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 3rd 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.
