difference led to our other physical differentiations.
    The first is obvious to anyone who has a pair of eyes; whereas my sister gained the tanner Native American genes of the large portion of our ancestry, I was born with a paler European coloring. This dissimilarity is one of Mariah’s supporting facts: some Russians are supposedly light-skinned.
    I really don’t know how she comes up with these things…
    Just to name off some of the last few… our eyes are diverse in shape and color; hers are dark and my own are hazel. She has an oval-shaped face that is mature, and mine has a child roundness. While her smile is a replica of my mother’s – big and bright – mine is softer and shy. Even our hair differs! Mariah has a thick, straight, dark hair, whilst I have lighter and wavy locks. All of these piloted my sister’s theory for insistent teasing that would later pave the road to the big shebang: I was adopted from Russia.
    I have no idea what type she thinks I am though: Siberian is doubtlessly out of the question.
    As time went on, it stuck. I’m known as The Russian to many people, and Mariah, that silly social butterfly, has even started introducing me as Natasha to her zillions of new friends she always seems to be making. [Enter dramatic sigh here] According to my dear sibling, that was my name before my mom and dad “renamed” me Amber.
    One particular moment of this comic Russian rollercoaster stands out… Mariah, my baby brother, Hunter, and I go to a Vacation Bible School event every summer and have been for years. The three of us have known the leader of the annual occasion, Anita, since we were toddlers. She enjoys traveling up from the lower states, usually bringing some new people along to get the Alaskan experience, share the word of God, and help with the kids. Continuing with the story though, there were some new helpers. They obviously never met us, and Mariah took it as her chance to relay the theatrical tale.
    Mariah and I had never out right told any of the original helpers that we were sisters, so when we mentioned it, they were a bit shocked.
    My sister being my sister, shrugged carelessly while throwing me an inconspicuous and mischievous smirk, saying “Yeah, we adopted her from Russia.”
    “Really?” Of course, they turned to me with newfound interest, inspecting my features and seeing the variation between her and me.
    Deciding to play along, I just flashed them a quick smile as Mariah carried on, nodding. “Her name was Natasha, but we changed it to Amber.”
    It was getting harder to fight off my laughter.

     Adding the icing on the cake, she even went with one of her favorite lines: “I asked for a puppy, but instead, my parents came home with her.”

     Anita was standing behind the spectators, shaking her head but begrudgingly grinning herself.

     Our little audience that Mariah collected was a bit confused as to whether we were joking or not, but I guess we were a convincing duo seeing as I wasn’t objecting. So, bopping their heads in agreement, they responded with, “Cool.”

     And just like that, they believed her. You know, until we burst into fits of mirth.

     In the end though, perhaps I’ll forever be known as The Russian called Natasha, renamed Amber. It produces millions of memorable accounts... But those are stories for another day.

     To put it simply, writer's block is one of an author's worst nightmares. It wolfs down my inspiration and imagination like a starving monster and spits it back out. A bit graphic, but it's the absolute truth. I can't even tell you how many times I've caught it!
     Now, now, though! Don't get ahead of yourself there, buddy; not every story-teller's writer's block is the same! There are many symptoms, unfortunately. Perhaps you can't come up with an idea. Perhaps you have too many ideas and can't commit until... poof! They taper out. PERHAPS, you just get plain BORED!
     I hate to break it to you, but writer's block is not one case with one solution.
     Writer's block... it's those moments where one is just staring at their paper - or computer - with this zombie face. Y'know, the works: glazed and unblinking eyes, an unhinged jaw, a slight dribble of drool slowly crawling its way down their chin... Basically, it appears as if one has no thoughts running through their head besides the stereotypical, should-be-the-writer's-block-slogan, “I have nothing to say." Completely understandable! I'm sure we've all been there! (Dear Baby Jesus, I hope it's not just me... Talk about an embarrassing blog if it was, eh?) But when you break it down, you come up with a list of countless troubles!
     As luck would have it though, I write to you because I have a solution! Not in the "take four of these vitamins in two-hour intervals each recommended day, every other day of the week for all the months that end with 'y'" kind of solution... but a solution nonetheless!
     Okay, here it is... You ready for it? All settled? Comfy? Are you sitting, because this might just blow you away!
     Take a break.
     Before you go click that little red box in the corner because you think this is some bologna idea, I've got to tell you, I'm being more serious than two kids discussing where the imaginary half-and-half line is for a cookie meant to be shared!
     Oh yeah. I'm that serious.
     Sure, there are a lot more - okay, millions of ways to cure raconteur-a-coma. Stepping back for a while happens to be one “prescription” that can resolve quite a few "symptoms" of the dreaded issue. Speaking as someone who's experienced it, I have to say that it has helped me. I mean, you don't have to take forever.
     Honestly, if you still aren't coming up with anything, you probably still have it...
     That's just how the beast works.

