One of the most common areas for improvement in student essay is in the development of ideas. Student writers, in particular, are often reluctant to develop, or expand on their ideas. Below is a brief list of the different tools writers use to develop at both the paragraph and essay level:
The following essay uses description and narration as the main methods of development. Notice in particular, the chronological arrangement, the high level of detail, and the use of humour.
Timing is Everything
by Julia Ridley
You courageously place one foot in front of the other, pretending that you are at the beginning of a grand escape or safari, and that the journey will take you to a place far from the exact spot you are standing in now. You take a couple of steps forward, then glance around you at the herd of crouched and expectant runners who surround you. A few seconds later, your overweight PE teacher marks the beginning of the historic run by depressing the "Start/Stop" button on his stop watch and yelling "Go" in an under-enthusiastic whisper. The myriad of coloured tee shirts, jackets and sweatshirts breaks into a full-out sprint or light jog as soon as the awaited command reaches their ears. You select your position amid them carefully, knowing that there is no point in running at the front as you will fall back after a few minutes, but aware that you should show some effort to avoid disappointing your teacher. So, you choose a spot slightly back of the middle, safely nestled between the runners who will use all of their energy in the first thirty seconds, and those who try to conserve everything until the final lap, not realizing that they have no energy left until they attempt to sprint at the crucial moment.
For the first two minutes, you run beside your friends, chaotically chatting between hurried breaths and pattering feet. At the end of the first lap, however, you part ways, one of your friends moving ahead, and the other falling behind, leaving you on your own to endure the next eight minutes of agony. Alone, you decide that it is important to set your own pace, and not to spend time desperately trying to catch up with the echoes reverberating from beneath the feet of the runner ahead. You soon become your own personal DJ, humming the first song that comes to mind with a suitable number of beats per minute, anything from Ace of Base to Led Zeppelin. You switch from song to song as they grow stale, and gradually slow the beat as you try to catch your breath.
Ten minute runs inevitably occur under the heat of a midday sun, or, as now, on a cold, wet, and windy day. The ground is muddy, puddles litter the oval track, and dark clouds eliminate any chance of sunlight. Twice a year each member of the student body takes his or her turn on the tarmac, hopelessly running around in circles for varying distances. You have not grown accustomed to the process over the years. On the day of the event, dread weighs down your entire digestive system, making you unable to eat your lunch. Stomach growling, heart pumping, and jaw chattering from the cold, you emerge from the gymnasium changing room, fully unprepared for the ordeal to come. After each run you are resolute. You decide to improve your grade, planning to run at least once a week for the next six months, in order to place in the top ten runners next time around.
Reality strikes. You're not going to be able to maintain this pace. You slow down, and move to the side, allowing the runner behind you to pass. It's Brandon, who passed you about 5 minutes ago. You've been lapped. You know it's now impossible to run another three laps in the next 5 minutes, but you trudge on, determined to salvage at least a "C+" for your effort. Your breathing turns into gasps as the rain starts to fall. The drops are at first refreshing, then bothersome as they roll off your nose and into your eyes. Memories of your run in Grade 8 surface in your mind: three top athletes, all asthmatics, collapsed during the exercise. Perhaps you're asthmatic, you think, as you grow light-headed from lack of oxygen. Your right hamstring cramps. Lightning flashes, thunder claps, and you jump as the display tears you from your memories. Looking up, you notice that black clouds have darkened the sky, casting eerie shadows across the track.
Seconds twist and turn as you begin to speed walk, a chasm of time gaping wide between the fluorescent orange pylons that circle the track. You promise yourself that you will make it around the track just once more before the tenth minute arrives. You count each step you take. The rain continues to fall as you reach your saturation point, hair dripping, clothes heavy with water. In your state of exhaustion, you can nearly see auras of steam following your classmates around the track as they run, a combined result of warm bodies and wet clothes.
Your teacher yells "30 seconds!" and you collect your thoughts, forcing yourself to move forward. You manage to send the last shreds of energy remaining to the soles of your feet, and sloppily sprint towards the start line.
The students form a slow moving amoebae, breath gradually slowing and sore muscles relaxing as they make their way towards the change rooms. You approach the water fountain, your throat calling for water despite the monsoon of rain which has fallen. Turning the silver knob and holding the hair back from your face, you lean down, and patiently wait for five seconds before realizing that nothing is happening. Questioning how the fountain can be short of water when the tennis courts are flooded, you head towards the gym, coughing dryly as you try to forget your fatigue by worrying about the next class of the day.
You step out of the stagnant warmth of the school and into fresh air, bus pass in hand. An image of unfinished homework lying on your desk is your predominant thought as you waddle around the puddles on your way to the bus stop. Fifty meters away from your destination, you spot the alien antennae of a red and blue monster. You run. Knapsack banging against your back and shoes depositing mud onto your jeans, you watch as the bus hurtles down the hill. There are only ten seconds, a traffic light, and less than a city block separating you from the vehicle. Charging down the sidewalk, you jostle past others who don't believe they can reach the bus on time, and you reach the intersection just as the traffic light turns to amber. You dash across, receiving dirty looks and blaring honks from the late left turners. You reach the stop just as the bus arrives.
A world record set for the 50-metre dash, and no one was timing.
