What I Sent Oxford—As a writer without a writing degree
Sharing my successful statement of purpose and sample work in case it helps your journey too.
Last week, I announced I am attending the Oxford Department of Continuining Studies Creative Writing Summer School - in their advanced stream.
The intermediate strand of the summer school is open access; it is for keen readers aged 18 and over who have written regularly and read widely over a sustained period. Applications for the intermediate strand do not require samples of written work.
The advanced strand of the summer school is an intensive programme which is suitable for writers who have completed or nearly completed a single-honours degree in Creative Writing or English Literature, or who have taken a significant number of courses in creative writing or English literature. Students on the advanced strand are likely to have developed specialisms in their work; they choose two from seven available seminars: creative non-fiction, fiction (two options), middle-grade and teen/young adult fiction, poetry, scriptwriting, and short story. Applications for the advanced strand include a statement of purpose and samples of written work.
Considering I have not completed a degree in writing, English Literature or anything adjacent (I’m a computer engineer) nor have I taken “a significant number” of courses (unless one is considered significant), I am super excited to live out my wannabe-English-major-dreams.
And I thought I’d share what I submitted - as someone with literally no writing credentials - in case it might help another uncredentialed passionate writer communicate to gatekeepers: yes, I do take this seriously.
Below you’ll find an excerpt from my play Care & Keeping, a statement of purpose, and a short excerpt from the book I’m currently querying, Some Kind of Criminal.
Care & Keeping
A play in dual timeline.
When called in for a meeting before school pick-up, three mothers – connected by a mysterious act of violence at summer camp twenty years prior –must confront their bodies, their identities, their friendships, and the lessons they’ve passed down to their daughters.
ACT I
Scene 1
2025.
A desk, a few chairs. A poster that says, ‘Be the best YOU you can be!’
Lights up on NAYA, scrolling her phone.
NAYA (voice-to-texting)
Does anyone have numbers on conversion rates for the mascara ads from last fiscal year – comma, comma! – second quarter. Question mark.
Question mark!
No, not the word question—
NAYA types furiously.
Enter SUMMER, airpod in.
SUMMER
I don’t know how this is supposed to help if you can’t even make it to the damn appointment. No, I can’t do right now. They called me in.
I don’t know what for— (She sees Naya)
I’ll call you back.
SUMMER takes out her airpod.
Enter MANDY holding a book.
NAYA looks up from her phone.
NAYA
My god.
MANDY
So I’m guessing this isn’t about the book.
SUMMER
I think I’ve got déjà vu.
NAYA
I suppose it was only a matter of time before we ran into each other. Hi Mandy.
MANDY
It’s Amanda.
I heard you joined our community, Naya. How nice.
SUMMER
Does anyone have any idea what we’re doing here? Why call the three of us?
NAYA
I’m sure it’s nothing.
MANDY
It does seem like quite the coincidence.
NAYA
‘Quite the coincidence?’ Mandy—
MANDY
Amanda.
SUMMER
Do you think someone found out…
NAYA
No. No one would call us in, in the middle of the day, for backstory.
(Checking her phone) I’m so missing my board meeting.
SUMMER
This has never happened before. This just isn’t normal for my family.
MANDY
Your mom worked a lot, didn’t she, Naya?
NAYA
And whose family might it be normal for? Wait – excuse me?
NAYA
Are you implying that this – we don’t even know what it is – is my fault?
MANDY (shaking herself off)
No, no of course not.
I apologize.
Everything – that’s all behind us. Of course.
Enter TEACHER.
TEACHER
Ladies, hello. Thanks for coming in on such short notice.
Amanda, is that it?
MANDY hands her the book.
MANDY
Fresh off the presses.
TEACHER
Congratulations.
MANDY
Thank you. Launch party tomorrow. You should come, Jackie. And I’m donating this copy, of course, signed.
TEACHER
That is so generous of you. I really can’t—
NAYA
Excuse me, but I think the fangirling can wait.
MANDY (aside)
You never could stand it when someone else got attention.
SUMMER
Is Lexie okay?
NAYA
Miss Jackie, you need to tell us why we’re here, right now.
TEACHER
Well, ladies. (grim)
It’s about your daughters.
Scene 2
Summer camp office, 2006.
A desk, two chairs.
Lights up on JULES, SUMMER, NAYA, and MANDY in a lineup. All girls wear a camp hat with their hair tucked back, hiding its length. JULES, SUMMER and NAYA wear cropped tops, revealing pierced navels. MR DRAKE enters from behind the girls.
MR DRAKE
Tramp stamps and naval rings.
I see.
What do you girls have to say for yourselves?
(No response).
About last night. About what happened in that cabin of yours last night.
(to Mandy) You, sweetie. You look like a nice girl. No tattoos, no piercings—
JULES
She’s only fifteen, her mom said no.
And she’s not as nice as you think.
MR DRAKE
Smart mother.
MANDY
Are you going to call her?
MR DRAKE
Should I?
