Writing resembles a way that is highly travelled‚ through the purpose of landing‚ if dependably came to‚ is not frequently adequate. Most people have their own thoughts of what writing is. To me‚ writing is each sort of distributed material and works which are managing a particular subject like poems‚ plays‚ novels. In straightforward words‚ it is a piece of writing that is appreciated as works of art‚ mainly novels‚ plays and poems. I took in the significance of writing when I went to the classes
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been in school‚ my writing has developed greatly. My writing has evolved throughout the years but this semester is when my writing became the best I have seen it. Due to my experience and my evolution of writing‚ my definition of good‚ effective writing may differ from other people’s perspectives. Defining something as “good” can be quite vague in the sense that good means many different things such as desirable‚ righteousness‚ and well. In my first and second “Theory of Writing” paper‚ I stated
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My Favourite Quotation about Love “By blood‚ I am Albanian. By citizenship‚ an Indian. By faith‚ I am a Catholic nun. As to my calling‚ I belong to the world. As to my heart‚ I belong entirely to the Heart of Jesus.”Hearing these words‚ can you guess who she is? Yes‚ that is Mother Teresa and my fovourite quotation about love is just from her-------“not all of us can do great things‚ but we can do small things with great love.” Mother Teresa had devoted her whole life to minister to the poor‚ sick
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The history of India begins with evidence of human activity of Homo sapiens as long as 75‚000 years ago‚ or with earlier hominids including Homo erectusfrom about 500‚000 years ago. The Indus Valley Civilisation‚ which spread and flourished in the northwestern part of the Indian subcontinent from c. 3300 to 1300 BCE in present-day Pakistan and northwest India‚ was the first major civilisation in South Asia. A sophisticated and technologically advanced urban culture developed in the Mature Harappan period
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whiteboard remains. My eyes dart towards the window as I stare at the barren tree branches; they shiver‚ afraid‚ in the thick cold and velvety air of winter. As my stoic teacher slowly raises from her seat the creak of her chair invades the classroom; her thin lips turn upward and she stares down each student with her hawk-like glare. My heart races and I start to breathe harder and harder—faster and faster. The
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There ’s always that early morning rush and panic when you think you’re all set to go on holiday. You check you have packed everything and that the young children are settled and securely strapped in to their seats. As you drive away from the house your mind is going over a list of belongings you have packed when you realize you ’ve forgotten something. Luckily you’re only a few minutes down the road so your dad turns round and drives back. Of course there is always one person who has forgotten to
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warm confines of my bed room‚ I started to pour down my thoughts into writing‚ quietly praying that he will be able to know‚ at least the extent of my emotions… Briefly written in a small parchment‚ I folded the paper into four and noticing how it started to our heavily outside‚ I pulled out my drawer and produced a red folded umbrella. Seeing the water-proof name tag‚ I hurriedly inserted the glossy parchment into it and then rose up from chair‚ sprinting out of my room to make my way to the antique
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could end was with my car upside down in the middle of the road. My knuckles were white from gripping the bitter cold leather steering wheel‚ which felt like ice even on my gloved hands. I could hear my dad in the back of my head‚ reminding me to very slowly press on my brake. My car slowed‚ but it was still trapped in the wrong lane‚ with traffic heading right
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it was a cold grey day in late September. The weather had metamorphosed overnight‚ when a backing wind brought a granite sky and a mizzling rain with it‚ and although it was now only two fifty-seven in the afternoon the ashen hue of a winter evening seemed to have closed upon the hills‚ cloaking them in mist. It would be dark by five o clock. The air was clammy cold‚ and for all the sealed windows it still penetrated the interior of the carriage. The leather seats felt damp to the hands‚ there must
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board our flight‚ kids‚ parents‚ and grandparents‚ and buckle up. We stayed in a cabin on the beach. When I say beach I mean a rocky‚ windy shoreline with lots of ocean spray. My brothers played outside and chased down and taunted tiny orange crabs. My grandparents took walks on the coast every evening‚ and I watched‚ perched on my tiny balcony. The grown-ups were big on doing things we couldn’t do in Illinois. Hiking through mountains‚ seeing the city‚ and avoiding the sharp shells on the beach were
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