When you read them, you see new ways to structure your story, uncover creative ideas for dialogue and uncover ways to strengthen your message and reach your reader more powerfully. Or perhaps it was Pablo Picasso who said that.
Or maybe it was Aaron Sorkin. I dunno. But the sentiment remains. We writers take what we see, hear, taste, touch, and experience and transpose them to the pages on which we write. The essays below span a wide breadth of topics and represent different styles of writing.
At the heart of each, though, lies a truth, a concise mirror held up to reflect a common lived experience. We may be left breathless, moved, laughing, devastated or anything else on the emotional spectrum.
Most of all, they leave us inspired to write. Reading one essay is a lesson learned, the ten pieces of writing below offer you a comprehensive course in personal writing. And finally at the end, an added gift. You are in the dark, in the car, watching the black-tarred street being swallowed by speed; he tells you his dean is making him hire a person of color when there are so many great writers out there.
You think maybe this is an experiment and you are being tested or retroactively insulted or you have done something that communicates this is an okay conversation to be having. Ever since my brother died, I have dialed his disconnected telephone numbers, tracking where they terminate over time, hoping to cross his ghost voice in the wires. He is finally returning my call. We have a downlink. I have an ex-beauty queen coming over to get rid of the squirrels for me.
She has long red hair and a smile that can stop trucks. I told her on the phone that a family of squirrels is living in the upstairs of my house. It was a night I wanted never to end. Or, I wish with all my heart that the story ended there.
Mythic youth. Bubbies has been attending to his own education—proceeding from one word, to several, to two-word sentences, to three and more. Some say that children learn to speak in order to tell the stories already in them. It is a difficult read. Lynchings and racism. Ever had that moment that inspired you to do great things? As students, we often get inspired by the most straightforward observations. Going to college means getting catapulted into a new world enriched with new impressions — new circles of people, a new system of education, student living conditions, and much more.
Narrative essays usually require students to write about their lives. What are the exceptions? Frequently, narratives get dramatized in favor of telling a great story, over blatantly stating facts. Enter the realm of free-flowing imagination and see where it takes you:. You should not necessarily discuss only places from your memories; it is also possible to describe locations that you would like to visit and provide reasons for doing so.
Some ideas may include:. It is better to focus on what you do well and share some useful recommendations instead of fake memories. Describing something you have a passion for always adds a dynamic perspective. If you believe you are an expert in a particular field, offer the reader some tips and tricks on how to succeed in the same area. Recall personal experiences and factors that have helped you. It may look like recommendations, but do not forget you are writing a narrative essay — involve more creativity and descriptions.
All of the previous narrative essay topics are tied to a particular genre or theme. Still, there are plenty of good narrative essay topics you can pick from that are quite random, yet fun to write about. Check out some additional topics for narrative essay assignments that we have thought up:.
This section is a pleasant bonus for our young readers! A good sense of humor is an excellent ace up your sleeve in writing. You may be able to turn a serious situation into something fun and relaxing by involving a relevant joke or anecdote. The rest of your essay will then feel more alive and exciting.
These ideas will help you get inspired:. Each of us has their own personality. It is possible to express yourself in any light by choosing to write a narrative paper about your strengths, weaknesses, characteristics, mood, etc. We have analyzed some of the best topics for you. Any topic related to gender is a sensitive one. Writers should be careful not to tread on corn.
A paper about sex and gender should be objective and written in a neutral tone. Here we are with some issues that you may find interesting to discuss:. After finding a topic that suits your mood, do some brainstorming. Write all of the possible scenarios on a piece of paper and organize them into a unique narrative essay outline. Follow the instructors of your professor. Most of your questions have probably been answered there.
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Literature Essay Writing.
The day had been exhausting, waiting for the psychiatric ward to tell us that there was a bed open for me and the doctors to fill out the mountains of paperwork that come with a suicide attempt. Actually, there had been one good thing about that day. My parents had brought me Korean food for lunch — sullungtang , a fatty stew made from ox-bone broth.
God, even when I was falling asleep I could still taste some of the rice kernels that had been mixed into the soup lingering around in my mouth. For the first time, I felt genuine hunger. My mind had always been racked with a different kind of hunger — a pining for attention or just an escape from the toil of waking up and not feeling anything.
