DEVELOPMENTAL ESSAY
This piece describes my transformation as a writer throughout college, from feeling comfortable writing literary analysis essays to realizing that I was capable of so much more. It wasn’t until I was pushed out of my comfort zone that I was able to make this discovery, but once I did I really enjoyed trying out new styles of writing. The experience of actually writing this developmental essay was powerful for me because it showed me how far I’ve really come as a writer. I also really enjoyed looking back at my older writing, both good and bad, to see how I've progressed as not only a writer, but a person.
I entered college feeling confident in my ability to write essays that analyzed the literary techniques of a novel down to the individual words on the page. My first couple years at U of M only encouraged my ego. I became very content completing the same close reading assignment from one book to the next. I felt like a good writer, and feedback from my peers and instructors confirmed this. I could tell that I had become stuck in a rut, but I had no real reason to try anything else. In the gateway course of the Minor in Writing, we were asked to do a lot of in-class writing. This had always been my greatest fear, because I was a planner—no spontaneity and certainly no free writing. But it was this thrust into a kind of writing I’d never done that enabled me to develop a style that I am now proud to call my own. It really feels like me in those words on the page. Although I had grown comfortable writing the same kinds of pieces again and again, finally pushing myself into an uncomfortable unknown enabled me to produce more thoughtful, personal writing.
I have written more literary analysis essays than I can count. From high school up through the beginning of college, it was all I wrote. I got really comfortable close reading, looking out for the finest of details within a piece of writing, and I could easily write 7-8 pages covering just one page of text. I loved picking apart an author’s diction, exploring the connotation that each word carried and how those subtleties impacted the overall story. I was good at intertwining evidence and analysis, refraining from too much summary, and really digging deep into what was on the page—all characteristics of a typical rhetorical analysis. I was so proud of those essays, too. My first college essay, a close reading of The Things They Carried, came back to me with a typed comment sheet and a neat little A- printed at the bottom. I was so excited. I knew other students had struggled with this first big college essay, and I hadn’t even met with my professor. For my next essay, another close reading of The Lovely Bones, I met with my professor briefly in office hours and then churned out nine pages that covered a little over one page of the novel. My professor wrote in his comments on my final essay that he had little to say other than he wished he could give it an award. He read a portion of my essay out loud to the class, saying this is what close reading looks like.
I have written more literary analysis essays than I can count. From high school up through the beginning of college, it was all I wrote. I got really comfortable close reading, looking out for the finest of details within a piece of writing, and I could easily write 7-8 pages covering just one page of text. I loved picking apart an author’s diction, exploring the connotation that each word carried and how those subtleties impacted the overall story. I was good at intertwining evidence and analysis, refraining from too much summary, and really digging deep into what was on the page—all characteristics of a typical rhetorical analysis. I was so proud of those essays, too. My first college essay, a close reading of The Things They Carried, came back to me with a typed comment sheet and a neat little A- printed at the bottom. I was so excited. I knew other students had struggled with this first big college essay, and I hadn’t even met with my professor. For my next essay, another close reading of The Lovely Bones, I met with my professor briefly in office hours and then churned out nine pages that covered a little over one page of the novel. My professor wrote in his comments on my final essay that he had little to say other than he wished he could give it an award. He read a portion of my essay out loud to the class, saying this is what close reading looks like.
Sebold references sunshine in other parts of the novel, and it during these references that Abigail is in her happiest, truest form. Susie tells that when Jack used to bring Abigail marigolds, “her face would light up yellowy in delight” (153). This “yellowy delight” shows how truly happy Abigail was, and it is representative of pure bliss and pure Abigail as herself.
I look back on that essay and I can’t stand reading it. It feels forced, stretched, and beaten into a shape I wanted it to take. It’s repetitive, uninteresting, and robotic. The title, “Escaping the Depths of Domesticity,” sounds like a pained attempt at creativity. While I think that parts of my analysis are good, some parts just feel so ridiculous. I was doing crazy things like comparing sunshine to marigolds and dissecting the word “aureole” and I looking back, I’m not sure I believe it. I was digging too deep and trying too hard.
