申请纽约大学的Essay范文1：I Write.

I Write by David Sauvage - April 01, 1998 Please tell us something about yourself (approx. 500 words). Like I said, I&apos&aposm inept. I don&apos&apost tie my shoelaces. I don&apos&apost understand seat belts. I can&apos&apost change tires. I can&apos&apost cook or fish or dance or sing or act or lie. I don&apos&apost see how a plane can stay in the air or how it can land. I don&apos&apost know how to paint or sculpt, and I can&apos&apost take pictures unless the camera beeps. I&apos&aposm about as practical as a socialist and as self-absorbed as, well, a writer. I am a writer. That means I sit alone for hours on end, eyes bloodshot with red coffee stains. It means I run my hand through my hair intellectually, fawning over the character I&apos&aposve just created. Pretty soon, there&apos&aposs sweat on my forehead (brow, if you prer) and then on my fingers, then the keys. I rub my hands against my shorts. I push the chair back. I clap. I whisper an obscenity because I know I can get away with it. My eyes close. I think. I realize that the story must turn a certain way. Or I understand that the word "antisocial" is clearer than "misanthropic." I see something I hadn&apos&apost seen bore. My fingers twitch, and then it&apos&aposs there in front of me.I&apos&aposve written a story about a character who feels the need to bite his own thumb. I feel so enthusiastic about this awkward fiction that I needlessly decided to put the word "bite" in italics. Another character I own taps his spoon against a glass. I tried to have the rhythm of the story match the subtle tapping of a spoon against a glass. The character has to be able to breathe in his surroundings. He lives there, of course. The "catch" to working with my own character creations is that the more fascinated I become with these imaginary people, the more indignant I can become towards real people. I can fall into the repetitive trap of feeling as if I could have created this teacher or that friend. As a result, I have heard people describe me as discourteous, ungratul, and, condescending. When I make an attempt to change behaviors, it can often seem superficial, and I alienate people who matter to me. But, when I find myself quiet and listening, nodding or shaking my head in agreement or in anger, when I find myself across a table from somebody who speaks authoritatively but openly, when I find myself at best challenged and at worst intimidated by a character who actually exists outside of my head, then the condescension, the rudeness, the writer&apos&aposs ego, disappear, and I become fascinated. I try to remember everything said, and everything I thought of at the time. I want to take the person home and describe him or her until I run out of ink. "Antisocial" truly is a better word than "misanthropic." The characters in my writings are real to me also. I know them well. They stomp around in my head until I express them, and then they linger still. It is this lingering that convinces me over and over again that I am a writer. It is my love of the charactersand who they representthat convinces me that I could one day be an excellent writer.