Listen, girls. It’s up to you how unpleasant this is. If the perpetrator steps forward now, the rest of us can go have breakfast.
I hear it’s French toast.
Bacon.
Real maple syrup.
(Beat.)
Girls—
JULES
Would you just admit it already?
MANDY
I didn’t do anything wrong. I swear—
JULES
This is insane!
MANDY
Please don’t call my parents—
NAYA
Oh, shut up Bambi!
MANDY
Hey!
SUMMER
Everyone calm down.
Mr. Drake, what exactly do you want to know?
MR DRAKE fishes a severed ponytail from his pocket. He holds it up, like a trophy.
MR DRAKE
I want to know who did this.
Scene 3
Interlude.
JULES walks out of the previous scene. Others exit.She fetches Mandy’s book and reads.
JULES
Cleopatra VII was not only the last pharaoh of Egypt, but the last of a line of highly strategic Ptolemaic queens. An unearthly beauty, a seductress, a powerful ruler – these are only a few of the epithets ascribed to her.
(cont.)
Research suggests, however, that Cleopatra’s legacy was not unintentional. That everything, from the iconography in her temples, to her lovers, to her suicide by asp bite, were deliberate machinations to shape her image in her subjects’ minds…
Scene 4
2025.
The classroom. Enter SUMMER, NAYA, and MANDY.
MANDY
Look, there’s no way Dylan is involved in this. We’ve talked about body image at length. I—
NAYA
I’m sorry. Did you name your daughter after Bob Dylan?
MANDY
Yes. Why?
NAYA
Continue.
MANDY
We’ve done everything. We say affirmations. We read ‘The Care and Keeping of You’—
SUMMER
Oh, Lexie loved that one.
Did you allow Barbies? We were really divided there. The new ones are better, I guess…
MANDY
No dolls. I’ve limited mirrors. I’ve removed scales. We only shop at stores with realistic-sized mannequins. We talk about filters and photoshop all the time. I don’t see how this could possibly have come from Dylan.
SUMMER
Mandy you can’t be serious.
MANDY
Amanda.
SUMMER
Does your daughter know about your weekly botox appointments? There’s no way she hasn’t found out about the boob job.
NAYA
I mean, everyone can tell.
MANDY
It’s not a secret. And I don’t appreciate the implication you’re making.
NAYA
I heard it was a full mommy makeover. Boobs, butt, tummy tuck, vagin—
MANDY
I’m sorry, but as a confident, successful woman – and academic – I’d like to know how my self care is relevant here.
We need to concentrate. We need an approach. A peer-reviewed, psychologist-approved response. I should call a colleague.
NAYA (dry)
Damn. And I thought Curvy Barbie was going to fix this.
Statement of Purpose
As a lifelong learner, I often wish for a dozen different lives: scientist, diplomat, choral conductor— spy, for good measure. As you’ll see from my application, so far I’ve collected the accredited title of ‘engineer’, but the role I’ve most fully claimed is writer. And fortunately, writing lets me be everything else too—no PhD or MI6 training required—so long as my fingers hit the keys.
The Oxford Creative Writing Summer School offers an opportunity to deepen my creative writing practice. Though somewhat informal, my training has been intensive: I’ve taken undergraduate level courses, joined mentorships like the UK’s WriteMentor, worked with professional editors, and written multiple novels and plays.
My first choice of seminar is Scriptwriting as a major goal is to have a play professionally produced. I fell in love with writing for the stage through courses in theatre for young audiences and playwrighting strategies at Queen’s University and Johns Hopkins. I then furthered these skills through Nightwood Theatre’s Creatryx mentoring program.
The opportunity to learn from Shaun McCarthy would be invaluable. I’m particularly hoping to learn about plotting and pacing for live performance, as well as how to accomplish complex character exploration onstage, where we have limited access to character interiority. This seminar would offer the community and insight that are essential to progression in this discipline.
My second choice is Middle Grade and Young Adult fiction. I’ve written four YA novels, one of which has drawn interest during querying. I love this genre’s intensity: the firsts, the high emotions, the exploration of identify in the context of social issues. I’ve also studied YA’s history and trends independently as I’m fascinated by its evolution. I want to deepen my skills in writing stories that resonate with this audience, including honing voice when writing from multiple perspectives.
Some Kind of Criminal
13 DAYS UNTIL LENA’S LAST CHANCE
CHAPTER ONE
18:29. Niagara Falls Pier.
Before Maisie barrel-rolled into my life, before I befriended pickpockets and grifters, before the gunshot reverberated through the ancient Medici palace, the only thing I knew how to steal was time.
Not the kind measured in minutes and hours, but the one denoted by rhythm, meter, and tempo markings at the top of a page.
It's called rubato. Musicians steal value from one note to give more significance to the next. It's a little crooked. A little trickish. A crafty way to bend the music to what we want.
And tonight, my future relied on the orchestra's ability not to screw it all up.
