Chapter 5

Connecting to Your Experience: Writing a Personal Essay

Writing connects us to others, but it also connects us to our own experience and shares this experience with others. Channel and Crusius define an experience as “something that stands out in memory, a departure from routine” (65). Through writing about our experiences, we give meaning to these experiences, through a form of self-exploration.

As we begin to explore writing personal essays, we invite you to consider how the writers in the following essays reflect on and interpret important experiences in their lives. We read about how language shapes the writers’ identities and experiences. Through rich description and detail, we see how the writers learned to read and write, and how this literacy connects or disconnects them from communities, family, and professions.

As you read the essays in this chapter, think about how the writer constructed the essay. Which details from experience do they choose to share and why? Why are their experiences important? What rhetorical strategies do they use to develop their ideas? What insight do you gain from reading these? Think about experiences you’d like to share in a personal essay.

Finally, as you begin thinking about writing your own personal essays, consider events, experiences, people, or objects that are important to you. We should always consider our audience, and in this particular case, you are sharing part of your life with the reader. We want to make sure that what we are sharing can have some value to the reader. We call this a sense of “consequence.” This does not mean that your personal essay needs to be sad or even serious; humor can certainly have consequence, but we want to try write about things that matter.

Writing Connections

The personal narrative writing mode is often written in courses that require an element of self- knowledge and deep reflection into one’s inner being. Courses that often require such a deep understanding of oneself or an introspective element of exploration are in the fields of education, psychology, philosophy, religion, and art, among others. Narrative writing often takes the form of a blog, memoir, personal essay, literacy narrative, or creative non-fiction essay. Writers primarily draw on stories, anecdotes, examples, and personal experience to develop these essays, but they may also use other sources. The aim is to reflect on an experience and offer readers insight into some facet of human experience. Students can transfer skills and strategies for reading about and writing personal experiences to other courses. These tasks may include learning the following:

• To determine an author’s purpose in any writing.
• To understand conflict and how to resolve it in writing.
• To understand the purpose of theme when developing writing.
• Use effective descriptive detail in writing.
• To use transitions in moving ideas along.
• To write with a beginning, middle, and ending structure.

Suggestions for Writing

• Write about a personal experience. Tell your readers a story. You don’t need any sources, just your memory. If you don’t know what to write about, try one of these: the time you were most scared or sad, a story of when you did something you are proud of or regret, a person who had a profound effect on you.
• Write about something that is a commonplace experience, but that has a twist that makes it an uncommon experience. We all have those experiences that we think will turn out one way and actually become a bizarre experience that was totally unpredicted.
• Write about a slice of life that focuses on a small amount of time so that you can give specific descriptions and actions, rather than generalized thoughts. You can create belief in the action if you stick with a limited time frame.
• Be honest in your writing so that the reader believes that what happened really did happen. Choose details appropriately so that your action appears real to the reader. Include rich details that gives the reader inside knowledge of what you see or are doing. Include action that is believable; use authentic language; and describe emotions as though the reader is sitting there beside you, seeing you experience the moment.

Drafting and Revising

Wendy Bishop, in Acts of Revision, suggests the following activity for revision, but you can also try this to generate ideas:

• Call on the world. Collect five media images—ads, family photos, sound bites, and so on—that illuminate your text in some way. Freewrite in response to each of these (and in relationship to your text). Insert written (perhaps even visual) material from this exercise into your text. (Bishop 22)

If you haven’t drafted yet, you can use this to generate your draft: simply select from family photos, songs from your playlist, memorabilia from childhood, or sentimental possession. Freewrite about the item.

Many writers—first-year students and professional writers alike—resist revision. Writing is hard work, and we are often reluctant to listen to feedback if we think it means more work. However, revising is already part of writing (as you delete and re-write, for example), and you can learn to improve your revising. Bishop shares two helpful revision strategies to use after you have a first draft or to brainstorm ideas for a first draft. Try this:

• Write a fat draft. Double your text. Toss out your internal critic because this writing doesn’t have to impressive, it simply has to be there. Measure roughly by pages or precisely by word count.
• Write a memory draft by rereading your text carefully, preferably aloud. As you do, pay intense attention to your topic and ideas.
• Put that draft out of sight, open a new file on your computer, and compose the piece again. Make this version at least as long or longer than the original. Do not at any time consult the original draft. (16)

Notice that “fat drafting” is helpful for adding details and development to your draft. “Memory drafting,” on the other hand, “encourages writers to abandon the fluff, filler, and fussy details that pad any draft” (17). These two strategies should be used together, Bishop explains, to both “develop and refine” (17).

