ANATOMY OF AN ESSAY


I’m peacefully driving along the street and am suddenly attacked by the title for an essay. At the next stoplight I scribble it down on the stack of scratch paper on the passenger seat. Percolation begins -- subconscious in charge.

I finish driving to the swimming pool. As I dog-paddle back and forth in the lap lanes, related words and phrases bubble up into my consciousness. My fraying memory puts in for battle pay. I resort to a variety of tired mnemonic devices to help me hang onto whatever bits I can until I finish my swim. Finally, back in the car, I jot down the word salad as best I can. I drive to the grocery store and then home. I pull into my parking place and collect my notes to carry upstairs.

Once inside the door, I turn on the computer, open up Microsoft Word, and, using the hunt-and-peck system, begin to keyboard the notes, often finding them completely illegible. I save the keyboarded notes, hang up my swimsuit, and put my groceries away. All of a sudden I seem to be brain dead, so I close down Word. I tell myself I’ll work on the writing after lunch.

Life gets in the way. Three days later, writing class is galloping toward me. I do not know what happened to the week. It doesn’t matter as the deadline demands action. I encourage myself to sit down at the computer and open up Word and the saved essay notes.

I sit there and reread what I already have. It’s anemic, inadequate, lackluster at best. Whatever made me think this topic was substantial enough for even a lightweight essay? But, over the years I’ve learned that writing is more about the willingness to continue to engage with the material than it is about inspiration. So, I sit there and sit there and sit there.

Eventually I eke out a paragraph, or two, or three. I surprise myself with a cogent thought, or two, or three. I keep at it until it begins to approximate the idea I started out with. Maybe this will work after all.

I cut words and phrases. I look to make sure I have as many action verbs and precise nouns as possible. I remind myself to narrow the focus, be specific, and find places to use dialogue. I add examples and anecdotes. I look up dog-paddling in the dictionary; is it one word or two? Is it hyphenated or not? Back to the dictionary; does mnemonic mean what I think it means? How the hell do you pronounce it, anyway?

I finally reach the point where it’s not necessarily good, but good-enough. I print out copies, and drag the essay, freshly killed, to class.

Listen up, now!