When the clock struck 18:30, Dr Wu's baton hit the stand, signalling thirty-minutes to cast-off, and to the concert. My palms went slick with sweat. I grappled for my phone, refreshing my email. Nothing.
Was Niagara Falls known for terrible cell reception?
We were stationed on the boat's glass-enclosed observation deck, turned ballroom for the occasion. Jewel-encrusted compasses for centerpieces, aged parchment for place mats, and gold
floating globes for lighting; the fundraisers were going for a discovery theme. Inspired by the countless news stories about the Stralius, no doubt.
It's not every day a 600-year-old violin resurfaces out of nowhere. But I was probably the only person here for whom the decor evoked anxiety, rather than awe.
I checked my phone again.
“Feeling alright, Lena?” Dr. Wu approached me as the other violinists stood to mingle, to look at the view. “Nervous?”
“Not at all,” I lied, glancing at the empty seat beside me. Sam had run off somewhere. My bottom lip cracked as I forced a smile. “Thanks for arranging this.”
Dr Wu put a gentle hand on my shoulder, something like pride crossing his face. “The Bradford Whitacre Conservatory takes only the best. You ready?”
“Of course.” My stomach churned. Vivian Bradford was about to board. “I'll impress her.”
“Just don’t get your hopes up. Alright?”
He may as well have added: like last time.
At 18:33, wealthy donors in evening wear boarded the gang plank. Behind them, the sun hung low in the sky over the Niagara River. And beside me, Sam’s chair sat empty. 18:37, I jammed the email app icon again. The red notification refused to appear. My heart hammered. I wished I could call my aunt, whose pep talks used to calm my nerves. She was on the boat, somewhere, too. But she wasn't comforting anymore. No one else would understand why this performance needed to be perfect, no one...but maybe Sam. I could talk to Sam.
I hurried to the washroom. Except a girl in a gold bomber jacket stoppered the door.
At a Black-Tie event, bomber jackets are definitely not in the dress code.
“Excuse me.” I tapped her shoulder. “I need to get through. And blocking entryways is a fire hazard.”
The girl spun to face me, her lips quirking up into a satisfied smile. Almost as if she'd expected to see me there. She hadn't violated Black Tie at all. Instead, beneath the jacket, a flouncing cocktail dress with intricate lacework hugged her body, and layered silver necklaces reflected the light of a nearby chandelier. She wore heels I would break my ankle in. Her hair was pinned in a loose updo, strands escaping with a daring elegance that caught me off guard.
I peered over her shoulder to see the counter beyond the stalls. “Sam! Are you ready?” “You're one of the musicians.” Bomber Jacket still blocked the doorway. “Aren't you?” We stood too close. The smell of coconut sunscreen and something else – something sweet – invaded my senses.
“Yes, and we are performing in—” I clicked the side button on my phone. “Twenty-one minutes. Will you please move?”
The girl winked. “Course. You just had to ask.”
Instead of going away, Bomber Jacket walked into the washroom. I followed behind her, and there Sam stood at the counter. As soon as my reflection appeared in the mirror, Sam whipped around. She crossed her arms.
“Holy, Lena. What?”
“I—” Performance. Vivian Bradford. We needed to strategize, to prepare. I needed her to tell me it was going to be okay. “I just…”
Bomber Jacket's presence was throwing me off, watching us instead of getting on with her day. Or maybe it was Sam. There was something in that 'holy', something sharp. What was she doing in here, anyway? Makeup? But I didn't see any brushes.
“Everyone struggles so much with the rubato in the second movement.” I wiped my sweaty hands against the stiff seams of my dress. “And we've only played it correctly a few times. I'm thinking we should find a quiet spot on deck for another run-through, and then—” “We're not doing that,” Sam said. “God.”
“What?” She was First Chair. She had to care about this.
I'd been her right hand for a year: I managed the scores, organized sectionals, and stuck a supportive smile on my face as she played every solo, earning an individual bow at every performance. All the while knowing I could've played it better. All the while knowing that if I'd just done what I was supposed to do, I wouldn't be playing with this amateur orchestra at all.
I'd been a good sport. We'd made a good team. “What are you talking about? Vivian Bradford—”
“This is my last performance with my friends, like, forever,” Sam said. “When you're in grade twelve, you'll understand...well, maybe you won't.”
Bomber Jacket Girl raised her eyebrows at me in the mirror. I felt heat rise in my cheeks. I could almost see the question in her eyes– you're going to let her talk to you like this? “Come on.” Enough of this. “We need to be perfect.”
18:41. Bomber Jacket cleared her throat, as if trying to get my attention.
Something like pity bloomed in Sam's eyes. “You're good, Lena. I'm sure you'll get into the conservatory this time, no matter how we play tonight. Now I've got to find the others.”
Bomber Jacket made another noise in her throat. Our eyes connected in the mirror – hers widening meaningfully – and her gaze flicked to the counter.
Behind Sam was a small pile of objects: a credit card, a compact mirror, and individual baggies of white powder.
Xo,
Nicole