Reflecting on Writing

Reflect on your assignment and what you learned, which will be useful when you create your ePortfolio later in the semester. Bishop offers this exercise to prompt revision, but it will also help you reflect on what you did in your essay: “Write a letter from your ideal reader telling you, in detail, and by quoting from the text, what he likes about your draft” (25).

Focus on ePortfolio

Your Personal Essay may be one that you wish to include as your Best Writing Artifact in the ePortfolio. If you choose your Personal Essay to include in the ePortfolio, you are to revise it so that it is fully developed, with rich description.

As always, back up your material in the cloud so that if you experience computer issues, you can retrieve your materials at the time of posting your ePortfolio.

Discussion Questions for Analyzing Personal Essays and Creative Nonfiction

As you read the essays, consider the following questions:

• Find another example of this genre in a magazine or on the Web, and discuss the similarities and differences.
• What is the writer’s purpose? What strategies does the writer use to develop his or her purpose? Is this essay a response to another essay, a political event, etc.? Explain.
• What type of introduction (or lead) does the writer use?
• How is the essay developed? What type of evidence is used?
• Describe the “consequence” each essay expresses.

Published Essays: Personal Essay and Creative Nonfiction

All of the essays listed below are excellent examples of this genre.

• Dorothy Allison, “Context”
• Gloria Anzaldua, “How to Tame a Wild Tongue”
• Frederick Douglass, “Learning to Read and Write”
• Mona Maisami, “Born in Amrika”
• Amy Tan, “Mother Tongue”

Student Examples: Personal Essay and Creative Nonfiction

2021 Cygnet Award Winner – Creative Nonfiction

Magical Ghungroos

Priyam Kadakia

I tenderly wrapped the red cotton fabric around my ankle, listening to the sweet tunes of the bells over my friends’ chatter. As the curtain fell, the audience’s applause died out, and the lights followed. We quietly shuffled towards the yellow Xs. I took several deep breaths as I placed my hands behind my back, leaned forward, and smiled. Everyone held their breath as the rhythmic beats of the melody drifted into the auditorium from our own feet.

----ஃ----

I peeked out from under my blanket for the third time on the ride. My dad was urgently exclaiming my name in order to wake me up. I let him continue to call as I pretended to sleep; the more I could delay waking up, the later I would reach dance class. I finally gave into the pressure with a hmph!

“You didn’t have to wake me so early. We are still two minutes away from the building. It takes me less than 30 seconds to put my ankle supports and knee pads on,” I lied. Dance class seemed a lot like jail to me. Except instead of orange, we wore all black. It was crowded with other brooding students who did not want to go to dance class any more than I did. The star-like lights pounded on our heads and taunted our inability to see the sunlight every Saturday afternoon.

“Okay, beta,” my dad comforted, “But today is exciting because you get your ghungroos in Bharatanatyam.” His tone was like fake leather, unconvincing and rough. I knew that he had no tolerance for any more of my nonsense, especially on an important day like today.

----ஃ----

I have been trained in Bharatnatyam, a classical Indian dance style that originated from South India. In Bharatnatyam, we learn Aadhavs which are like the letters of an alphabet. These letters are then put together to create Jaaties, or words. The dance is very demanding for a young body, requiring a lot of flexibility and precision. Receiving our ghungroos, anklets covered in bells, is the first step in our Bharatanatyam journey.

When I was younger, I hated attending classes, that is until I got my ghungroos. Each year, we earn a new pair; we are required to keep each pair in top condition since they create a connection between God, the earth, dance, and ourselves.

----ஃ----

Unfortunately, I reached class right on time. We danced for the first thirty minutes until my feet ached and my body was close to snapping like a twig. Despite the fast fan, my mouth was drier than the Sahara Desert. The music seemed to continue pounding as we moved our muscles to a point of exhaustion.

Suddenly, our parents proudly strutted in and our guru had us sit. My weak knees slightly bent before I collapsed on the floor, leaning against my mother for support. One by one, the girls left the room to receive their ghungroos.

When it was my turn, I slowly got up and felt the cool breeze of the fans swirl above me. I walked out of my classroom into the middle lobby. I felt gravitated toward the shining idol of God; the golden accents on it were angelic. My guru patiently waited with a breathtaking scarlet pair of anklets. There was one single row down the middle with seven evenly spaced round bells. They were bronze with indented symbols and carved designs almost like ancient writing and diagrams scrawled on the walls of a cave.

My guru motioned for me to come forward which caused the bells to ring as if a fairy were symbolizing their joy. Each one carried a sweet tune clearer—no, sharper—than glass breaking. The melody was as soft as a lullaby but as confident as the rattle of a snake.

The red velvety fabric reminded me of dark red Kool-aid. Red strawberries. Red velvet cake. With golden sprinkles. If I could taste it, I know it would have melted in my mouth like sweet ice cream.

