By Rachel Na
“Writing should be very free and the best way to learn how to write is to read. There is no way to just become a better writer, it has to come naturally”, these are the wise words of literature enthusiast, history buff, and experienced actor Kevin Downey.
Growing up with parents who were from very different areas of Ireland, Kevin learned a lot about perspective through the opposing viewpoints within his family. He also has an older sister who greatly impacted his life, making him the person he is today. It was from her that Kevin was given all his values which shaped his outlook on life.
Having taken some of the most challenging English courses at Collingwood over the years, Kevin has developed an endlessly sophisticated vocabulary and he has mastered the use of figurative language. His biggest piece of advice for younger writers is to remember that less is more and that the key is to have a good balance of adjectives and literary devices. Kevin also emphasizes the importance of reading to become a better writer and highly recommends that everyone read The Gatsby, All is Quiet on the American Front, the Stranger, and Slaughterhouse-Five. As an actor, Kevin believes in playing his characters very naturally and instinctively; he always tries to feel what his character feels in a scene. He encourages students to participate in school plays whenever they get the chance and to be relaxed and have fun during the process.
When Kevin isn’t writing or preparing for a school play, he enjoys trivia, playing soccer and reading. As the team captain of the school’s Reach for the Top trivia team and Mackenzie’s trivia team, Kevin has consistently led his teammates to victory with his incredible recollection of historical events.
Currently in his senior year at Collingwood School, Kevin has aspirations to pursue a degree in philosophy as well as a degree in education. He has always been one to ponder the workings of the world and he also “genuinely loves talking to people about their work and enjoys editing their essays”. Kevin has been accepted and is keen to study at the University of Toronto, working towards his ultimate goal of being a university professor one day.
Below is an in-class essay written by Kevin Downey, it’s his favourite piece of writing from high school:
The Great Gatsby - Five Years Later: A Day in the Life
Kevin Downey
On the Platform
The 6 P.M. to Pittsburgh began to pick up steam. Its horn let out a triumphant shout, the sound echoing across the frozen shores of old Michigan. Nick Carraway was started out of his reverie. His thoughts had wandered, curiously, to golf. They often seemed to, of late. Another train clattered by. ‘New York Express’, read the gilded words along its side. Echoes of the past suddenly mingled with the clang of industry in Nick’s ears. Nick stilled, as a leopard stills before it pounces. But Nick Carraway had no prey, no goal, no dream - no green light, he thought to himself.
Nick Carraway had thought himself an honest man, a perceptive man of few illusions or sentimentalities. Nick Carraway knew that the East was no place for such a man as himself, knew that its promises were as fickle as the harvest was out West. Gatsby had shown him that much. But Nick had found no comfort in the Middle West, no comfort in honesty and hard work and hayseeds. He was, as yet, without his green light. Gatsby, Nick Carraway thought, had illustrated to him the danger of dreaming. But these past five years had shown to Nick the danger of lacking a dream. He had gotten married, yes, and to a well-bred young woman too. His career had taken off spectacularly. But here he was - freezing, miserable, alone on a railway platform. He seemed to evoke the archetypal jilted lover. But at least those sorry folk had loved something at some point in some place. Nick Carraway hadn’t even done that.
Nick Carraway checked his watch. Ten after, he thought to himself, ten minutes to go. He was off to San Francisco, for some reason that escaped his attention at that moment. He was not to come back to Chicago for some time. Perhaps Nick was going West to escape Gatsby’s long, jovial, tragic shadow. It still loomed over Chicago, it seemed to Nick, so it would only follow that going ever farther West might help Nick. But go far enough West and you’ll end up East, and California is not called the Golden State for nothing.
When he and Wolfsheim’s men found Gatsby lying peacefully in what Gatsby rather modestly termed a pool, Nick Carraway had indeed been saddened. But in a much more vague and meaningful sense, he was reassured. Gatsby, Nick Carraway had thought, had tried to live beyond himself. Jay Gatsby was a nothing, an illusion, and yet he had lived far more than Jimmy Gatz ever did. Nick Carraway’s course, one of upper-middle class values and upright moralism, had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt to be the correct one. And yet…
Another train pulled into the platform, shuddering to a halt on the icy rails. A conductor, barely out of school, Nick Carraway thought, hopped out.
“New Yoik! New Yoik!”, he said, with the thick accent so characteristic of Brooklyn. “Express train! Express train!”
At this, Nick truly started. He thought of his ill-fitting suit and his somewhat pitiful combover. He was already an old man, he realized with alarm. He frantically turned his thoughts to his younger days, five years ago. He thought of the Queensboro Bridge, New York opening herself to him like the lover he had never had. He thought, most of all, of Gatsby - his beautiful yellow car, his hydroplane, and that green light, shining across a bay both comfortably narrow and indescribably wide. Gatsby had died, yes, but at least he had lived! Nick’s mind began to go at a pace to which neither it nor he was accustomed.
And then the train to the Golden Gate arrived. Nick’s madcap dreams screeched to a stop along with the train. Nick Carraway had a wife to think about, and a child on the way too. He could not allow himself to live. But New York still beckoned Nick, tempting him with tradition and debauchery and wine and women. He could find meaning there, he believed, although in what, he could not say. But perhaps the same could be said for San Francisco…
Nick stood up.
His train, he thought with a perhaps misplaced sense of finality, was here.
