College Essays On Basketball

That there was no heat in the flooded building and they had rejected everything and had gone home early. Those were the facts — no opinions, no emotions I could translate into ink on a page, touch, understand. I sat at my computer with my fingers on the keys, shaking, sweating, smudging, but there was nothing to say.Everyone went to the memorial service and everyone brought flowers, and in the silence, we cried.

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(It was, I think, our pastor’s method of drilling the meaning of temptation into heads — he always preached about Eden the following Sunday.) I sat on my couch and counted the minutes until the agony of pie-making, (almost) forgetting the novel that was currently with the acquisitions board of one of the biggest publishing houses in the world.

To be fair, I hadn’t known that the acquisitions meeting would be held that day.

As I read, it is as if the tempest of my thoughts is spelled out on paper.

The overflowing sense of hyper-reality in Tim O’Brien’s words of warfare spills into my world.

I knew the meeting had been pushed back twice already by an unsympathetic hurricane that had left downtown Manhattan under several feet of water. I had found an agent who hadn’t run away when I finally told her that I was 15, who loved my story almost as much as I did, who submitted it and lured two — Phone call from my agent. A classmate, a car out of control, a crash into a tree.

Sweaty palms and dizziness, a tap of a shaking finger to a smudged screen. A sigh and, at last, the news, that the publisher had a similar novel on her list and vetoed the editors. We used to have gym together, I didn’t know him too well, and I never would.As we both stood up, her eyes widened as I kept rising over her. Embarrassed, we both laughed and picked up the books a second time. People unfamiliar to me have always wanted to engage me in lengthy conversations, so I have had to become comfortable interacting with all kinds of people.Looking back, I realize that through years of such encounters, I have become a confident, articulate person.I did know that two — — senior editors wanted to make all of my impossible dreams come true. I had slogged through the query trenches in search of an agent. After all, the next day was the beginning of National Novel Writing Month.I knew that the marketing and sales people had already looked over my manuscript — something that usually happened post-contract. I had collected enough rejection letters to wallpaper my room. I had an outline and a story to tell: one of imaginary friends, Newton’s Laws of Motion, a car out of control, a crash into a tree. in place of a greeting, another hurricane in the answer.I feel like a speck of dust outside the train, floating, content and happy to be between destinations. I speak both English and Chinese: Chinese is for math, science, and process, but I prefer English for art, emotion, and description.America owns my childhood, filled with pine trees, blockbuster movies, and Lake Tahoe snow; China holds my adolescence, accompanied by industrial smog, expeditious mobility, and fast-paced social scenes. My reverie isn’t at an end, but I have the answer to my question.Luckily, I board my train with seconds to spare, and without being turned into a pancake – always a plus. In another week I will cross the globe to start a new life in a foreign land called Charlotte. Today it is by Tim O’Brien, already worn and slightly crumpled.They say the best books tell you what you already know, resonating with your own thoughts and emotions.These essays are in addition to three similar collections from the Class of 2022, Class of 2012, and Class of 2007.On the day my first novel was rejected, I was baking pies.

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