Warbler Delight

I just discovered this short essay that I fell in love with. It's called "Warbler Delight" by Amy Leach. I think this just might be one of my favorite essays that I have blogged about thus far.

Amy Leach's essays is quite perplexing. She starts with a quote from the song "The Water is Wide" but changes some of the wording. Then she describes how she dreams about time traveling. Next she makes a huge change and describes the migratory patterns of the blackpoll warbler.

The Lesson:

The above summary sounded really confusing right? I was a little confused while I first read through this essay as well, but towards the end Leach pulls us back in and connects all the parts of her essay. I guess this is why she writes for magazines.

Leach is able to incorporate allusions and metaphors in her essay and yet does not lose her audience. This can be a difficult feat especially for really inexperienced writers. She writes about warblers and seems a bit off track. Then she pulls us back with the line, "Although we walkers on the ground like to plan for sudden, drastic shifts in time, mostly we seem time locked. We winter, we summer, we winter, we summer; while the warbler flies from summer to summer to summer to summer!"

I think that this quote is so beautiful and so true to how we feel (especially me since I am currently in the frigid winter of Idaho when I am originally from California). Leach does a great job of keeping her metaphors relevant and controlled.

How we can apply this in our own writing:

• use metaphors but be careful
• make sure the metaphor is relevant to what you are trying to say
• don't go overboard with metaphors and allusions

Personal Essay II

Here is another one of my own essays. Like the other essay, this essay is no where close to being done. I share this with you not because I think it is an awesome example, but because I think it is important to learn about the process of writing.Besides, I'm the blogger, so I get to choose.

The Lesson:

I like to think that all essays teach me something new as I write them. Essays are like a journey through the desert. Once your done (and never before), it's good to look back and think about what you learned.

In this particular essay, I got the feed back that I needed to include more details about being in the room with my sick grandma. I felt slightly uncomfortable during that part of my essay, so I think that I rushed through it.

Writers need to learn that sometimes when you're writing about something that is important to you, you will be uncomfortable. My boss one time shared a quote from an unknown author: "Everything you write should be on the verge of embarrassing you." It's okay to feel uncomfortable because that means you picked a good subject that has a lot of meaning to you and needs to be explored.

So Writers, don't feel embarrassed. Write about a subject that you feel needs exploring and don't worry about how others might judge you.

How we can apply this into our own writing:

• Don't be scared to dive deeper into a subject
• Don't let your audience intimidate you before you even start writing

This afternoon feels hot and sticky. My grandmother feeds my little sister in an old wooden high chair. My mom leans against the breakfast bar in the old brown kitchen while fanning herself and asking about home remedies for headaches. My older sister, brother, and I explore the backyard looking for wild raspberries while avoiding bees. My grandparents love vegetation though have no talent for growing a garden. As a result, bushes including but not limited to rhubarb, raspberries, squash, and bushes that I don’t even know the names to overrun their backyard. My siblings and I pretend that we are on an Amazon safari as we push through the vegetation. Bees and grasshoppers make a roaring buzz around the backyard. I smell marigolds, which I hate, but my Grandma likes their bright colors of orange and yellow, so they grow in all of the planter boxes.

I feel a sting on the bottom of my foot, and I think for a second that I have stepped on a knife. I let out a blood curtailing scream, and the next thing I know I am swept into the kitchen to sit on the window seat that over looks the backyard. My mother scolds me about not wearing shoes and about stepping on one of my grandpa’s honeybees. My grandma speaks in a soothing tone. She inspects my foot with her overly large glasses and wipes something green that is probably aloe vera over my wound. The aloe vera works magic, and the pain begins to subside as do my tears. I spend the afternoon on that window seat watching the birdfeeder from the kitchen window due to the sting and immobility.

Bob Barker flashes across the television screen telling the whole audience of the wonderful prizes that await them if they can only guess the right price. I’m sitting on my grandparent’s large oak bed with my younger sister. My grandma sits in a large black chair resembling something from a dentist office because she can’t sit up by herself anymore. She laughs in a weird way that sounds like a cross between hysterical sobs and hiccups. She can’t talk anymore: ALS is taking her life. After months of praying for her recovery, my family has made this trip because the doctor says that she might die any day. My mom told us to keep my grandma company while she makes lunch in the kitchen. I try to be the dutiful daughter who cares.

I hate being in that room with my grandma. She scares me. The sickness has turned her into someone less capable than my three-year-old sister. What used to be a plump woman with big speckles has been reduced to a withering human who can only wait for death to come. She used to comfort her family when needed, and now she cried when she found out that she could no longer carve the Thanksgiving turkey as a result of her disease. I don’t like being around someone who makes concrete the trials that I have always known to be abstract.

My mom called us into lunch. I look at my stationary grandmother and tell her that I will come back after I eat lunch. As I sit in the kitchen, my Lipton chicken noodle soup does not taste good. Soup reminds me of sick people. I slowly spin around in the worn swivel chairs that sit against the breakfast bar. After lunch I quickly run downstairs avoiding my mom to join my siblings watching a movie in hopes that I wouldn’t be forced into the upstairs guestroom to watch The Price is Right.

