Year 11 Writing

When teaching writing in preparation for English exams, we often suggest to students that they
write from a point of view that is not their own; it encourages creativity, and stands out to weary
examiners who have probably read different versions of the same piece of writing many times that
day! We had some fantastic pieces of writing completed by our year 11 students in this year’s
mock exams, but one stood out as being completely original and fully embracing the idea of
writing from a different perspective. Sophie was asked to write a description suggested by the
image below, and I’m sure you’ll agree she did a fantastic job!

Mrs Swain, Head of English

I am the ink . . . the ink which runs through pages and pictures. The ink that captures family highs
and lows. The ink that determines life or death. I am the powerful ink! I assist all that need me, even
when I am not wanted, but that’s usually teenagers sulking over homework! I guide people to
greatness and show people their thoughts; I am ink.

Many use me in my multiple roles, including Oslo, the man who you see in this picture; his soft eyes
and beaten skin tell a thousand stories just in one glance. In partnership with the photographer, they
came to me seeking help to tell his story . . . Those soft innocent eyes were my focus. How do I show
the kindness that lives behind them? Perfectly placing them between the eyebrows and wrinkles,
they lie, sunken and rested, for no more work is required from these retired souls. The face, I
noticed, doesn’t all fit. “Big Head” I thought, chuckling away as I proceeded. Carving my way through
the page, beginning with forehead and ending with the hair coated chin, I stop and wonder if this
man is happy? The innocent eyes suddenly change into fierce daggers, attacking the page. A
monster. . . I’ve created a monster! Galloping with all the power I stare towards that frowning brow;
one swift movement and it will be alright. I will not ruin this handsome face . . . Panic over! After
restoring the gentleness of his expression, I continue shading and giving depth to his complexity.
Each line tells another chapter of the story, and each wrinkle tells another to the sequel. Finally, I
reach his beard; the long grass swaying in the field, covering the cave which holds twenty-four
swords poised ready for any food which dares to enter. Stroke by stroke, flick by flick, I complete the
masterpiece which is Oslo. In just a few moments from now, he will be holding his warm photo, as if
a freshly baked cake recovered from the oven.

However, I am running out. The need for me is no longer as strong it has been for all these years.
Thanks to phones and computers, having physical photos or writing is no longer a necessity, but now
a cluttered mess taking up too much room. I am now stuck inside a pen and soon I will run out, and
be tossed in the bin, taken away and forgotten about forever.