Writing

I'm in the common room, writing, while Elliot Munroe sits beside me doing the same.  He is doing writing for English, and I am updating my blog, yet I'm pretty sure my writing is more creative (at the present time) than his.  This is not to put down the talent of Mr. Munroe as a writer- he is a creative and talented individual.  It's just that, despite the fact he is technically writing a fictitious piece, the confines he is held by in  his writing have caged his freedom of expression into a tiny, conformist box.  He is doing homework for his English lesson, and upon learning this, one of the first things I found myself asking was 'What's it based on?'.  Upon saying this, I realised how contorted the subject I love had become.  For me, English at A Level teaches you to write the same way that driving theory books teach you to drive.  My love of reading and knowledge has kept me occupied feeding off the tit-bits of other people's creativity, but about a week ago, when Mr. Evans said 'The coursework next year is not dissimilar from the creative writing this year.', I decided that English, at an academic level, might not be for me.  I love writing - I love to express abstract cocepts through an ellaborate array of devices, or simply harness the sheer power of words, but I feel that my Lit/lang course has influenced me no more than a wider reading pattern would have done.  Except all the long words, which help me seem more clever than I really am.  (Big shout out to Dictionary.com flashcards.)

Also, me and Josh got really close to a fox at school and everyone was watching us, awestruck, from the library.

*ATTENTION READER*
The previous post was originally intended to be written in two sittings, but it has been published prematurely in the light of the sheer excellence and exhilaration surrounding the next post, which has entirely displaced it.