I ran my fingers across the soft, blanket-like fabric that felt like my dog’s fur. The bells were rough against the gentle fabric, creating a beautiful contrast, symbolizing the power and strength of the modest anklet.

I distinctly remember the thick scent of plastic mixed with turmeric emitting from the soft fabric. It was different than what I expected, but it was sharp and hard. It cut through my nostrils and led to a coughing fit.

Little did I know that years later it would emit the same strong smell, but with a hint of makeup and sweat.

----ஃ----

The next week, my parents were surprised to see my beaming face, excited to go to dance. I had practiced in my new anklets all week; they were my new prized possession after all. The beauty of the anklets made me feel powerful on the outside and confident on the inside. They worked well enough to be considered magic.

Mary Agrusa
Professor Richardson
English 1101
Oct 7, 2016

We Didn’t Know

Along the boundaries of Arlington National Cemetery there seems to be a shield. Surrounding this small portion of General Lee’s former estate is the cacophony and gridlock of the Beltway traffic, Washington politics, and everyday drama of several hundred thousand residents and tourists. Penetrate this invisible barrier and silence reigns. This is the home of the dead. Histories are entombed here; men and women of the military, some whose lives were prematurely foreclosed on. Regardless of feelings about this country and its armed forces, when you enter their house you show respect.

My husband handed the young soldier at the gate our pass. He snapped a brisk salute. From this slip of paper, he knew that we weren’t tourists; we had official business. At the bereavement center a chaplain greeted us, and addressed my sister and me both by name. “On behalf of the United States and the Army I extend to you our condolences on your father’s passing and our appreciation for his service to his country.” After describing the day’s itinerary, we were led to the waiting car. Up to thirty veterans are interred here daily. Arlington runs like a well-oiled funeral factory; the schedule is precise but never feels rushed.

The short ride to the columbarium wound past manicured lawns. Simple white marble tombstones like silent sentinels stood at attention in close order formation blanketing the rolling hills. Few people venture here. Family members, military honor guards, caretakers and wild geese roam these grounds. The cost of a burial here is astronomical, but money can’t purchase a plot. The price my father paid was D-Day.

We didn’t know much about Dad’s wartime experiences. He was older than most G.I.’s, in his late thirties. His only brother already enlisted, and his mother a widow, Dad could have applied for a deferment, but he didn’t. Color blindness prevented him from being a pilot. He trained in radio communications, and lent the impression to his children that he was far out of harm’s way transmitting and decoding messages.

We discovered my father’s involvement with D-Day by accident. Visiting the VA for a photo I.D., my sister overheard the discussion between my dad and the clerk assisting him. “Mr. McCullough, your records show that you were in D-Day.” “Yes, second day.” My sister’s interest was aroused. Once outside she probed for additional information. “I don’t want to talk about,” Dad quietly but firmly insisted. Case closed.

The only tangible evidence of his involvement in the European theater were: two pairs of wooden shoes, four plates, three cups and a mustard jar. As kids, the pottery pieces were stodgy old relics covered with writing we couldn’t read. We didn’t know who Queen Wilhelmina was and really didn’t care. Mom read us the riot act. When dusted, these pieces were to be handled with extreme care. The mustard jar was accidently broken, and my father mourned as if a dear friend had been lost. Glued back together, it now sits on my dining room hutch. Why were these so important to him? We didn’t know.

He rarely spoke about his wartime experiences like most vets of that era, especially around children. He reminisced mostly with his friends Bill and Max. Bill was a POW in a Japanese internment camp. In later years exhibiting extreme symptoms of PTSD, Bill was committed to a psychiatric hospital for treatment. Max, a young Jewish soldier, saw the liberation of the Nazi concentration camps. I don’t remember my father demonstrating any unusual behavior, however, it’s hard to know the total impact the war made on him. He always worked jobs that were below his abilities, a way of keeping his head down and staying safe. Reading was his escape, and he could intelligently converse on a wide range of subjects. I realize now his admonition to us to “Not follow the herd” referred to the German’s willingness to follow Hitler, and the disastrous consequences their actions produced. Dad kept a map of his travels through Europe, and occasionally expressed a desire to retrace his steps, specifically in France. Why there, I don’t know. I suspect that he wished he’d stayed there after the war.

Our elementary school class was forced to memorize Flanders Field, written in 1915 by Lt. Col. John McCrae.

In Flanders field the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place: and in the sky The larks still bravely singing fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead… (1–6)

The import of these words escaped us because we didn’t understand war. Several boys adopted deep bass tones and bellowed, “We are the dead!” Everyone laughed. What we didn’t know was that in a few short years some of their voices would echo this mournful dirge from the fields of Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia.