“Writing should be very free and the best way to learn how to write is to read. There is no way to just become a better writer, it has to come naturally”, these are the wise words of literature enthusiast, history buff, and experienced actor Kevin Downey.
Growing up with parents who were from very different areas of Ireland, Kevin learned a lot about perspective through the opposing viewpoints within his family. He also has an older sister who greatly impacted his life, making him the person he is today. It was from her that Kevin was given all his values which shaped his outlook on life.
Having taken some of the most challenging English courses at Collingwood over the years, Kevin has developed an endlessly sophisticated vocabulary and he has mastered the use of figurative language. His biggest piece of advice for younger writers is to remember that less is more and that the key is to have a good balance of adjectives and literary devices. Kevin also emphasizes the importance of reading to become a better writer and highly recommends that everyone read The Gatsby, All is Quiet on the American Front, the Stranger, and Slaughterhouse-Five. As an actor, Kevin believes in playing his characters very naturally and instinctively; he always tries to feel what his character feels in a scene. He encourages students to participate in school plays whenever they get the chance and to be relaxed and have fun during the process.
When Kevin isn’t writing or preparing for a school play, he enjoys trivia, playing soccer and reading. As the team captain of the school’s Reach for the Top trivia team and Mackenzie’s trivia team, Kevin has consistently led his teammates to victory with his incredible recollection of historical events.
Currently in his senior year at Collingwood School, Kevin has aspirations to pursue a degree in philosophy as well as a degree in education. He has always been one to ponder the workings of the world and he also “genuinely loves talking to people about their work and enjoys editing their essays”. Kevin has been accepted and is keen to study at the University of Toronto, working towards his ultimate goal of being a university professor one day.
Below is an in-class essay written by Kevin Downey, it’s his favourite piece of writing from high school:
The Great Gatsby - Five Years Later: A Day in the Life
Kevin Downey
On the Platform
The 6 P.M. to Pittsburgh began to pick up steam. Its horn let out a triumphant shout, the sound echoing across the frozen shores of old Michigan. Nick Carraway was started out of his reverie. His thoughts had wandered, curiously, to golf. They often seemed to, of late. Another train clattered by. ‘New York Express’, read the gilded words along its side. Echoes of the past suddenly mingled with the clang of industry in Nick’s ears. Nick stilled, as a leopard stills before it pounces. But Nick Carraway had no prey, no goal, no dream - no green light, he thought to himself.
Nick Carraway had thought himself an honest man, a perceptive man of few illusions or sentimentalities. Nick Carraway knew that the East was no place for such a man as himself, knew that its promises were as fickle as the harvest was out West. Gatsby had shown him that much. But Nick had found no comfort in the Middle West, no comfort in honesty and hard work and hayseeds. He was, as yet, without his green light. Gatsby, Nick Carraway thought, had illustrated to him the danger of dreaming. But these past five years had shown to Nick the danger of lacking a dream. He had gotten married, yes, and to a well-bred young woman too. His career had taken off spectacularly. But here he was - freezing, miserable, alone on a railway platform. He seemed to evoke the archetypal jilted lover. But at least those sorry folk had loved something at some point in some place. Nick Carraway hadn’t even done that.
Nick Carraway checked his watch. Ten after, he thought to himself, ten minutes to go. He was off to San Francisco, for some reason that escaped his attention at that moment. He was not to come back to Chicago for some time. Perhaps Nick was going West to escape Gatsby’s long, jovial, tragic shadow. It still loomed over Chicago, it seemed to Nick, so it would only follow that going ever farther West might help Nick. But go far enough West and you’ll end up East, and California is not called the Golden State for nothing.
When he and Wolfsheim’s men found Gatsby lying peacefully in what Gatsby rather modestly termed a pool, Nick Carraway had indeed been saddened. But in a much more vague and meaningful sense, he was reassured. Gatsby, Nick Carraway had thought, had tried to live beyond himself. Jay Gatsby was a nothing, an illusion, and yet he had lived far more than Jimmy Gatz ever did. Nick Carraway’s course, one of upper-middle class values and upright moralism, had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt to be the correct one. And yet…
Another train pulled into the platform, shuddering to a halt on the icy rails. A conductor, barely out of school, Nick Carraway thought, hopped out.
“New Yoik! New Yoik!”, he said, with the thick accent so characteristic of Brooklyn. “Express train! Express train!”
At this, Nick truly started. He thought of his ill-fitting suit and his somewhat pitiful combover. He was already an old man, he realized with alarm. He frantically turned his thoughts to his younger days, five years ago. He thought of the Queensboro Bridge, New York opening herself to him like the lover he had never had. He thought, most of all, of Gatsby - his beautiful yellow car, his hydroplane, and that green light, shining across a bay both comfortably narrow and indescribably wide. Gatsby had died, yes, but at least he had lived! Nick’s mind began to go at a pace to which neither it nor he was accustomed.
And then the train to the Golden Gate arrived. Nick’s madcap dreams screeched to a stop along with the train. Nick Carraway had a wife to think about, and a child on the way too. He could not allow himself to live. But New York still beckoned Nick, tempting him with tradition and debauchery and wine and women. He could find meaning there, he believed, although in what, he could not say. But perhaps the same could be said for San Francisco…
Nick stood up.
His train, he thought with a perhaps misplaced sense of finality, was here.