Essays are like babies:
impossibly delicate and in constant need of coddling. I think it’s the precise and fragile nature
of essays that, like babies, kind of freaks me out. “Type up two pages,” “Jot down your thoughts:”
these directions feel simple enough, and I can knock them out as quick as
ripping off a band aid. But once the
word “essay” is thrown out, I know my professor means business. It requires a scrupulous thought process as I
inch painfully through my MLA-formatted paper.
I struggle through brainstorming, research, and analysis, all the while
imaging a spectacled silhouette wielding his beloved red pen in the half light
of his office, ready and eager to pounce upon the tender offspring of my labors. Every portion of an essay must be significant:
the words, the structure, and the syntax.
These must combine together in each sentence and paragraph, while still
linking back to the pervading theme. You
must never sound forced, but allowing too much casualness into your paper
destroys credibility and consequently the very foundation of your argument. And always, always, always, be sure not only to
address the “how” of the prompt, but also the “why.”
Keeping such exhausting specifications in mind, how should
you start an essay? Most of the best
methods have already been taken. You
can’t begin with a “universally acknowledged truth,” a pithy paradox about the
times, or even a simple “call me Sarah.”
I usually find myself staring at the blank document until my eyes bleed,
then manage to mash a few mangled phrases together and create a weak but
workable thesis. I don’t get too
attached, though—my thesis only changes 10,384 times before I actually finish. As the focal point of the argument, a thesis
must, of course, be perfect. There is no
worse error than an unsatisfactory thesis.
Mr. Werts, my AP English Composition teacher, originally
impressed upon me the importance of effective theses and essays throughout my
junior year. The instruction began with
my summer reading essay, which at the time I believed was a feat of literary
genius the likes of which had never before graced the hallways of Flower Mound
High. Upon reading it, universities
across the world would immediately beg my attendance, the Bronte sister angels
would descend singing Shakespeare sonnets, and a starving child in Africa would
get his very own birthday cake.
I received a 73%.
Clearly Mr. Werts was an unstable misanthrope who ate
only pickled beets and went home every night to his bald cats and battered copies
of Emerson. Still, I was determined to
astonish and inspire him with my analysis of “An Author to her Book.” After over a week of editing, eating chocolate,
and refining, I was awarded with a measly 81.
For the next several months, I wrote, re-wrote, attended teacher-student
conferences, cried, re-wrote again, and ultimately dragged myself through a
kind of masochistic writing boot camp.
By March, I realized how much Mr. Werts forced me to develop as a
writer. I knew now to explain the
significance of the literary devices, and not just show that they were
there. I realized the beauty of embedded
quotes and power of a persistently threaded thesis. I sowed the embryonic beginnings of a halting
style that I’ve since continued to cultivate.
Most significantly, I learned that writing is not a skill that, like a cheap
soap opera, reaches a dramatic climax and then plateaus. Rather, the diligent student must always seek
to improve and be willing to begin again, while, of course, not tearing their
hair out in the process. Patience and perseverance is a must.
Remembering the Werts “draft, but don’t go daft” theory
is absolutely essential for effective body paragraphs. They must each feature a topic sentence consisting
of a transitional phrase and a clear yet stealthily smooth introduction of what
the paragraph will discuss, taking care to thread the explanation back to your
actual thesis without being repetitive. I
believe accomplishing this in one sentence or less feels vaguely like patting
your head and rubbing you stomach while performing Shawn Johnson’s 2008 Olympic
gymnastics routine, and will take several attempts to get it right. Be willing to re-write. The paragraphs each present the detailed meat
of your argument, so using no quotes whatsoever makes you sound like a geezer
shouting baseless thoughts from the back porch. In such cases, start again. Don’t go overboard though—too many quotes and
minimal analysis is called regurgitation, a trait graders find particularly revolting. The wording should be powerful but clear; using
particularly esoteric or hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian vocab might confuse or
distract your audience. My own writer death trap is failure to check back to
see if I have stayed aligned with my thesis.
If (when) you stray from your original claim, rehash either your
paragraph or your thesis. “Be thou consistent.
Keep thyself on the straight and narrow
argument, and thou shalt earn an A” (Shakespeare).
As for a conclusion, connect to your intro but in a zesty
and exciting new way. I try to think Seventeen Magazine: each issue presents
essentially the exact same information but with new models, accessories, or
other unique little twists. If possible,
throw in a literary device—professors love that and it makes you sound
approximately 6.39 bajillion times more impressive than you actually are. If you want to sound really profound, apply
your message to the world today. People
want to be told what to do, so give them some philosophical advice and they’ll
hail you as a bona fide Socrates.
Essays are a difficult art fraught with complexities and
contradictions. They require painstaking
attention to detail coupled with a broad understanding of overarching
themes. The near impossibility of
accomplishing both requirements make them particularly frustrating for
perfectionists and may instigate multiple psychological break downs resulting
in burnt copies of Dickens novels and a dramatic increase in the number of
1950’s musicals viewed per week (not that I would have any personal experience
in this area). None the less, it is
possible to finish your 12 page analysis essay by the due date. Stay vigilant, nurture your brain-child,
avoid unnecessary eye ball removal, and remember: as your professor will gladly
inform you, your paper will never be perfect.
But my gosh, you had better try.
