I Am Not Hamlet

A joyful boy, pale skin and oversized swim trunks, with green rimmed goggles attached to his head.  A boy with wet blond hair, a grandiose smile, and chlorinated water droplets meandering down his wet body.  A boy who has been in and out of the pool, practicing his strokes, squealing and paddling; who jumped and splashed, worked and succeeded; and whose body expresses joie de vivre as he pounces off the diving board. --After Charles Dickens (This is based on an observation at Cai's swim class during the week of 3 July) Please feel free to make constructive comments on this description

Here's a minor rewrite of a descriptive exercise. Thank you, Stacey. Cai He just as easily smiles as pouts when he doesn’t get his own way. Cai is a speedy ghost—his pale form and blond hair streak past you jumping, running, or clambering on his way to some activity be it riding his bike, practicing his fishing casts, or throwing rocks. The freckles smeared across his nose and under his grey eyes lead you to think he’s all summer’s child, yet he was born early in the morn of Christmas Eve. The clouds do roll in when he is frustrated or when he commiserates in empathy with your pain or misery. Then, like the blink of a firefly, as if the painful incident never happened, he’s off to growl with his dinosaurs or storm his castle. Like most boys he’s full of contrasts: his appetite balances swinging from glutton to a faster nearly everyday. Tears drop easily, too easily at times, but a few moments later the emotion disappears like a stone flung into a lake. He doesn’t like the s...

Here's an exercise I pulled out of a writer's book I'm looking at ( The Writer's Workshop by Gregory Roper). I'm to describe someone. This was supposed to be a page (6.6 on the Word counter (double spaced)). Critical comments are required. Cai Cai is a speedy ghost—-his pale form and blond hair streak past you jumping, running, climbing on his way to something he’s focused. The freckles smeared across his nose and under his grey eyes lead you to think he’s all summer’s child, yet he was born early in the morn of Christmas Eve. Clouds do roll in when he is frustrated or when he commiserates in empathy with your pain or misery. Then, like the blink of a firefly, as if the painful incident never happened, he’s off to growl with his dinosaurs or storm his castle. Like most boys he’s full of contrasts: his appetite balanced swinging from glutton to faster almost everyday. Tears drop easily, too easily at times, but a few moments later the emotion disappears like...