One Sunday after dinner my brother John, recently discharged from the Navy, shared his Vietnam story. Assigned to a supply ship off shore, he never saw direct combat. “It was so strange,” he remarked.

“The sky looked like Fourth of July firecrackers. It was beautiful until you realized that people were getting killed.” We both had friends who came home in body bags or missing limbs. Many were not the same. My father felt empathy for these young men who went from combat one day, then shortly were discharged and sent home. “We had plenty to time to decompress,” he told us. “It took months to get shipped back and processed out. We were able to talk a lot of things through. I feel sorry for these guys. It must be horrible.” That was the only time I’d ever heard him even hint that he had seen combat.

We hippies rebelled against the materialism of our parent’s generation. What we didn’t know were the reasons that fueled this. First, many vets spent their teen age and college years piloting war planes, firing at enemy planes from gunner’s seats, working on ships that were floating targets, and fighting hand-to-hand combat. Proms, football games and the like were forsaken in order to fight a war to defend their country. They wanted their children to have what they missed out on.

Second, the Vietnam war brought PSTD into the foreground. It turns out that some of the behaviors we despised were coping mechanisms against their war experiences. These were tools used to block out the memories that often haunted them decades later in nightmares and flashbacks. We just didn’t know.

Watching the televised ceremony commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of D-Day with my sister, Dad finally opened up. “It was the worst experience of my life. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but…I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” That was the day the mystery behind the ugly pottery was revealed.

The troops passed through areas of war torn Europe on their way home. One town in the Netherlands my father encountered was famous for pottery. The Nazi invasion forced the civilians to bury their wares; pieces made to celebrate their monarch, Queen Wilhilmena. The G.I.’s shared food rations with the hungry locals. In return, the villagers retrieved the pottery and gave it to the soldiers as tokens of their appreciation. And now we knew.

It was warm that summer afternoon and even under the canopy’s shade I could feel a bead of sweat slowly trickle down my back. The chaplain pronounced a short eulogy and blessing for this soldier he never knew. Across from me was the honor guard in full uniform, faces shiny with sweat, never flinching. Why would they do this? Why endure all sorts of weather: heat, cold, rain, snow, wind to participate in funerals for strangers? I think there’s something they know that we don’t. The military understands its mission is to serve and protect and this includes strangers. Their presence was a way of honoring my father’s service to the people he didn’t know.

The folded flag was presented, followed by a sharp salute. Seven guns fired thrice. The urn and mementos were placed in the burial niche. My father’s life had now come to a close. There is much we don’t know about him but some things are clearly defined. He loved his God, his family and his country. Although his life would be deemed ordinary at best, when given the chance to make a difference in his world for the better, he didn’t hesitate. And that much we do know.

Kenyon MacDonald
Ms. Shantay Robinson
English Composition
15 March 2016

Unemployed

February 23, 2009, the bane of my existence; the room was small with unadorned cream colored walls, with a conference table in the middle. I had never felt so claustrophobic in my life until this day. As I sat in the chair across the table from my imperiling doom, I felt like a helpless raccoon trapped in a cage with no way out. Every breath I took seemed long and drawn out; everything was in slow motion, almost still. I sat there as he spewed words of disdain from his mouth, the kind that make your blood boil and go cold at the same time. He spoke the kind of words that make every human emotion run through you all at once, where you feel as though you are on a roller coaster, but also drowning, but also wanting to pulverize something altogether at one time. My heart was pounding one thousand beats per second. After each sentence, I began to realize my fate. I was 21 years old, pig-headed, full of pride, and thought the world was mine to own. What person does not think that, being so young and stupid? But what had come that day made me feel like a receptacle overflowing with fear, anxiety and despair. That day, I learned that not all good things last and what is so easily attained can quickly be confiscated. Losing my job was the ultimate consequence I vowed never to experience again.

I was doing very well for myself. Though I still lived with my parents, I considered myself to be on top of the world. I had just started college, pursuing my associate degree in architectural design, and on November 5, 2007, I started what I thought was a bright career path with State Farm. I was hired in the Claim Imaging Operation Services (CIOS) department at the corporate building for the southern region of the east coast. I will not say my position was the most important, but I got paid very well for what I was hired to do. The building was a massive castle- like behemoth, built in a very beautiful, affluent part of town. When you walked through the enormous double doors from the foyer, and passed through the corridors, my department was at the back of the building: a giant room, filled with 30 cubicles occupied by my new co-workers, all of whom I considered beings of curiosity as they stared when I walked in. I felt every eye on me as I was shown to my new workspace. It was like high school all over again: you are the new kid and everyone is inquisitive of you. I was full of angst and anticipation as I sat at my desk, feeling very adult-like. It was my first real full-time job with real benefits. I was so excited, and this was a joyous moment that went on for days. Fast-forward a few weeks, time had flown by, and I was still in training. I might as well have been learning Japanese with all the terms and acronyms thrown at me like darts of death from every direction. It was too much information in such diminutive time. I thought to myself, This is what a lion’s den must feel like. Despite being heavily overwhelmed, this was my job, and I was running with the big dogs now. So, I had to keep up or otherwise lose my job, and that I was determined not to do. As time progressed, so did my work ethic, and my abilities to do the job started to shine through. My managers were taking notice that my quotas were met ahead of schedule. Whatever needed to be done, I volunteered. I always made it a point to learn new things, so I took it upon myself to learn other aspects of my job.

