I'm applying to get into Brandon Sanderson's writing class this coming winter semester. As such, I've begun to fill out his application and I ran into a problem. One question asks "In 400 words or less, tell why Brandon should choose you to be in this class." The response I dictated is a poem, exactly 400 words long, each line 20 words long. It's also acrostically built. I've listed my response here,
I am the least of all writers. My skill is unhoned, my prose weak, my writing is plain to most.
Now is the time when I need help. I recognize that with this superb group, my skill I cannot boast.
Ever lacking the words which seem to flow so freely, my pen seems to be heavy in my meager hands.
Except I learn from those who are greatest, my words I can not improve. I, just a student, a fan.
Dare I pray, dare I hope that I can achieve great things? With your help, I know it is possible.
Herein lies my hope, my creed. I am as relentless as the beating sun, my thirst for success is palpable.
Even as the setting sun sets each day, my quest to publish, to write, to dream, follows a similar pattern.
Like the tortoise, I move slowly, writing little each day. My dream is yet far away, from Earth to Saturn.
Praying for a miracle, this turtle desires to move much faster. Give me my wings, this turtle becomes a dragon.
With the help of these who can be considered gods, I fly to become a writer, to join the wagon.
I, despite all of my faults and weaknesses, am not to be underestimated. The gods will shake at my tenacity.
That they may know that I mean to become as they, I will submit to them this, my daring audacity.
How does one challenge a god, you may ask? By breaking them down and telling them, they too are human.
With all of us together, our hands will build worlds. With my help gain the skill of a new man.
Rising like the flames of a fire, my passion builds relentlessly. My universe is yet to be unraveled or revealed.
In me, there is a people whose voice demands to be heard. I cannot deny them, nor keep them sealed.
Take away what you will of me, for I know one truth. In me are the hopes of a universe.
I will tell their story even if I die in the process. It is my duty; it is my curse.
Now that I’ve unfolded for you, what I can do, tell me that I am picked, that I am appointed.
Give me this seat, and I will promise you this. I, least of all writers, will not leave you disappointed.
Is this poem out of bounds of what I should have written (as in, should I have been more direct), or would it be admissible (note: I still have about a month before I can submit the application)?