Claire Chapman
College Composition and Research
Pre-Writing Essay
December 11, 2015
Words
I am a human made from flesh and blood. I am solid. I am steady. I am corporeal. I live in a world of touchable entities and definite events, but despite this, there has always been one intangible element that has impacted me in a way that no material object ever could: words. Made up in the minds of men without solid form or substance, words form stories, which, in turn, hold a weight on my being that I cannot fully comprehend. My life can be measured in the stories I have read and the words used to create them; words have made me who I am today.
At six years old, curled up on the bed next to my dad as he cracked open and started reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, I began to love a story. The story had villains, heroes, and magic spells, and I adored it. I ran through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾, snuck through the castle corridors, and solved magic riddles every time my dad opened that book. In my mind, I was limitless. Harry had a magical world, and so did I. Each night, my brother and I would beg for “just oooone more chapter!” and each night as I grew sleepier from the warm sound of my dad’s voice, I fell a little more in love with the story.
That love of a story catapulted me into my future as a lover of words and the tales they tell. At seven, I read every Junie B. Jones book in existence. I was a big girl, and I could read chapter books without any pictures. I could go on as many adventures as I dreamed, and, boy, did Junie B. and I have some great times! We were a team; we laughed, waited for the “stupid smelly bus” together, and came up with all sorts of ridiculous ideas to get what we wanted. Junie B. showed me just how fun reading could be and taught me to crave the next chance to go on a new journey.
When I was ten, my journey took me back to where the storytelling began. As soon as Dad closed the back cover of the last Harry Potter, I turned right around and read the entire Potter series all over again. During that second run, I realized I was Hermione. Of course, I was still Claire, but Hermione and I were basically the same person, right down the brown, frizzy, rats’ nests sitting on top of our heads. I was inquisitive, and that was okay. I loved learning, positively adored reading, and was not afraid to share it. I grew into myself and my personality with the help of the bookworm from Hogwarts who time and time again proved that hard work and a little knowledge could change the world.
I was thirteen years old when I realized that the world did indeed need changing. I read Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, which is not as light-hearted as its Broadway counterpart. Wicked unmasked my society and showed me the corruption and hypocrisy beneath. Elphaba was not really evil; she had just been misunderstood because she was different. Who was evil? Maybe no one was. The world was not always black and white; I opened my eyes wide and saw gray. I formed opinions based on my thoughts, not what the world accepted. Words became powerful tools.
When I was fifteen, Les Misérables showed me the true power of words. Jean Valjean’s journey from prison to the barricade to the church where he drew his final breath had me sobbing uncontrollably. Although, this book was not just about the story, about what happened from first page to last; it was about the words and what they were really trying to say. The story showed me a man who got out of trouble, took in a child, saved some people, and then died. The words showed me a man who found God, loved unconditionally, and found peace at last. This story strengthened my mind, my will, and my relationship with God, and I have words to thank for that.
My life can be traced along a path of words and stories that winds, twists, and continues to change me at every turn. These stories have helped define who I am: I am a human made from flesh and blood, and I am altered irrevocably by words that are neither solid nor steady nor corporeal. I may never completely understand how such impalpable elements can influence me so greatly, but who knows? Maybe one day, I will find the right words to answer even that question.
College Composition and Research
Pre-Writing Essay
December 11, 2015
Words
I am a human made from flesh and blood. I am solid. I am steady. I am corporeal. I live in a world of touchable entities and definite events, but despite this, there has always been one intangible element that has impacted me in a way that no material object ever could: words. Made up in the minds of men without solid form or substance, words form stories, which, in turn, hold a weight on my being that I cannot fully comprehend. My life can be measured in the stories I have read and the words used to create them; words have made me who I am today.
At six years old, curled up on the bed next to my dad as he cracked open and started reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, I began to love a story. The story had villains, heroes, and magic spells, and I adored it. I ran through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾, snuck through the castle corridors, and solved magic riddles every time my dad opened that book. In my mind, I was limitless. Harry had a magical world, and so did I. Each night, my brother and I would beg for “just oooone more chapter!” and each night as I grew sleepier from the warm sound of my dad’s voice, I fell a little more in love with the story.
That love of a story catapulted me into my future as a lover of words and the tales they tell. At seven, I read every Junie B. Jones book in existence. I was a big girl, and I could read chapter books without any pictures. I could go on as many adventures as I dreamed, and, boy, did Junie B. and I have some great times! We were a team; we laughed, waited for the “stupid smelly bus” together, and came up with all sorts of ridiculous ideas to get what we wanted. Junie B. showed me just how fun reading could be and taught me to crave the next chance to go on a new journey.
When I was ten, my journey took me back to where the storytelling began. As soon as Dad closed the back cover of the last Harry Potter, I turned right around and read the entire Potter series all over again. During that second run, I realized I was Hermione. Of course, I was still Claire, but Hermione and I were basically the same person, right down the brown, frizzy, rats’ nests sitting on top of our heads. I was inquisitive, and that was okay. I loved learning, positively adored reading, and was not afraid to share it. I grew into myself and my personality with the help of the bookworm from Hogwarts who time and time again proved that hard work and a little knowledge could change the world.
I was thirteen years old when I realized that the world did indeed need changing. I read Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, which is not as light-hearted as its Broadway counterpart. Wicked unmasked my society and showed me the corruption and hypocrisy beneath. Elphaba was not really evil; she had just been misunderstood because she was different. Who was evil? Maybe no one was. The world was not always black and white; I opened my eyes wide and saw gray. I formed opinions based on my thoughts, not what the world accepted. Words became powerful tools.
When I was fifteen, Les Misérables showed me the true power of words. Jean Valjean’s journey from prison to the barricade to the church where he drew his final breath had me sobbing uncontrollably. Although, this book was not just about the story, about what happened from first page to last; it was about the words and what they were really trying to say. The story showed me a man who got out of trouble, took in a child, saved some people, and then died. The words showed me a man who found God, loved unconditionally, and found peace at last. This story strengthened my mind, my will, and my relationship with God, and I have words to thank for that.
My life can be traced along a path of words and stories that winds, twists, and continues to change me at every turn. These stories have helped define who I am: I am a human made from flesh and blood, and I am altered irrevocably by words that are neither solid nor steady nor corporeal. I may never completely understand how such impalpable elements can influence me so greatly, but who knows? Maybe one day, I will find the right words to answer even that question.