It had been a year now, and even though I was flourishing, I couldn’t help but notice that my hard work was unrewarded. I applied numerous times for opportunities in the mentor program. I went to every skill building workshop my job had to offer. All of these things I was doing in order to build my portfolio, but nothing happened. It was like trying to sign to a deaf person with no knowledge of sign language: you are communicating but nothing is computing on the other end. So, of course frustration set in. The fact that I was a bit hot-headed did not help my situation either. Letting my emotions get the better of me and feeling slighted against, I started not to care much anymore. State Farm became more of a democracy, like a political rat race of who is better than whom. More so, the job went from feeling like I was accomplishing something to feeling like I was just a statistic, planted here to push numbers for all eternity. I was even denied tuition reimbursement due to now not meeting company goals and standards. February of 2009 was the worst month of my entire life, and it was sad to come to the realization that the job I loved became my worst nightmare.

I found myself in a vicious cycle of unanswered questions, “What happened here?” “What is with all of these negative changes?” Dealing with all the new company polices and changes, I felt like a caged monkey in a science lab just waiting for whatever experiments were coming my way. Being poked and prodded by new standard procedures, being told lies from managers so questions were not asked: I finally had just about enough and scheduled a day off. This was going to be a day to just relax, recollect my thoughts, and enjoy time to myself. I had some unfinished business to take care of that I could not get to because of work and school, so why not take this time to do it, so I thought. Monday, February 23, 2009, I woke up feeling relieved to know I did not have to go in to work. I showered, went downstairs, made some breakfast, and prepared for a pretty easy going day. It was beautiful and sunny with the smell of honeysuckle in the air. As I pulled away from my driveway, my windows and sunroof opened with Destiny’s Child’ “Survivor” playing on the radio, I made my way to take care of my errands. This is what I needed, I thought to myself: no complaining managers in my ear, no whining co-workers gossiping about other people’s problems, just me enjoying the new spring air and mellowing out. As I finished my last errand, I planned to go home, relax, and enjoy the rest of my day off.

On my way home, I received a phone call but could not answer it due to driving down the highway. I got within ten minutes from my house and my phone rang again. Reluctantly, I answered. To my fear and astonishment, it was my boss calling me on my perfect day of solitude. This man had the nerve to ask me, ON MY DAY OFF, to come in for a department meeting. I pulled my car over abruptly, and said, “Are you kidding me?! I scheduled this day off for a reason, and I am nowhere near the office.” He was on the other line saying how it was very important, all employees needed to be present, and I needed to be there. As I cursed him up and down and called him every name in the book of insults, in my head of course, I grudgingly turned my car around and made my way towards my office. I spent forty-five minutes in time and fifteen dollars in gas driving my aggravated behind to work, and as I did, I was livid. The way I was feeling would have made a worldwide epidemic, apocalypse, and economic meltdown seem less scary.

As I pulled into the parking lot, almost ramming two cars, I parked my car and made my way to the door. I swiftly swiped my badge and nothing happened. I swiped again; the door remained locked. At this point, I was fuming past the point of being livid. I made my way towards the front desk to security and asked why my badge was not working. The security guard checked my name and badge number and retorted that it had been disconnected. He told me I needed to wait and he would notify my manager that I had arrived. Now, not only was I highly upset that my day had been ruined, but now all these weird shenanigans started taking place. I saw my manager come from the massive double doors and make his way toward me. He greets me with a Cheshire cat smile and a persona unlike the norm. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. I was led away from my department and down a large corridor to which I was taken into a comparatively small and cramped room. “This is in the HR department, what is going on?” I asked furiously. I was seated across from my boss, with the secondary department manager on my right and two women deemed as “witnesses” to the left of my manager. So many emotions ran through me: I felt helpless, scared, cornered, and bewildered.

Is this really happening to me? I thought to myself, as he slashed me with words telling me I had been laid off. I tried to find every excuse in the book to relinquish me from this terror, but I could not escape the inevitable; I was now unemployed.