Ten years ago, I ran out of my grandma’s room because watching her suffer made me nauseous. My mom used to pridefully tell my elementary school teachers that I would run at the first signs of trouble. That was when I was ten years old and could barely be blamed for my actions. I recognize now that you can’t make it through life without accepting that there will be some adversity, but I think I’m still afraid. Sometimes I wonder if I would act any differently if that day with my grandma had been yesterday. I am afraid that fear of suffering will someday keep me from having the ability to care for those that have cared for me when I am in need.

Writer's Block

One time for work, I watched a video about college students and writing. They interviewed a student with a New York accent, and she said that when she began writing she was always afraid of the "blank page." I never knew what this meant until I began writing an essay for work this last semester.

The Lesson:

This particular essay, I really struggled with beginning. I was afraid of something and for days I diagnosed myself with writer's block. I could not make myself sit down and write. Everything was distracting.

Writer's block is defined as "the condition of not being able to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing." I would add that writer's block also gives the writer a temporary case of some sort of attention deficit because everything seems more important and interesting than what you are writing.

On the weekend before the essay was due, I decided that I was going to force myself to begin writing. So I sat down. Then I saw that cursed blank page in front of me, and I was afraid. I called my mom. While talking to my mom I noticed that my toenail polish was chipped and as result painted them a nice dark red. Then I was hungry, so I ate my roommate's brownies that she left on the kitchen table.

By this time it was about midnight and there was still a nice blank white sheet in front of me. I decided to just write one paragraph no matter how it sounded. I began writing. I was amazed at how easily the words were coming to me. The writer's block was lifted and I was able to write. It wasn't a perfect draft, but I had managed to get down everything I wanted to say.

I write about this because being afraid of starting an essay happens to everyone. Writers just need to learn for themselves how to break that writer's block.

How we can apply this into our own writing:

• just start writing
• don't let the blank page scare you
• trick your self into writing by rewarding yourself (I find this works very well for myself)

Once More to the Lake

E.B. White's essay "Once More to the Lake" captures an experience he has while on vacation with his son. While vacationing on the lake, White notes the feeling that he has that no time has really passed since he used to come to the lake as a child because he can see himself in his son: "I looked at the boy, who was silently watching his fly, and it was my hands that held his rod, my eyes watching. I felt dizzy and didn't know which rod I was at the end of."

The Lesson:

There is a common misconception in the back of every writer's mind that says that no one really care about what you have to say in your writing. This is a foolish assumption because chances are someone has felt the way that you feel especially if you have been honest in your writing. Just write things how they happened and no one will feel as though your writing is pointless.

E.B. White does a good job of this in his essay. He wrote about a simple experience in his life. Despite that this was just a small moment, I feel that his essay relates to a lot of people. "It is strange how much you can remember about places like that once you allow your mind to return into the grooves which lead back."

We have all been in places that make us feel nostalgic and a little sad about the passing time. New experiences are exciting, but E.B. White captures a moment when he feels insecure about the passing time. I think that all of us feel like this at some point.

E.B. White writes about a time that might seem insignificant but still manages to make an impact on his audience.

How to apply this in our own writing:

• Just write
• Write about something that had an impact on yourself
• Don't worry about someone thinking that it is stupid
• Write things how they happened; don't add fluff

E.B. White

It's time for another writer's profile. Another writer I really admire is E.B. White. Most people know him from the popular children book Charlotte's Web. Charlotte's Web holds a special place in my heart because that is where my early childhood vocabulary came from. I used to greet my mom with a "Salutations, Mother!"

E.B. White was born July 11, 1899, in Mt. Vernon, New York. His writing career began by him being an editor for a newspaper. His best known children books are of Charlotte's Web, Stuart Little, and The Trumpet of the Swan. His non-fiction includes The Elements of Style, and his collection of essays. He also wrote for newspapers and magazines.

The Lesson:

The most important thing to remember about E.B. White other than being a phenomenal writer is to see the diversity of his writing. E.B. White excelled in many types of writing. He is a great example of a very well rounded writer. He wrote many types of genres and excelled at them all.

While we can't all be E.B. White, we need to be familiar with other kinds of writing. This will improve your writing all around and will also make you more marketable if you wish to pursue a career in writing.

How we can apply this to our own writing:

• try writing other genres of writing
• read other types of writing to get ideas

Soul Essay

At work, my boss always requires us to write a personal essay every semester. This isn't surprising since I work at the Writing Center. However, I have always felt more comfortable writing research papers, so this has been a new experience for me.

We call these essays "Soul Essays" because they can be a little difficult to write (or really difficult), and you have to put your soul into it. I've decided to share one of my essays for criticism because like I've said, I'm new at creative non-fiction.

Since this is a first draft, I know that I need to practice the attributes that I have been preaching. Writing a personal essay is always a work in progress.

The Lesson:

Before reading this essay, know that it was about twice as long in it's first draft. I had included about two more pages about the details of that night. When I took it into my boss, she edited it and suggested that I cut out the first two pages. That hurt.

An essay is like a baby to the writer. Cutting out parts is hard and painful. However, in the end, the cutting will be good for your essay and make it more readable.