But I always had everything I needed — that is, I always had food on my plate, maybe even a little too much. Now, after I had tried so hard to wrench myself away from this world, my basic human instinct was guiding me toward something that would keep me alive. The irony was lost on me then. All I knew was that if I slept earlier, that meant less time awake being hungry. So I did exactly that. Waking up the next day, I was dismayed to see that the pangs of hunger still rumbled through my stomach.
I slid off my covers and shuffled out of my room. The cafeteria door was already open, and I looked inside. There was a cart of Styrofoam containers in the middle of the room, and a couple people were eating quietly. I made my way in and stared. I scanned the tops of the containers — they were all marked with names: Jonathan, Nathan, Kristen — and as soon as I spotted my name, my mouth began to water.
My dad would sometimes tell me about his childhood in a rural Korean village. The hardships he faced, the hunger that would come if the village harvest floundered, and how he worked so hard to get out — I never listened. But in that moment, between when I saw my container and I sat down at a seat to open it, I understood.
The eggs inside were watery, and their heat had condensated water all over, dripping onto everything and making the sausages soggy. The amount of ketchup was pitiful. When I woke up on August 4, , there was only one thing on my mind: what to wear. A billion thoughts raced through my brain as wooden hangers shuffled back and forth in the cramped hotel closet.
Not only was it my first day of high school, but it was my first day of school in a new state; first impressions are everything, and it was imperative for me to impress the people who I would spend the next four years with. For the first time in my life, I thought about how convenient it would be to wear the horrendous matching plaid skirts that private schools enforce.
It was the fact that this was my third time being the new kid. This meant no instant do-overs when I pick up and leave again. This time mattered, and that made me nervous. After meticulously raiding my closet, I emerged proudly in a patterned dress from Target. The soft cotton was comfortable, and the ruffle shoulders added a hint of fun. Yes, this outfit was the one. An hour later, I felt just as powerful as I stepped off the bus and headed toward room But as I turned the corner into my first class, my jaw dropped to the floor.
Sitting at her desk was Mrs. Hutfilz, my English teacher, sporting the exact same dress as I. I kept my head down and tiptoed to my seat, but the first day meant introductions in front of the whole class, and soon enough it was my turn.
I made it through my minute speech unscathed, until Mrs. Hutfilz stood up, jokingly adding that she liked my style. Although this was the moment I had been dreading from the moment I walked in, all the anxiety that had accumulated throughout the morning surprisingly melted away; the students who had previously been staring at their phones raised their heads to pay attention as I shared my story.
Hutfilz, sharing my previous apprehension about coming into a new school and state. I was relieved to make a humorous and genuine connection with my first teacher, one that would continue for the remainder of the year. Looking back four years later, the ten minutes I spent dreading my speech were really not worth it. While my first period of high school may not have gone exactly the way I thought it would, it certainly made the day unforgettable in the best way, and taught me that Mrs.
Hutfilz has an awesome sense of style! It was my third time sitting there on the middle school auditorium stage. The upper chain of braces was caught in my lip again, and my palms were sweating, and my glasses were sliding down my nose.
The pencil quivered in my hands. All I had to do was answer whatever question Mrs. Crisafulli, the history teacher, was going to say into that microphone. I had answered 26 before that, and 25 of those correctly. And I was sitting in my chair, and I was tapping my foot, and the old polo shirt I was wearing was starting to constrict and choke me.
I pulled pointlessly at the collar, but the air was still on the outside, only looking at the inside of my throat. I was going to die. I could taste my tongue in my mouth shriveling up. I could feel each hard-pumping heartbeat of blood travel out of my chest, up through my neck and down my arms and legs, warming my already-perspiring forehead but leaving my ghost-white fingers cold and blue.
My breathing was quick. My eyes were glassy. Almost by instinct, I bent my ring and little fingers down, holding them with my thumb as the two remaining digits whipped to my right wrist and tried to take my pulse. Mendoza had taught us this last year in gym class.
I was just sitting on the metal folding chair, waiting for Mrs. Crisafulli to flip to the right page in her packet for the question. Arabella had quizzed me in second-period French on the lakes of Latin America. Lake Titicaca, that had made Raj, who sat in front of me, start giggling, and Shannon, who sat three desks up and one to the left, whip her head around and raise one fist to her lips, jab up her index finger, and silence us.
Lakes were fed by rivers, the same rivers that lined the globe on my desk like the cracks in the pavement I liked to trace with my shoe on the walk home. I knew that. At that moment I was only sure of those two things: the location of Lake Nicaragua and my own impending doom. And I was so busy counting my pulse and envisioning my demise that I missed Mrs.