I ran into this problem again when I attempted to write my first narrative. Sophomore year, I took Writing 300. I was supposed to write an essay explaining “Why I Write” in the context of one or two memories that influenced my future writer self (no one told us we’d have essentially the same assignment again for the Minor in Writing). I remember dreading this. This was nowhere near the literary analysis I was used to, but oddly enough, my voice throughout my essay holds a similar forced tone. I didn’t have a good answer explaining why I write, and I hated the idea of trying to bend memories into something they weren’t. Like my close reading, I was looking for answers where they might not have actually existed. I was trying to create something out of nothing, and I felt like a liar. The details of those early writing memories are largely made up, sharing feelings and thoughts that I exaggerated into monumental events to prove that yes, they influenced me as writer. My description of looking forward to free-writing in seventh grade stating that “I, like many of the other students in my class, let out a sigh of relief after hearing that we’d be allowed free topics” didn’t really happen. We wrote in journals in seventh grade, yes, but we all hated it regardless of the topic.
While I look back on that essay and see mostly short, awkward sentences and a lot of bullshit, parts of that essay are true to who I am as a writer. I did adore sentence combining exercises, and I am a self-proclaimed grammar nerd. Did this occur as a result of all of the intensive grammar training in fourth grade? Labeling transitive verbs and singing about prepositions? Maybe, maybe not. But I milked those memories for all they were worth and used them to paint some kind of picture of myself.
Beginning junior year, I took English 225. It was informally titled “Hip-hop Arguments,” and I loved it because we listened to hip-hop songs, analyzing both the messages within the lyrics and the impacts of historical context on the song. I also loved it because we listened to “Candy Shop.” Although it was unlike any English class I’d ever taken before, it was also eerily similar. The assignments involved more close reading, with a slight alteration—lines from a song instead of pages from a novel. I wrote my final essay about Macklemore’s “Same Love,” and it was a mixture of analyzing the song and also incorporating a large number of sources written by hip-hop scholars. I really struggled with this essay, and I think that it was one of the first times I actually felt like I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t figure out how to organize all of my sources to seamlessly integrate them into my argument. My first drafts were segmented and awkward, splitting the essay into pieces that discussed one topic at a time but still conferred chaos upon the reader with a smattering of scholarly article references throughout.
I met with my professor, and she pushed me to reorganize my entire essay—completely switch up the structure. I had never done that. I felt like I was pouring my essay into a food processor and dumping the chopped up bits onto a new page, trying earnestly to make sense of it all. I pulled sentences from different paragraphs, combining them into new paragraphs and writing new transitions to glue that mess of an essay together. I took my professor’s advice to try organizing my essay by source, devoting each paragraph to one reference and using it to make a larger statement within my piece, and I made it work somehow. I wrote her these words in my reflection letter upon turning in the essay:
I ran into this problem again when I attempted to write my first narrative. Sophomore year, I took Writing 300. I was supposed to write an essay explaining “Why I Write” in the context of one or two memories that influenced my future writer self (no one told us we’d have essentially the same assignment again for the Minor in Writing). I remember dreading this. This was nowhere near the literary analysis I was used to, but oddly enough, my voice throughout my essay holds a similar forced tone. I didn’t have a good answer explaining why I write, and I hated the idea of trying to bend memories into something they weren’t. Like my close reading, I was looking for answers where they might not have actually existed. I was trying to create something out of nothing, and I felt like a liar. The details of those early writing memories are largely made up, sharing feelings and thoughts that I exaggerated into monumental events to prove that yes, they influenced me as writer. My description of looking forward to free-writing in seventh grade stating that “I, like many of the other students in my class, let out a sigh of relief after hearing that we’d be allowed free topics” didn’t really happen. We wrote in journals in seventh grade, yes, but we all hated it regardless of the topic.
While I look back on that essay and see mostly short, awkward sentences and a lot of bullshit, parts of that essay are true to who I am as a writer. I did adore sentence combining exercises, and I am a self-proclaimed grammar nerd. Did this occur as a result of all of the intensive grammar training in fourth grade? Labeling transitive verbs and singing about prepositions? Maybe, maybe not. But I milked those memories for all they were worth and used them to paint some kind of picture of myself.
