I chose to write on a topic of my choice that will be sent to twelve different colleges with my common application. It's really important that this piece of writing is polished and perfect by the time it's done. Please leave any advice or critiques you may have. Thanks! :)
Isabel's pop up book and Jack's alphabet spiral bound were a passing grade, but then there was Sophia's. It was second grade Writer's Festival, an event eagerly awaited each year by the young scribe. Prolifically expounding upon the adventures of three mythical creatures, Sophia could not help the fact that she had the bulkiest story of them all. This was to be expected of course; Sophia was never without her wide rule notebook, scribbling stories in between bus stops like a graphomaniac bunny rabbit. From the time she was young it was an unavoidable talent. Instead of playing the tuba or being a ballerina, she was forever to be the girl pouring over lined paper with a ballpoint pen.
One of her pieces had been conceived on a library desk, tucked into the corner of the adult fiction section. Every day after a bumpy bus ride along rural back roads, young Sophia would wait at her local public library stop and hide away in the depths of the bookcases, like a four-year-old in a blanket fort. She would run her fingers down the long rows of shiny hardcovers, dreaming of one day running her hand along a book whose spine said, "Sophia Rose Webster". These hallways were her tunnels of inspiration. Underneath a stained glass window, a desk and a chair presented a charming spot for her to don a Ticonderoga pencil and write. Each day another page; every week another chapter, until eventually the recluse fifth grader found herself scurrying to the nearest librarian and bursting out in exuberance, "I've been writing a book, and um, I just got to my hundredth page!"
Even as I turned from little girl to teen, this remained among my proudest childhood moments. The special connection I had felt with writing stayed with me through high school. Sometimes it acted as my escape from the world around me. A non judgmental notebook lending an ear was an easy way to clear the cacophony in my cranium. Others times, it was simply a way to capture moments and convey feelings; something I imagined I might read in twenty years and smile at. On one particular morning, I was struggling to find the motivation to leave my splendidly warm blankets and get ready for a day of school. Looking at the clock, I did what any normal teenager would do. I gave myself a writing prompt, and immediately sprung out of bed. "What is the best thing about waking up at six AM?" Breakfast, of course, along with an ode to a bowl of oatmeal.
Everyone has their own reason for getting out of bed in the morning. It was that moment that I realized mine was putting pen to page. The summation of all these experiences has been to teach me that I can't not write. If I am to live a full life, then I simply must be writing, one letter at a time. Now a senior in high school, I'm thankful for having a goal that gets me out from under the covers in the middle of November in New England. And mark my words that a little girl will some day run her fingers along a line of book spines and see among them, "Sophia Rose Webster".