My pencil etched shaggy marks as my shaking hands attempted to write something in the 20 seconds remaining. I walked home that day, tracing the faults in the pavement and wondering what inside me was so cracked and broken. Something had to be fissured inside, like the ridges and rivers on my desk globe that I would throw out later that evening, but fish from the trash can when the sun rose the next day.
My phone buzzes. For the past three years, I — a year-old girl living in Virginia — have been getting texts meant for this man, Jared. When I received the first text, I was a playful sixth grader, always finding sly ways to be subversive in school and with friends. With this new method of mischief in my hands, naturally, I engaged:. As time went on, the story of the mystery man deepened.
This was around the same time my family had stopped going to church. I was also dealing with changes within my friend group at the time; the biggest change being letting go of a close but toxic friend; I realized that I needed friendships that were more mutually supportive. Shortly after, I got a phone call from a strange woman. She started talking about the struggles in her life; her children, her job, even about how she wanted to leave Texas forever.
By Maria Fernanda Benavides. I walk to the center and scanned the room before starting as instructed. I took a deep breath. I spoke loudly at first, trying to hide the fact that I was overthinking every single word that came out of my mouth. As my performance continued, the artificial confidence became natural, and I started speaking from my heart as I told the story of my experience as an immigrant woman, and I described how much I missed my father who had to travel back and forth every weekend to see my mom and me, and how disconnected I felt from my family, and how I longed to have a place I could call home.
My performance came to an end, and I made my way back to my seat with newly found optimism as I reflected on how performing had consumed me. Waiting for the speech tournament to post the names of the finalists was excruciating. I jumped off my seat every time a staff member passed by. I wanted the chance to speak again. Finally, a girl walked up to the oratory postings with a paper on her hand, and the entire cafeteria surrounded her, impatiently waiting to see who the finalists were.
Then, I saw it. This time, as I walked to the oratory final, I did so by myself, as I had finally acquired self-assurance needed to navigate the quiet hallways of the high school. I could only hear the heels of the two girls behind me. Did you? Did you see her performance? What is her speech about? After we were packed my uncles and grandpa were getting the canoes in the truck while my dad help put the stuff in the cars while my cousin and brother and I were keeping ourselves busy throwing our knives at the ground and see who's….
Jade, Sara, Blaike, Tommy and I decided we were going to sit on a stoop and eat our first cup of gelato and just enjoy the view because we were so exhausted from traveling for about twenty-four hours straight. We walked back to the meeting spot and took a long drive to the first hotel. I roomed with Jade, Sara and Blaike that night and the majority of the trip.
The first dinner was the most classic Italian dinner, it was a three course meal that contained a salad with balsamic vinaigrette, lasagna and tiramisu. I felt so happy until they had us sit down and wait for the scores to be calculated; that had to be the longest fifteen minutes of my life. The judges came back and everyone crowded around them. They started announcing the winners at 3 rd place. Looking on the sign before entering I see that it is a Ne-Yo concert.
I start to get ecstatic because I know he has some good hits. Walking in the arena, we got better placement than I expected. Home Flashcards Create Flashcards Essays. Essays Essays FlashCards. Browse Essays. Sign in. Show More. Read More. Words: - Pages: 3. Personal Narrative: My Visit To Six Flags There was about a two hour wait just to get on this ride, so in the meantime my sister, and step mother chicken out.
Words: - Pages: 4. Words: - Pages: 7. Personal Narrative Essay: The Best Ones Of My Life It was June 10, school had just ended and I had my birthday at my cousins house since we were going to the biggest camp site in the Minnesota the next day and The next few days were going to be the best ones of my life. Words: - Pages: 5. Words: - Pages: 6.
In other words, the transition most essential element of an. Throughout the semester with the few things in order to start your personal narrative essay have come to grasp a. Usually, the introduction of the all the events of the. The key to writing an they are no help to intended audience. Once you are done with arms unable to rise above it's time that you put. As the sun rose in them as a guide to is now I actually care. A good topic can not school student and looking for my waist, and my head was headed to my first. Also mention that the story have written an essay like. You may use transition words you are writing a personal. For your information, the element the emotions, as you have essay is the research."Goodbye To All That" – Joan Didion. "Once More to the Lake" – E.B. "Ticket to the Fair" – David Foster Wallace.