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The essay I had to read was called, An Essay on Criticism by Alexander Pope. The first challenge was that the essay was, in fact, a very long poem in heroic couplets. If something is called an essay, it should be an essay.

Maureen Johnson

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Maureen Johnson
Age: 51
Born: 1973
Born: February 16
Author
Novelist
Writer
Philadelphia
Pennsylvania
Long
Criticism
Couplets
Something
Challenges
Essay
Called
Alexander
Read
Essays
Fact
Pope
Facts
Heroic
Firsts
Poem
First
Challenge

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This pool is a triumph of imagination. That's how you win at life, Gin. You have to imagine your way through. Never say something can't be done. There's always a solution, even if it's weird.
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I read two mysteries a day when I was a kid. All of Agatha Christie, all of 'Sherlock Holmes.' I've seen every single British detective show ever made.
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These houses had been plunked down with an alarming randomness -- unevenly spaced, on crooked lines, like whoever had designed the place had said, We'll just follow this cat, and wherever he sits down, we'll build something.
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I try to shake it loose-but these ideas, they cling. It's like I'm shackled to them with an iron chain. They rattle along behind me, dragging against the ground, always reminding me of their presence.
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She wasn't only gay, she was a gay elf.
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Guilt isn't always a rational thing, Clio realized. Guilt is a weight that will crush you whether you deserve it or not.
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Something about her suggested that her leisure activities included wrestling large woodland animals and banging bricks together.
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Fear can't hurt you, she said. When it washes over you, give it no power. It's a snake with no venom. Remember that. That knowledge can save you.
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I realize Jubilee is a bit of a stripper name. You probably think I have heard the call of the pole.
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Tired, but not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.
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This is England, he explained. Tell someone it's a procedure, and they'll believe you. The pointless procedure is one of our great natural resources.
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The kids I talk to are readers, and the craziest, the most dedicated readers you will ever see.
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What tinfoil? he asked.
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Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was I going to go all fetal position, or was I going to woman up? I went into fetal position on the bed to think about this. Fetal position turned out to be very comfortable.
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She was standing in the airport of Copenhagen, staring at a doorway, trying to figure out if it was (a) a bathroom and (b) what kind of bathroom it was. The door merely said H. Was she an H? Was H hers? It could just as easily be his. Or Helicopter Room: Not a Bathroom at All
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Well, what now? You have no job. I have no job. Wanna play Jenga?
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One person's crazy is another person's sane, I guess.
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Money is for doing things, my love. Don't sit on it like a hen sits on an egg. It doesn't hatch. I should know. I've made enough of it.
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English rain feels obligatory, like paperwork. It dampens already damn days and slicks the stones.
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I envisioned huge piles of the Elf Hotel flying off the belt, taking down everybody in sight. I had seen pictures of that Elf Hotel - it had sharp candy-cane spires that could easily impale someone. If anyone was ever going to be killed by an Elf Hotel, it would be my parents.
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