Losing my job was the most embarrassing and humiliating thing I have ever experienced. The feeling of dread and self-doubt was overwhelming, and being so young in this predicament was a big blow to my confidence. I took for granted that my job would always be there. Even though it was a bitter moment, I take some sweet out of it. If this had not happened, I would not have started my acting career and would not have had the opportunity of being on numerous shows, including “The Vampire Diaries,” or movies such as “Due Date.” Even being in school now is a part of the sweet moments I would not have had the chance to make happen for myself. I have adopted a whole new outlook on the workforce. I take my time and I do not try to over achieve; at the end of the day, all you have is what was done. I had to realize that I cannot have it all, and no matter what, always do the best I can. Life is full of consequences and losing a job is a horrible feeling. Nothing is guaranteed in this world; start appreciating the things you have because once it is gone, it is gone.

Manicuring the Self: Creative Writing in the Age of Social Media

Robert Pfeiffer

Originally presented at the South Atlantic Modern Language Association Conference, October 2013

“Write what you know.” It’s an old truism in creative writing classes, something simple we hope our students can latch on to. I remember hearing it for the first time in middle school, and, in the neo-natal stages of my desire to be a writer, I bought into it. Of course, “write what you know” is overly simplistic, and when given to a 14 year old, this advice yields a whole lot of overly-sentimental, angst-ridden dreck. It certainly did in my case. What seed, though, is then planted? If we look just a little further down the road, there are really two paths we send our young writers down. If we write what we know from our own lives, and the goal is to write interesting, insightful work, then we must either already be living interesting lives, or try to somehow start living interesting lives. The former is, unfortunately, unlikely, and the latter can be dangerous. The list of writers and aspiring writers who attempt to inspire their own work through what starts as experimentation and adventure, but ends is self-destruction is as long as it is tragic.

So how is one to write quality creative nonfiction without dropping out of society, travelling the world on foot, or drinking one’s self into an early grave? Well, it’s easier said than done, for certain. Most successful creative nonfiction writers explore their own experiences, relationships, possessions, find the nugget of importance, of consequence therein, and tease it out for the reader to observe and consume. That is to say, it is not necessarily the life as such, that need be interesting, but the author living it. A professor once told me that the poet William Blake, famous for his visions and eccentricities, once proclaimed “[B]oredom is simply a lack of creativity.” And while I have never been able to verify this, he was a Blake scholar, and so I have somewhat naively and lazily just believed him. But I love this quotation, and it is apropos here. It is up to the creator to breathe life into the work, and to pull from it, and present, the value therein. This is the way it has been for as long as people have told stories, and we’ve been telling and writing stories for eons. However, the way we tell stories has changed. The emergence and ubiquity of social media has unquestionably altered the landscape of creative nonfiction.

For the purposes of my discussion, Facebook will be the primary social medium considered, as it is the most prevalent, with 1.15 billion users worldwide, the most comprehensive (connecting through Twitter and Instagram, while combining the written word with the image), and is also the only one I use (expendableramblings.com). Moreover, I will be considering the genre of creative nonfiction through the lens of literary critic Barbara Lounsberry’s book, The Art of Fact. Here, Lounsberry outlines four characteristics which make up the genre. The first characteristic is “documentable subject matter chosen from the real world as opposed to ‘invented’ from the writer’s mind” (xiii). The second is “exhaustive research” (xiii–xiv). Here is where my students often ask, “but if it’s from your life, how come you need to do research?” The answer is, “you don’t always.” But then I show them David Foster Wallace’s brilliant and breathtaking essay “Consider the Lobster,” where through his research, which is exhaustive to the point of delirium, he takes the reader from the experience of attending the Maine Lobster Festival and somehow drops them into the deepest philosophical waters of the morality and ethics of our food culture. Then they get it. The third is setting “the scene” (xiv–xv). The ability to create or re-create the scene is a hallmark of all good storytellers, and often involves making a few things up. Unless you constantly have a video camera recording your every breath and experience, you are likely to have to invent something to get the scene right, whether it be dialogue, what someone was wearing, etc. This is also the place where I give my James-Frey-A-Million-Little-Pieces warning about the ethical standards of creative nonfiction.