Beginning junior year, I took English 225. It was informally titled “Hip-hop Arguments,” and I loved it because we listened to hip-hop songs, analyzing both the messages within the lyrics and the impacts of historical context on the song. I also loved it because we listened to “Candy Shop.” Although it was unlike any English class I’d ever taken before, it was also eerily similar. The assignments involved more close reading, with a slight alteration—lines from a song instead of pages from a novel. I wrote my final essay about Macklemore’s “Same Love,” and it was a mixture of analyzing the song and also incorporating a large number of sources written by hip-hop scholars. I really struggled with this essay, and I think that it was one of the first times I actually felt like I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t figure out how to organize all of my sources to seamlessly integrate them into my argument. My first drafts were segmented and awkward, splitting the essay into pieces that discussed one topic at a time but still conferred chaos upon the reader with a smattering of scholarly article references throughout.
I met with my professor, and she pushed me to reorganize my entire essay—completely switch up the structure. I had never done that. I felt like I was pouring my essay into a food processor and dumping the chopped up bits onto a new page, trying earnestly to make sense of it all. I pulled sentences from different paragraphs, combining them into new paragraphs and writing new transitions to glue that mess of an essay together. I took my professor’s advice to try organizing my essay by source, devoting each paragraph to one reference and using it to make a larger statement within my piece, and I made it work somehow. I wrote her these words in my reflection letter upon turning in the essay:
You advised me to organize my essay source by source, and although I wasn’t entirely sold, you explained it well and it made sense to me. I could start with Jay-Z and Tricia Rose to set up what hip-hop is, transition into Hill to show homophobia in hip-hop, talk about Macklemore’s website, and then work my way into the song and music video, tying everything together as I went.
Although I was initially resistant to rearranging my essay, pushing myself to try something completely different really strengthened my writing. It was the struggle that made me realize I could step out—or be forced out—of my comfort zone and be successful.
After this class, I joined the Minor in Writing. When I read my application letter, I am amazed. I had forgotten what I wrote about, but I realized that my transformation as a writer has fallen pretty well in line with what I listed as my goals for joining the minor. I knew, even then, that I had gotten stuck in a rut with my writing. I knew that I was much too comfortable writing literary analysis, and too uncomfortable writing anything else. I wanted to expand into more scientific writing, and I wanted to explore all the possibilities that come with sharing writing through new media forms. Beginning the gateway course was such an exciting experience. It pushed me to write in ways that I hadn’t before, and although I was initially resistant, it allowed me to discover new things about myself as writer.
We were asked to do a lot of in-class writing, which I despised. I am deliberate in my initial word choice and sentence structure, and I always felt like there was no way I could write anything worthwhile on the fly in class. I never volunteered to read things out loud because I felt stupid. I’d look down at the six painstaking sentences I had coaxed onto the page while someone across the room was reading through their entire page of writing. I always wondered how people could do that.
Early in the class, we were asked to write an in-class exercise titled “Why I Don’t Write.” This was designed to get us thinking about our upcoming “Why I Write” project in a backwards, twisted kind of way. I started writing and didn’t stop. I let my thoughts flow as they came to me, fully embracing the stream of consciousness style that I had never felt comfortable with before. The tone of this piece sounds like what goes on inside my head, and it feels real and true.
After this class, I joined the Minor in Writing. When I read my application letter, I am amazed. I had forgotten what I wrote about, but I realized that my transformation as a writer has fallen pretty well in line with what I listed as my goals for joining the minor. I knew, even then, that I had gotten stuck in a rut with my writing. I knew that I was much too comfortable writing literary analysis, and too uncomfortable writing anything else. I wanted to expand into more scientific writing, and I wanted to explore all the possibilities that come with sharing writing through new media forms. Beginning the gateway course was such an exciting experience. It pushed me to write in ways that I hadn’t before, and although I was initially resistant, it allowed me to discover new things about myself as writer.
We were asked to do a lot of in-class writing, which I despised. I am deliberate in my initial word choice and sentence structure, and I always felt like there was no way I could write anything worthwhile on the fly in class. I never volunteered to read things out loud because I felt stupid. I’d look down at the six painstaking sentences I had coaxed onto the page while someone across the room was reading through their entire page of writing. I always wondered how people could do that.
Early in the class, we were asked to write an in-class exercise titled “Why I Don’t Write.” This was designed to get us thinking about our upcoming “Why I Write” project in a backwards, twisted kind of way. I started writing and didn’t stop. I let my thoughts flow as they came to me, fully embracing the stream of consciousness style that I had never felt comfortable with before. The tone of this piece sounds like what goes on inside my head, and it feels real and true.
