In the introductory paragraph to this essay about essays I will tell you that you don’t need an introductory paragraph, at least not of the 1) topic sentence 2) structural methodology 3) thesis statement varity that we were all taught in high school. What you do need is That Thing; maybe a question, a fear or a fury. It makes your blood boil. It’s all you can talk about when you sit down with your friends over a glass of wine or two or five, or maybe you can’t talk about it with anyone, just your own heart, alone with the impossible architecture of words. As Cheryl Strayed wrote in her introduction to The Best American Essays 2013, “Behind every good essay is an author with a savage desire to know more about what is already known.” I want to
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I just read an essay by Roxane Gay that challenged me to read more diversely. There’s an essay by Annie Dillard called “Living Like Weasels” that inspired me to grab life by the balls. There’s an essay by Kiese Layman that made dive back in to an ongoing discussion I have with myself about my own privilege. There’s an essay on place by Dorothy Allison that made me realize how who I am connects with where I am. There’s an essay by Sherman Alexie called “Why the Best Kids Books Are Written in Blood” that reminded me of how a story can save us. There’s an essay by James Baldwin that reminds me, over and over again, of how writing is a part of the healing process. There’s an essay by Lindy West called “Hello, I am Fat” that made me feel less alone. There’s a whole book of essays by Samantha Irby that makes me feel less alone. There’s an essay by Deb Lewis that challenges me to consider what it means to be a parent. There’s an essay by Cheryl Strayed that gave me the permission to not have an “acceptable credit score.” There is an essay by Kafka, hidden in his Diaries—I doubt he ever would have called it an essay, but I like thinking of a writers journal as a hundred little essays, a hundred little thoughts, one huge, messy place to make discoveries about yourself and the world. The first sentence
I just read an essay by Roxane Gay that challenged me to read more diversely. There’s an essay by Annie Dillard called “Living Like Weasels” that inspired me to grab life by the balls. There’s an essay by Kiese Layman that made dive back in to an ongoing discussion I have with myself about my own privilege. There’s an essay on place by Dorothy Allison that made me realize how who I am connects with where I am. There’s an essay by Sherman Alexie called “Why the Best Kids Books Are Written in Blood” that reminded me of how a story can save us. There’s an essay by James Baldwin that reminds me, over and over again, of how writing is a part of the healing process. There’s an essay by Lindy West called “Hello, I am Fat” that made me feel less alone. There’s a whole book of essays by Samantha Irby that makes me feel less alone. There’s an essay by Deb Lewis that challenges me to consider what it means to be a parent. There’s an essay by Cheryl Strayed that gave me the permission to not have an “acceptable credit score.” There is an essay by Kafka, hidden in his Diaries—I doubt he ever would have called it an essay, but I like thinking of a writers journal as a hundred little essays, a hundred little thoughts, one huge, messy place to make discoveries about yourself and the world. The first sentence