The final characteristic, and perhaps the most difficult to achieve is what Lounsberry calls “fine writing” (xv). Perhaps it’s best not to digress too far with regards to the artistic quality of student writing at this point other than to mention a few brief, perhaps obvious comments. First, and this is a serious problem in the introductory-level creative writing classroom, many students are not as good as they think they are. Those of us who have loved writing stories and poems since childhood have been, and this is a good thing, encouraged by parents and teachers and friends to keep doing it, told that we have real talent and skill in an effort to support our artistic proclivities. It is a hard day when someone tells us we’re not as good as we think we are, but it is a totally necessary one. We must come to understand that there is so much more to learn, and that there is craft involved, rather than merely inspiration flowing through fingertips. The reality is something much more in line with Malcolm Gladwell’s notion espoused in Outliers that one, to master any skill, must practice for ten thousand hours. This is, needless to say, disheartening to many. Second, and on the flip side of the same coin, many students are not as bad as they think. Perhaps less a problem in creative writing courses, but rampant at the composition level, students have been indoctrinated with the belief that since they haven’t mastered the comma, or slip into passive voice too often, they are not, and cannot become, good writers. This is heartbreaking as an educator, but a place where real change can occur in the students’ lives. Finally, it needs to be made clear to students of writing, that there has never been a good writer who was not also a good reader. Critical reading leads to an understanding of good writing.

In recent years, I have noticed a preponderance of my students, from First-Year Writing, to Writing Studies, to Creative Writing, want to write a memoir. Many of them already have, or are somewhere along the path to doing so. So many of them feel they have a great story to tell, and many actually do. Some of them–not so much. I began to wonder why it was that so many felt they had, not just a best seller in them, but a “nonfiction” best seller. It seems that part of the answer here lies in the all-too obvious, yet incredibly complicated existential reality that each of us is the lead character in the only story we ever know. That is we are each at the exact center, in every way, of every single thing we experience in our lives, and therefore, though we try in our better moments not to, we view everything that happens in the world through the solipsistic lens of how it affects us. Hence, for better or worse, our story is quite simply, the most important story in the world, to us. It stands to reason then, that we would want to, and indeed feel compelled, to write it. But why the recent increase in those who are actually taking steps towards writing their stories? It seems everyone used to want to write the Great American Novel, while we poets stayed hunched over a desk in our dark, anonymous corners. It is my contention that social media is constantly asking us to tell our stories, and in doing so stokes our natural ego-centrality, while simultaneously, it makes us acutely aware of our own deficiencies and social anxieties. That is to say, the I-self we express through these various forms of social media is not nonfiction, nor is it fiction; our Facebook–Twitter–Instagram– Tumblr–selves are, in fact, creative nonfiction versions of our real selves.

The entire apparatus that represents the Facebook behemoth is set up to turn us all into authors of creative nonfiction with varying degrees of sophistication and frivolity. When you open your Facebook page, it’s right there in front of you: “Status Update.” It beckons you with the words “What’s on your mind?” It is practically beseeching us to type something: something about your morning commute, your children, your political frustrations. It wants you to share about yourself, and simultaneously affirms that whatever you type is okay, and worthy of posting. “What’s on your mind?” It could be anything, couldn’t it? And in the universe of social media, just about anything is just fine. This, as with so many things in this life, cuts both ways. On the positive side, users of social media cull their own experiences and lives, searching for stories to share. This is a mandatory, integral element to creative nonfiction. Moreover, it certainly could be argued that the prevalence of social media, and particularly its constant presence in our lives, forces users to practice the skill of being open to the possibility of stories from our own lives. Therefore, social media as a concept by itself helps foster the creative nonfiction writer within. What comes first, in any creative work, is the idea, the nugget of inspiration or possibility that leads us to pick up the pen, move to the keyboard, grab the guitar, or dip the paintbrush. Social media, when we come to it, helps us to search for, and be open to that nugget when it presents itself.

Once we choose something we deem worthy of sharing, then work, which mimics the work of the creative nonfiction author, begins. Even a simple status update is, at some level, a small work of creative nonfiction. At the very least, most of us wish to have our posts be grammatically correct, unless intentionally not so. We want all the words to be properly spelled, unless intentionally not so. We also want them to be interpreted by the Facebook world as we intended them to be. Essentially, we want our posts to be “fine writing,” even if that fine writing only approximates the fine writting we demand from quality creative nonfiction.

Perhaps an example would help. In an effort to avoid any legal or personal confrontations with any of my Facebook friends, I will use example of one of my own status updates.

