Exemplars

Read my A* exemplar for Directed Writing formal letter writing. Video lesson, PowerPoint, study notes and full length model answer.

There was an efficient hum of activity in the hotel lobby of the New York hotel that day. Men in expensive suits, women in designer dresses, and the staff in smart uniforms were all going about their business. The scene was reminiscent of the days of old: art-deco architecture, heavy carpeting, brass fixtures, and crystal lamps — luxurious surroundings at their finest.

The full moon stared down in dismay as Leisl sighed. She had only a moment until the rite must be performed, yet the leaves on the ancient oak tree refused to regrow. Geisterholz Forest remained barren; bare branches twisted their arthritic fingers into the gloom of the blackened sky.

Travelling in The Whale Rider symbolises the emotional journeys and changes the characters undergo, as Witi Ihimaera aims to make the reader understand that traditional cultures should modernise whilst holding onto their history and cultural identities. Travelling is a metaphor for maturing and progress, particularly with Rawiri’s trip to Australia and Papua New Guinea, …

Swiping bold stripes of face paint on my cheeks, I felt the adrenaline soaring through my body. This would be the year I’d come first, get my name in the newspapers, and finally beat Benson. It was my seventh time competing… and my seventh time coming second place.

The City Planners by Margaret Atwood expresses disdain for the City Planners, who attempt to impose order upon fundamentally chaotic subjects: humanity and nature. Through her personification of the landscape, puns of insanity and use of free verse, Atwood critiques the sterile and oppressive nature of modern urban planning and argues…

A cup of coffee grew colder in a café on the frigid outskirts of Paris, but Henri LeBarre seemed to pay no mind to the dwindling threads of steam. No, Henri’s eyes were fixed far in the distance, any thoughts of his five Euro coffee going to waste pushed far from the front of his mind. He was wearing one of his best shirts – as he always did whenever he came to Café Rêveur – and his fine silvery hair had been carefully combed to the side.

Homes erupted to rubble; safety bled into chaos; embraces disintegrated to ash. Step by step, with trembling legs, I staggered through the ruins of the place that was my home. I ignored the streaks of blood dripping into my eyes, the tiny shards of metal lodged into my left forearm, and the wails around me. If you paid too much attention, you wouldn’t stop wailing either. The year was 1942 and in the village of Little Dewhurst, lives had been torn apart by the shelling of bomb upon bomb.

Lights up on dazzling New York City, the Big Apple, the City that Never Sleeps, where Fat Cats prowl and ingénues seek fame, glory or money – whichever comes first. Pan out and see skyscrapers climbing into the heavens, their facades adorned with glimmering glass and steel, like modern-day castles touching the clouds. Each one vies for attention, a dazzling display of architectural prowess, creating a mesmerizing urban landscape that ignites the imagination.

It was April, and the time had come again for Tokyo to be velveted in a pink blanket. Shinjuku National Garden, vast and winding, was bustling with life: lovers made eyes in pedalos on the lake; a pretty girl posed for photos with petals in her hair; a tourist hunted for the best picnic location, dodging and diving around swarms of sightseers; and my grandfather held my sticky little hand, as I looked up at the blooms with awe-struck eyes.