    You could say that it all started when I was young. You could say that it was a stroke of inspiration that struck my spirit to the point of a newly-found passion. You could say a lot of things, but the moral of the stories are all one and the same: writing found me.
    The countless words written in a little girl's sloppy print on pages of wire-bound notebook never ceased to place a goofy smile on my face. I always tried to find new ideas that would stand out from the norm, and a child's imagination can reach no bounds.
    "What I would buy out of a catalog would be a big piece of property."
    That is out of a slim school notebook from my elementary years. Apparently, it would have a lake and beautiful waterfall that I would swim in. On the "big piece of property," I would build a cabin "with nobody to help." That bit gave me a laugh. It's safe to say that I was a fiercely independent girl. Oh, and I was already thinking about bills! Goodness gracious. "I will not use electricity, because I don't want to pay for it." Yeah... that was my complete explanation. I wanted a lot of land and to live without bills.
    I think it was around third grade when the idea of fantasy caught me in its infinite possibilities though. It was a foreign territory that I was eager to explore and make my own. I wrote of a monkey named BoBo in a rendition of Jack and the Beanstalk, how the raven got its metallic black feathers, about a talking shoe that makes a girl and her dog famous, of a peace-loving girl from the future who nurses two abandoned polar bear cubs back to health after she rescues them in her flying car... The sky was the limit for me.
    Novels, music, events... everything began to instigate a wild creativity within me. It all just accumulated in a burst of heart for script. Words strung together bloomed into a love of writing that I couldn't shake. New thoughts, ideas, feelings...
    All to create something magical.

    I'm probably one of the first to admit that I am one of the most scatter-brained girls in the Copper Valley. Now, some people may not agree, but they're the ones who have never seen me in a ditzy mode.
    My capricious attitude and sporadic loss of coordination leads to many of my faults, particularly in volleyball. If you're a Kenny Laker, you know the typical procedures of the sport - score a point against the other team and rotate. As the player who has the position of the cover, I'm supposed to be "everywhere." Meaning? I have to be in constant motion covering my teammates and watching the ball. A lot of the time when I'm running around, I forget I have to move out of people's way. This itsy bitsy problem of mine led to quite a collision at the Tok Tournament. During the vying, I did a sort of spin-and-bump in my attempt to keep the ball from the court floor. It then went straight up, and when I failed to disperse fast enough, Deanna Knutson soared over me and hit the ball to the other side of the net with her fist. I didn't know this, seeing as how I was on the floor serving the purpose of a landing-softener  To further the case of my frivolous trait, when the team went back to the starting spots, and I saw that we were still serving, I was flabbergasted – enough to turn to Deanna, in the middle of a play, and ask, “You made that over?”
    For the life of me, I can’t remember when my clumsiness and daffy ways began, but it sure does make stumbling through existence – literally – a remarkable experience.

    I don’t know what it is about the autumn season, but I love it. Maybe it’s the slight bite the wind gives your cheeks without completely freezing you, or the ominous feeling the barren branches have as they lose their leaves to the cold grasp of pre-winter chill. Whatever it is, nobody can deny its magnificence.
    The colors have something to do with it – of that, I know. I sometimes find myself wondering what it would look like from someone else’s perspective; I’m so used to it, that occasionally, I miss the ever-present hues of the vibrant time of year. Gold, orange, green, brown, and red are all juxtaposed to create the ultimate scene of splendor. When I actually take everything in… it hits me. The array of shades is easy on the eyes; it’s a glorious sight for anyone.
    Autumn brings a simply nostalgic feeling to me. Some of my childhood memories come back, for instance, the way the thin layer of crystalline ice would surround the edges of Town Lake as temperatures dropped sporadically, and the swans gliding across the ponds in Chitina before they flew south. As a kid, fall would leave my siblings and me in anticipation; the building suspense of watching the snow on the mountains grow closer and closer to our little town would drive us nearly insane.
    Even now, as I sit in the library and sun rises in the sky, shedding light, I can see the frost sparkling as it clings to the fading grass. The season of fall: a time just right, with a natural beauty.

    You can’t truly get to know a person in a few short sentences… but I’ll try.
     I never know what to say when I’m introducing myself, so I’ll start off simple. I’m Amber Lenard, a freshman in Kenny Lake High School; I am often immersed in reading, can be found lost in thought, and I’m usually that person in the middle of a group caught laughing awfully loud, hollering about something or other. You’ll find little ‘ole me in what I can only describe as a rural place, way out in the middle of the forests with wild creatures and remarkable characters who are discovered in all of the nooks and crannies. I swim in freezing water, wade through snow in temperatures that can have you literally shaking in your boots, and drive five hours to get to the nearest city. To sum that up in a few words, I guess you can just call me Alaskan: born and raised.
     However, don’t let my questionably sane existence fool you. I may not sound quite average, but I’m one of those small-town girls with big dreams to travel far and wide. I want to see what life has to offer me and pursue it with all I have, whether it’s getting published somewhere, taking photos, or something completely different.
     For now though, I’ll be working my way up, enjoying the ride of being young, sarcastic, and having arguably senseless moments that I learn from. I’ll leave you in the words of the great Henry David Thoreau who said, “How vain is it to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live.”
      Think about that.