Despite the facts that I have two words improperly capitalized, and that the ellipses that precede those two capitalizations are incorrectly formatted, and that “bad” should be “badly,” I think this post can serve to illustrate many of the points I’ve been trying the flesh out. The exigence for this “story-post” was my daughter’s second birthday. As we wandered around the aquarium that morning, I was acutely aware of the emotions running through my body and the thoughts through my head. I was searchingfor a poem in the day. I was also, though to a far lesser extent, thinking about how I might end up sharing the story of our day with all those people who might care via Facebook: what might be a good picture, how long of a post, how personal should it be, what tone should I strike, what would be interesting to read? In these only-semi-conscious deliberations, I was doing a fragment of what the quality writer of creative nonfiction does when planning out his or her own story. How do I take a personal experience, and mold it into something that might be enjoyable to the reader, but also maintain fidelity to the actual truth and my connectionto it? Simply writing “Happy Birthday to our daughter!” would tell the most basic version of the story: our daughter turned two … and perhaps that would suffice. However, this post tells a much more detailed, and dare I say, far better story. (Please be apprised, I am not boasting about the status update, as boasting about a status update would be ridiculous. And although the update is boasting about my child, for which I offer no apologies, I am merely trying to illustrate the work that almost thoughtlessly goes into these little stories). This post is less about the actual date, than it is about a father’s love for his child. It seems to indicate that the emotions he felt were such that a mere status update wouldn’t do, and so they must be rendered into a separate work of art. Beyond even that, the update says something about the bewilderment we all sometimes feel when we see how a child views the world–when everything was fresh, new, exciting, devoid of all the drudgeries and pain of the adult word. She is “desperately” (not a bad adjective) in love with life. What is in the subtext here, perhaps, is that the father is not anymore, and longs to be again. The final wish for her is that she remains that way, and though it is possible for someone to always be in love with life, it is not easy, or common, and the father certainly knows that.

Then there’s the business of the accompanying photograph. There were eighty six pictures taken over the birthday celebration: good ones, bad ones, blurry ones, her misbehaving, looking away, my wife holding her, me holding her, ones where my gut hung out, where strangers occupy too much of the background, ones where her eyes were closed, boring ones of her sitting and doing nothing at all. Of all of them, I chose this one. I was able to take every shred of photographical evidence of the day and select the one I thought best matched the sentiment of the post. This photo tells the story of our day at the aquarium, and shows her just amazed and taking in the incredible world, almost as if frozen by how vast and beautiful it all is. The point is, this post is not nonfiction. I manicured the day, picking and choosing everything I wanted to include, and everything I wanted to leave out. This is the same freedom and power the creative nonfiction author has. Moreover, there is a subtle consideration of audience here. I tagged my wife in the photo, so all her Facebook friends who are not my Facebook friends could read it as well. She had already posted her happy birthday story earlier, with a picture, so I had to make sure we were not being redundant, and thus boring the audience. I didn’t want to submit into a saturated market of Pfeiffer Family Birthday posts, and so tried to find a different angle and image. These are all real, if microcosmic, considerations that the author of creative nonfiction must consider from the first inkling of the desire to write, all the way through the tedium and pain of submission and publication. When considered, this amounts to ways that using social media contribute to create more, better writers of creative nonfiction.

On the other hand, and this is where I will do my best to avoid sounding like a snarky pseudo-luddite, social media might well be deadening our ability to decide what is important enough to share. Social media is part and parcel of a celebrity-obsessed society where powerful and influential platforms are given to people who have done nothing to earn them. We see people who have accomplished nothing of great consequence, who exhibit no discernible talent, whose sole achievement is having famous parents, or lucking into a reality show, and their tweets, updates, or other words, are given tremendous national or even international attention. Perhaps we see them and assume that because those people garner attention they don’t deserve, we too should feel free to express ourselves as though what we have to say is important, when in fact, it is not. The danger for the creative nonfiction genre, is that when Facebook is constantly asking us to tell our story, whether it be something profound like our mourning a loved one’s passing, something thought-provoking like our opinion about the state of our politics, or something totally banal, like how delicious our morning scone is, we feel pressure to have a story to tell. The truth is, most of the time we don’t have story worth sharing with the world, and that is fine. That is why when truly important events occur, or truly important people come or go, we feel compelled to write about it. Perhaps then, social media is making it more difficult to differentiate between those stories that really should be told, and the ones that are merely inconsequential. When we haven’t

refreshed our Walls for a few minutes, and that little icon pops us to inform is that there are still “More Stories” to be consumed if we just scroll up, something in us feels that we too, need to be disgorging more, when in fact, we should wait until we have something worth writing, to write.

When my twenty-year-old students come up to me and tell me they really want to write a memoir, it confounds me. Certainly we all feel like our story is worthwhile, even if it is boring, because it’s the only story we really know. And certainly some of them really do have incredible lives to write about. But I can’t help, when I look into their impossibly young eyes, thinking that they’ve been led to believe, by whatever social or cultural forces, that they should be sharing their lives, when, in fact, they should actually be living them

Work Cited

“How Many People Use the Top Social Media.” Expanded Ramblings. com. Lounsberry, Barbara. The Art of Fact: Contemporary Artists of Nonfiction. Westport, Conn: Greenwood Press, 1990. Print.