I don’t write because I am too tired. Too tired to process thoughts and put them into words and onto a page. When my brain is mush and my mind is so exhausted that it can’t even stay in one place long enough to identify an idea to commit to words, I don’t write. I can’t write.
I ended the piece with “However, in this particular moment, I write.” It seemed fitting. I opened the piece explaining and complaining about all of the reasons I don’t write, only to realize that I could, in fact, write. Of all the pieces I’ve created, this is my favorite. It is a purely accurate representation of me.
The first truly spontaneous writing I produced—spontaneous meaning no prompt or even guidelines—was a blog post. I wrote about the word blue. It struck me while I was sitting in Evolution discussion, and I handwrote it into my notebook to avoid the clackety-clack of my laptop keys. It felt so organic.
The first truly spontaneous writing I produced—spontaneous meaning no prompt or even guidelines—was a blog post. I wrote about the word blue. It struck me while I was sitting in Evolution discussion, and I handwrote it into my notebook to avoid the clackety-clack of my laptop keys. It felt so organic.
The Big House. My homecoming dress from junior year of high school. The veins so clearly seen on the inside of my wrist that carry deoxygenated blood. My physics notebook. The stripes on the shirt I’m wearing as I write this, the flowers on my scarf, and the pencil with which I am handwriting this. Blue—all of these things are blue.
I was writing with a pen and paper about something that had just popped into my head. The details came to me in that moment and I felt like I was like those other writers that carry journals and scribble down their thoughts, afraid to lose them if they’re not captured quickly enough. “Blue” is one of my favorite pieces for more than just the writing itself. It shows me that I am capable of spontaneity and that my raw thoughts can be formed into something cohesive and worthwhile.
When it came time to get started on the “Why I Write” project, I was annoyed. I didn’t understand why two Sweetland classes would assign the same project, and I didn’t see how I could take the same prompt and create a different essay when I had struggled so much with the first one. I soon realized that they were very separate pieces. Without the limitations that were presented the first time around, I could do what I wanted. This time, I was honest.
When it came time to get started on the “Why I Write” project, I was annoyed. I didn’t understand why two Sweetland classes would assign the same project, and I didn’t see how I could take the same prompt and create a different essay when I had struggled so much with the first one. I soon realized that they were very separate pieces. Without the limitations that were presented the first time around, I could do what I wanted. This time, I was honest.
I don’t write for the same reason that many others do—because pretty words come to mind that cannot go unwritten or because the scene at the coffee shop from earlier that morning was so inspiring or because there is a little journal always within reach that begs to be written in. No, I write mostly because I have to. I realize that’s not sweet-sounding or inspiring in any way, but that is the truth. I only write when writing is required of me, and that is the pure simplicity of it all.
I could finally admit that I only write because I have to. That answered the why. Then I dove into the how and the what of my writing. I explained that “I write because I like to manipulate how things appear on the page….I’ll make one sentence really long, almost to the point of letting it ramble, but reigned in just enough to keep my readers sane and to get my message across. Then I’ll throw in a short sentence.” It feels genuine like my “Why I Don’t Write,” and it is a much better answer to the primary question.
I’ve realized that having the freedom to express my thoughts as I wish has been instrumental to my growth as a writer. Although I definitely needed a push to get going, the launch into an expansive new arena of writing was good for me. A few influential instructors gave me the guidance I needed, but I found success on my own terms. I opened up to trying out new things, and I realized I could do them. I can write more than literary analysis. I can convey intimate details and insert my whole self into my writing. I don’t feel tied down to a particular structure or tone, and I love this new freedom. My words finally sound like me.
I’ve realized that having the freedom to express my thoughts as I wish has been instrumental to my growth as a writer. Although I definitely needed a push to get going, the launch into an expansive new arena of writing was good for me. A few influential instructors gave me the guidance I needed, but I found success on my own terms. I opened up to trying out new things, and I realized I could do them. I can write more than literary analysis. I can convey intimate details and insert my whole self into my writing. I don’t feel tied down to a particular structure or tone, and I love this new freedom. My words finally sound like me.