It was my choice, and I decided to cut the first two pages. It was a good choice. I removed clutter, and now my essay is much clear.

How We can apply this to our own writing:

• Revise
• Don't be afraid to make revisions and cut parts of your essay
• Have an objective audience read over your paper and tell you what isn't working

Your Best Friend

I got to the big metal doors of the choir room that were wide open, hopefully providing some ventilation for the two hundred plus students on the warm September night. Inside a flurry of activity was going on before the choir concert was supposed to start. Melissa and Sara sat in front of the ceiling high mirrors that were intended for dancers. I didn’t join them. Melissa and Sara had been best friends since middle school and anything I could add to their conversation would just be awkward. They pasted makeup on their faces, so that they could be seen from the back of the audience and to hopefully complement their white blouses with three-inch-high shoulder pads with matching black balloon pants. Those outfits were hideous, and I was glad I had graduated out of them a year ago when I had been accepted into the A Capella choir. I hated those mirrors. There was something about the combination of the fluorescent lighting and the mirrors that made my face look washed out and pasty. My reflection in that room was enough to make my self-confidence drop by ten percent.

I pushed my way past a few clumps of people to the old, rickety risers that had probably stood there since Mrs. Stuart started teaching in the seventies. My friend Daniel was sitting on the top most risers. The different levels groaned in protest with every step up that I took. I sat down beside him and began adjusting the buckles of my black stage shoes.

I felt comfortable talking to Daniel. I was afraid of joining some of the other members of the choir because they might find me boring or weird. I didn’t ever have anything important or witty to say to them, so I always felt unwelcome. By being completely passive towards people, I never annoyed anyone, and no one seemed to dislike me. Daniel was different. We had known each other for years since our siblings had made friends in choir. Once we reached high school and where finally attending the same school, we quickly became really good friends. At the beginning of high school, he was about my height (that quickly changed), and I think I was one of the few girls that didn’t intimidate him. We sat next to each other in seminary and rebelled against our strict teacher that had tried to enforce a seating chart. He always wanted to sit next to me. One time at a church dance, a game was played where the girls had to throw one of their shoes in a pile, and the guys were supposed to take a shoe and dance with whatever girl it belonged to. I had thrown my brown and pink checkered Vans into the pile. Daniel was the one who picked out my shoe even though he was supposed to randomly select a shoe. Daniel was the first boy I held hands with – at a choir competition while we were waiting for some other choir to perform. At the end of the year, Daniel signed my yearbook “your best friend.”

This year, Daniel and I were still really close though we had started hanging out with different people. He seemed to fit in perfectly with those other people in choir that made me feel so unwelcome. I became more attached to my fellow students in my English and history classes because we did so many class projects together. Daniel was still my best friend, so it was sad that we were spending less time together, and he seemed to be enjoying himself so much.

That evening at the concert, I was relieved to find Daniel sitting by himself apart from all of his new friends. As I sat next to him, he greeted me and asked how things were going. My buckles were always so difficult to tighten because the elastic part of the strap was beginning to loosen. I exchanged the usual greetings and noticed Daniel had a disinterested look on his face as his eyes began to wonder longingly to Alyssa and Katy as they sat laughing and talking with some of his other friends. In attempt to get his attention back, I began telling him a story about how my little sister had gotten mad at me and had thrown all my clothes out the window. Half way through the story, he interrupted me. “You known sometimes you tell stories and no one really knows or cares what you’re talking about.”

The room suddenly began to feel very stuffy and hot, and all the sound seemed blocked out. I had a similar sensation to the time that I had become lightheaded in the 3^rd grade when I had used a straw to blow through to paint a picture. I felt very alone. Through my embarrassment, I quickly went back to buckling my shoe. I think I may have heard myself mumbling an apology and excuse to Daniel. He went to join the other group a few risers down.

Sometimes when I talk to people, I carefully make sure that my talking is something that they want to hear. If I see that disinterested look, I quickly refrain from speaking. When I go back home and see Daniel, our visits are boring because we have nothing to say.

Notebooks

Joan Didion wrote an essay titles "On Keeping a Notebook." I couldn't find a really great link for this essay, so I would recommend googling the essay title and Joan Didion's name to find the essay. Obviously, the essay is written about Joan Didion's views on keeping a notebook.

Keeping a notebook is very important for a writer. My friend Matt used to keep a small notebook on him at all times. Sometimes you would be talking to him and he would pull out his notebook and start writing in it. To tell you the truth, this always made me a bit nervous just in case he was writing about how stupid I was. This probably wasn't the case, and he probably can remember a lot more than I can from situations.

The Lesson:

A notebook will help you jot down things that you might want to remember. Sometimes when I write essays, I struggle to remember details. Memories over time become blurry, and I think that a notebook might keep a writer from forgetting important details.

Now notice how I have refrained from calling this notebook a diary or journal. I don't think it is necessary to chronicle your day. I think it could be useful to record just notes though. I think that a notebook is a great asset for writing.

How to apply this into our own writing:

• Keep a notebook.
• Don't procrastinate writing something down
• Be discreet; Don't make people nervous while your writing
• Keep your notebook close by: in your purse, backpack, pocket