Serious stuff
I sent off my UCAS form on Thursday. (It's the form you have to fill in to apply to British Universities), and I've had a reply from Strathclyde already to say they've received it, which means I have to post off my folio now, if not sooner to them. Here's a couple of the three pieces I have to do (the third's not done yet), I'd appreciate any opinions!
This had to be a piece called 'Why Write' - a personal response. it's about 20 words over the limit, so if anyone has any opinion about which sentence to cut, please let me know!
Why do we write? What is it that has compelled humankind to put pen to paper, or chisel to stone to write? Or perhaps a better question is, as Sartre realised, ‘For whom do we write?’ We write for ourselves. We write as a cathartic release for our emotions. We write to preserve our mortality, to leave frozen moments of ourselves; so that we may look back and see our past selves, immortalised in our words. For centuries, men have yearned after immortality, seeking to live forever. We write to achieve this, so that by reading our words others might remember our name. Writers such as Homer and Shakespeare will never truly die, not when they are still read centuries and millennia after their deaths.
Words are our currency; everyone may use them, and they help our world progress, or threaten its wellbeing. In an age of propaganda, words are more precious than gems, and more powerful than nuclear warheads. It was not weapons of mass destruction which led to war with Iraq; they were merely fabrications created by politicians to mask the true reason for war. The pen truly is mightier than the sword.
We write to try to capture an emotion, a place or a person to share with others. We write because we can: without words, we are nothing.
Okay, we had to write a short story, or submit an extract from a longer piece of fiction, that was 300 words long. This is my take on Eveline, from James Joyce's Dubliners, only it's Edinburghers, and in the present. day, if that makes any sense. Again, it's too long, I think about 120 words, so let me know if there's a bit you think I should cut.
She sat at the computer, trying to catch that elusive spark of an idea from the messy disorder of her thoughts. Her forehead was cradled in her hand, and she felt drowsiness begin to creep over her.
She felt frustrated at her lack of inspiration, at her lethargy. She simply had to write a few pieces, yet the sight of a blank screen waiting for her to fill it always drew out the tiredness, banished the inspirations.
Gazing out upon the churchyard, at the church which had created so many memories, and the halls in which she had made so many friends, at ballet, drama club and brownies. She had lived her entire life in the same neighbourhood, with the churchyard at the core, and the familiar architecture of the church always visible, and now she was about to leave it.
Looking around the familiar room, she felt frustration at being confined there for so long, ill with glandular fever, and longed to escape the walls which had become her prison, but the thought of leaving forever to go to university scared her. She would miss the comfort of these familiar surroundings, and the caring kindness of her family, once they were no longer there. The noise of the washing machine would be conspicuous by its absence; the attentions of her family would be missed when the oft-longed for privacy was won.
She had an independence, of a sort; she was free to explore the town with her friends, (although they were somewhat limited in their ideas), and she was able to pay her own way due to her part time job. She also had family here: not only her immediate family, but also grandparents and cousins, and she would be leaving them behind. But she in turn had been left behind by other family members, her cousins in England and New York. She would not be the first to go, nor would she be the last.
She would be forging a new life for herself, away from parental interference, a wholly independent life, away from all that was familiar and reassuring. At the beginning, the concept of university had been just something to put off the inevitable decision of how to spend the rest of her life, but now she regarded the thought with a nervous excitement. The experience of living away from home, of studying her beloved English would live with her for the rest of her days, if she could escape the listlessness caused by her illness long enough to complete her writings – then all could do would be to wait and hope for the letter of acceptance…
This had to be a piece called 'Why Write' - a personal response. it's about 20 words over the limit, so if anyone has any opinion about which sentence to cut, please let me know!
Why do we write? What is it that has compelled humankind to put pen to paper, or chisel to stone to write? Or perhaps a better question is, as Sartre realised, ‘For whom do we write?’ We write for ourselves. We write as a cathartic release for our emotions. We write to preserve our mortality, to leave frozen moments of ourselves; so that we may look back and see our past selves, immortalised in our words. For centuries, men have yearned after immortality, seeking to live forever. We write to achieve this, so that by reading our words others might remember our name. Writers such as Homer and Shakespeare will never truly die, not when they are still read centuries and millennia after their deaths.
Words are our currency; everyone may use them, and they help our world progress, or threaten its wellbeing. In an age of propaganda, words are more precious than gems, and more powerful than nuclear warheads. It was not weapons of mass destruction which led to war with Iraq; they were merely fabrications created by politicians to mask the true reason for war. The pen truly is mightier than the sword.
We write to try to capture an emotion, a place or a person to share with others. We write because we can: without words, we are nothing.
Okay, we had to write a short story, or submit an extract from a longer piece of fiction, that was 300 words long. This is my take on Eveline, from James Joyce's Dubliners, only it's Edinburghers, and in the present. day, if that makes any sense. Again, it's too long, I think about 120 words, so let me know if there's a bit you think I should cut.
She sat at the computer, trying to catch that elusive spark of an idea from the messy disorder of her thoughts. Her forehead was cradled in her hand, and she felt drowsiness begin to creep over her.
She felt frustrated at her lack of inspiration, at her lethargy. She simply had to write a few pieces, yet the sight of a blank screen waiting for her to fill it always drew out the tiredness, banished the inspirations.
Gazing out upon the churchyard, at the church which had created so many memories, and the halls in which she had made so many friends, at ballet, drama club and brownies. She had lived her entire life in the same neighbourhood, with the churchyard at the core, and the familiar architecture of the church always visible, and now she was about to leave it.
Looking around the familiar room, she felt frustration at being confined there for so long, ill with glandular fever, and longed to escape the walls which had become her prison, but the thought of leaving forever to go to university scared her. She would miss the comfort of these familiar surroundings, and the caring kindness of her family, once they were no longer there. The noise of the washing machine would be conspicuous by its absence; the attentions of her family would be missed when the oft-longed for privacy was won.
She had an independence, of a sort; she was free to explore the town with her friends, (although they were somewhat limited in their ideas), and she was able to pay her own way due to her part time job. She also had family here: not only her immediate family, but also grandparents and cousins, and she would be leaving them behind. But she in turn had been left behind by other family members, her cousins in England and New York. She would not be the first to go, nor would she be the last.
She would be forging a new life for herself, away from parental interference, a wholly independent life, away from all that was familiar and reassuring. At the beginning, the concept of university had been just something to put off the inevitable decision of how to spend the rest of her life, but now she regarded the thought with a nervous excitement. The experience of living away from home, of studying her beloved English would live with her for the rest of her days, if she could escape the listlessness caused by her illness long enough to complete her writings – then all could do would be to wait and hope for the letter of acceptance…