My hobby essay

Looking back through the last page or two, I see that I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don't want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane. I cannot say with certainty which of my motives are the strongest, but I know which of them deserve to be followed. And looking back through my work, I see that it is invariably where I lacked a political purpose that I wrote lifeless books and was betrayed into purple passages, sentences without meaning, decorative adjectives and humbug generally.

My son wrote the “Grandparent” essay. Well make that the great-grandparent essay. It started with a humorous scene related to the funeral and went on to demonstrate the life-lessons learned from the great-grandparent with a couple of real examples of where my son used those lessons. It was engaging, funny and poignant and a real insight into my son and what he values. It (together with his accomplishments) earned him a likely letter to Harvard and a spot at his first-choice, where he chose to attend. It is not the topic but the delivery.

My hobby essay

my hobby essay

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