Have you ever heard a song about fishsticks? It won't take me long to tell you 'bout fishsticks!
Following in Squill's footsteps, I'm posting a possible college essay. It was actually written for a class assignment, but I like the idea at least, so I'll probably try to use it for something. Thoughts?
What set me apart at a young age from most others was a simple quality: nerdliness. And not simply, "oh, that girl's pretty smart, but she's a little awkward." This was a matter of full-on, Steve-Urkel-worthy nerdiness, and this phase of my life lasted for approximately fourteen years until something inside me snapped and I figured out how to combine a strange sense of humor with extroversion to make one loud, but generable socially compatible, unit.
That is what leads me to my next point, which is that becoming more socially acceptable made me stupider, at least as far as other people can tell. The eloquent and often over-done language that I was accustomed to using began to slowly fade out of my vocabulary, to be replaced by "legit!'' and "awesome possum." I melded in with the teenage vernacular.
Secretly, though, I hoard words. I collect them, treasure them, and pour over them in the thickest, most loquacious, most joyously geeky science fiction and fantasy novels I can amass. When I search for my daily reading material (because I read so quickly that few books can last more than a day or two of focused attention), I am a dragon at its hoard, searching for its favorite bauble. It is incomprehensible to me when people tell me they don't enjoy books, that they prefer the movie version; in movies, I protest, there are no words! No movie can translate each gleaming syllable, dripping with the connotations of carefully chosen syntax. In a book, there is no character more significant than the character of each word chosen; some shabby, some roguish, some sweet, some waving cheekily and sniping your wallet when you look away.
Perhaps it is a shameful secret, that I guard so closely, but I simply love words. Through the years so many have waxed eloquent in praise of written language, and it is never enough. Words are beautiful, unique, and charming; the simplest turn of phrase, the simplest use of a well-placed adjective, can grant any statement such power that I find it hard to resist using as many as possible when I write. The thesaurus is my dearest friend, whose treasures I greedily covet, and English teachers tell me time and time again that I must cut words and strip bare the meaning. Without them, though, I feel as naked as queen stripped of her crown. For I am a queen of words, and I love my subjects dearly.
What set me apart at a young age from most others was a simple quality: nerdliness. And not simply, "oh, that girl's pretty smart, but she's a little awkward." This was a matter of full-on, Steve-Urkel-worthy nerdiness, and this phase of my life lasted for approximately fourteen years until something inside me snapped and I figured out how to combine a strange sense of humor with extroversion to make one loud, but generable socially compatible, unit.
That is what leads me to my next point, which is that becoming more socially acceptable made me stupider, at least as far as other people can tell. The eloquent and often over-done language that I was accustomed to using began to slowly fade out of my vocabulary, to be replaced by "legit!'' and "awesome possum." I melded in with the teenage vernacular.
Secretly, though, I hoard words. I collect them, treasure them, and pour over them in the thickest, most loquacious, most joyously geeky science fiction and fantasy novels I can amass. When I search for my daily reading material (because I read so quickly that few books can last more than a day or two of focused attention), I am a dragon at its hoard, searching for its favorite bauble. It is incomprehensible to me when people tell me they don't enjoy books, that they prefer the movie version; in movies, I protest, there are no words! No movie can translate each gleaming syllable, dripping with the connotations of carefully chosen syntax. In a book, there is no character more significant than the character of each word chosen; some shabby, some roguish, some sweet, some waving cheekily and sniping your wallet when you look away.
Perhaps it is a shameful secret, that I guard so closely, but I simply love words. Through the years so many have waxed eloquent in praise of written language, and it is never enough. Words are beautiful, unique, and charming; the simplest turn of phrase, the simplest use of a well-placed adjective, can grant any statement such power that I find it hard to resist using as many as possible when I write. The thesaurus is my dearest friend, whose treasures I greedily covet, and English teachers tell me time and time again that I must cut words and strip bare the meaning. Without them, though, I feel as naked as queen stripped of her crown. For I am a queen of words, and I love my subjects dearly.