Focus on Descriptive Writing
Paper 2
Writing to INFORM, EXPLAIN,
DESCRIBE
Descriptive choices
2002: Describe the room you are
sitting in
2003: Describe a place you hate
2004: Describe a shopping centre
when it is closed and when it is open
2005: Describe a nightmare world
2006: Describe yourself
2007: Describe your home
What’s wrong with the following?
The lighthouse goes up into the sky. I can
see its spotlight and I can hear it moving
around. I can also hear the waves. They
are moving back and forth on the shore.
Sometimes the waves splash over me. I
look again at the lighthouse in the
distance.
Why is this better?
The lighthouse soars up into the cold night air.
The low grown of its rotating spotlight struggles
like the moan of a wounded animal. Reluctantly,
the waves retreat, sucked back into the
darkness, then angrily return, pounding the foot
of the mighty stone structure. The spray
showers over me and my mouth fills with the
cold taste of the sea. The lighthouse stands
stern, a forbidding guardian of the shore.
Why is this writing so boring?
It was a bitterly cold day. Everyone was in
black. The cars were black too. There
were people standing around in a group
waiting for the coffin. Crows were flying in
the sky. It was really eerie.
What makes this better?
The Undertaker’s men were like crows, stiff and black,
and the cars were black, lined up beside the path that
led to the church. We too were black as we stood in our
pathetic awkward group waiting for them to lift the coffin
and shoulder it, and for the clergyman to arrange
himself; he was another black crow in his long cloak.
Suddenly the real crows rose cawing from the trees and
fields, whirled up like scraps of blackened paper from a
bonfire.
How could the description above be improved?
2002: Describe the room you are
sitting in
The room I am in is a big hall in my school. It is full of
people doing their English exam. Everyone is very quiet
and trying to do their best. There are teachers walking
up and down invigilating. I can see my friends
concentrating.
The room is quite warm. Because there are lots of
people in it. Most people are wearing shirts because it is
warm. There is some fresh air coming in from the
window.
The room I am in is the school hall. It has a stage at one
end which is used for plays and things like that. We had
a band here when we had the year 11 Christmas party.
How is this better?
The room I am sitting in is full of silent people working on their
English exam. Everyone’s face looks serious as they try to write as
much as they can and not make any spelling mistakes. All the
people I’ve known since year 7 are in this room as well as some I
remember from primary school.
We never thought in those days long ago that all these years at
school would end up in a hall like this. We used to think real life was
far away and never thought about how we would be judged on what
we had learned over all that time.
In the future we may remember this room as the place where the
rest of our lives was decided. No wonder everyone around me looks
serious.
What do you think of this one?
The clock ticks, the teacher’s shoes shuffle and the desk in front of
me squeaks as its occupant desperately tries to cram as many
adjectives as possible into two and a half sides of lined paper.
Outside, there is birdsong and the swaying of green leaves in the
breeze. Cars pass by and people go about their business, oblivious
to the fate of those imprisoned here. They pause to chat, they enjoy
the day. Inside is something else.
Imprisoned in silence, held by invisible chains to our desks, we
slaves obey the orders of our master. Chief Geeseyessy rules here,
and no one dares to rebel. Heads down, we do as his instructions
order us. Today’s order is To Describe. So, dutifully, submissively,
we, his underlings turn our attention away from Life outside to
concentrate on our determined task.
What do you think of this one?
You learn a lot about sex in an English GCSE exam. Well, perhaps
I mean gender, not sex. I’m sitting in my GCSE English exam and,
looking around, I can’t help noticing that most of the girls in the hall
have some sort of lucky mascot on their desks. Some have purple
haired trolls and others have little animal key ring attachments. The
boys don’t have any good luck mascots. Why is this? Why do girls,
even the bright ones who have been getting A* all year, feel they
need good luck on their side? Is it because girls don’t believe in
themselves? And why don’t boys need good luck charms? Is it
because they think “I’m a bloke. I don’t need luck. I’ve got
testosterone?”
It seems to me that boys need good luck more than girls. Who is it
who turns up to a writing exam and has to borrow a pen? Why is it
that in an English exam where you need an Anthology, the only
people who turn up without one are males?
What can learn from this?
• There is more to description than
recording the visible.
• Organisation of ideas is as important in
description as written expression.
• Contrast helps structure and language
detail.
• Objects are more interesting when they
are emblematic (e.g. good luck trolls
represent…)
Strategies for describing places
1: Establish your writer’s mood
e.g. I first saw x on a dull/bright morning/evening in…
What struck me on that first sight was…
2: The zoom lens
From a distance the place looks like…
As you get nearer, you begin to notice…
Close up, you realise that…
3: Misleading impressions
Don’t be deceived when you first see…
First impressions can be…
What doesn’t hit you at first sight is…
Describe the room you are in:
Don’t be deceived when you first see clothes on
the floor, mouldy cups on the window and sheets
of paper piled up on the work table. First
impressions can be misleading and lead to illinformed, inaccurate and sometimes hurtful
conclusions. What doesn’t hit you at first sight is
that there is a logic to the apparently random
scattering of objects in this room, a purposeful
arrangement based on my own life priorities.
Similarly…
However…
Small details make a big impression!
•
It’s when the electrician comes that’s when the humiliation begins.
For half an hour our family life is exposed to analytical gaze as the
area underneath the washer is revealed. As the washing machine is
pulled from the wall, there is a gasp, a horrified little scream and the
beginning of a flurry of apology.
As the top few inches of dust are swept away with embarrassed
haste, a host of scaly, spiky insects scuttles from its exposed
dwellings. At the front lie the colourful plastic magnetic letters from
my pre-school days, that my brother used to form obscene
statements to shock our visitors. Knocked off the fridge by careless
shoulders, they have been kicked across the kitchen floor to find a
refuge under the washer. Behind them lies the not–quite-so-yellow
Post-It note whose sticky stripe has attached itself to a ball of
unidentifiable muck, still telling of a long-forgotten meeting. Next, a
small pile of paper streamers, slightly singed, from Christmas
poppers three years ago, flaunts itself before embarrassed eyes
before they are drawn to the next discovery.