write about yourself essay writing

What are your chances of acceptance?

Calculate for all schools, your chance of acceptance.

Your chancing factors

Extracurriculars.

15 Tips for Writing a College Essay About Yourself

What’s covered:.

• What is the Purpose of the College Essay?
• How to Stand Out Without Showing Off
• 15 Tips for Writing an Essay About Yourself
• Where to Get Free Feedback on Your Essay

Most students who apply to top-tier colleges have exceptional grades, standardized test scores, and extracurricular activities. How do admissions officers decide which applicants to choose among all these stellar students? One way is on the strength of their college essay .

This personal statement, along with other qualitative factors like teacher recommendations, helps the admissions committee see who you really are—the person behind the transcript. So, it’s obviously important to write a great one.

What Is the Purpose of the College Essay? 

Your college essay helps you stand out in a pool of qualified candidates. If effective, it will also show the admissions committee more of your personality and allow them to get a sense of how you’ll fit in with and contribute to the student body and institution. Additionally, it will show the school that you can express yourself persuasively and clearly in writing, which is an important part of most careers, no matter where you end up. 

Typically, students must submit a personal statement (usually the Common App essay ) along with school-specific supplements. Some students are surprised to learn that essays typically count for around 25% of your entire application at the top 250 schools. That’s an enormous chunk, especially considering that, unlike your transcript and extracurriculars, it isn’t an assessment of your entire high school career.  

The purpose of the college essay is to paint a complete picture of yourself, showing admissions committees the person behind the grades and test scores. A strong college essay shows your unique experiences, personality, perspective, interests, and values—ultimately, what makes you unique. After all, people attend college, not their grades or test scores. The college essay also provides students with a considerable amount of agency in their application, empowering them to share their own stories.

How to Stand Out Without Showing Off 

It’s important to strike a balance between exploring your achievements and demonstrating humility. Your aim should be to focus on the meaning behind the experience and how it changed your outlook, not the accomplishment itself. 

Confidence without cockiness is the key here. Don’t simply catalog your achievements, there are other areas on your application to share them. Rather, mention your achievements when they’re critical to the story you’re telling. It’s helpful to think of achievements as compliments, not highlights, of your college essay.  

Take this essay excerpt , for example:

My parents’ separation allowed me the space to explore my own strengths and interests as each of them became individually busier. As early as middle school, I was riding the light rail train by myself, reading maps to get myself home, and applying to special academic programs without urging from my parents. Even as I took more initiatives on my own, my parents both continued to see me as somewhat immature. All of that changed three years ago, when I applied and was accepted to the SNYI-L summer exchange program in Morocco. I would be studying Arabic and learning my way around the city of Marrakesh. Although I think my parents were a little surprised when I told them my news, the addition of a fully-funded scholarship convinced them to let me go. 

Instead of saying “ I received this scholarship and participated in this prestigious program, ” the author tells a story, demonstrating their growth and initiative through specific actions (riding the train alone, applying academic programs on her own, etc.)—effectively showing rather than telling.

15 Tips for Writing an Essay About Yourself 

1. start early .

Leave yourself plenty of time to write your college essay—it’s stressful enough to compose a compelling essay without putting yourself under a deadline. Starting early on your essay also leaves you time to edit and refine your work, have others read your work (for example, your parents or a teacher), and carefully proofread.

2. Choose a topic that’s meaningful to you 

The foundation of a great essay is selecting a topic that has real meaning for you. If you’re passionate about the subject, the reader will feel it. Alternatively, choosing a topic you think the admissions committee is looking for, but isn’t all that important to you, won’t make for a compelling essay; it will be obvious that you’re not very invested in it.

3. Show your personality 

One of the main points of your college essay is to convey your personality. Admissions officers will see your transcript and read about the awards you’ve won, but the essay will help them get to know you as a person. Make sure your personality is evident in each part—if you are a jokester, incorporate some humor. Your friends should be able to pick your essay from an anonymous pile, read it, and recognize it as yours. In that same vein, someone who doesn’t know you at all should feel like they understand your personality after reading your essay. 

4. Write in your own voice 

In order to bring authenticity to your essay, you’ll need to write in your own voice. Don’t be overly formal (but don’t be too casual, either). Remember: you want the reader to get to know the real you, not a version of you that comes across as overly stiff or stilted. You should feel free to use contractions, incorporate dialogue, and employ vocabulary that comes naturally to you. 

5. Use specific examples 

Real, concrete stories and examples will help your essay come to life. They’ll add color to your narrative and make it more compelling for the reader. The goal, after all, is to engage your audience—the admissions committee. 

For example, instead of stating that you care about animals, you should tell us a story about how you took care of an injured stray cat. 

Consider this side-by-side comparison:

Example 1: I care deeply about animals and even once rescued a stray cat. The cat had an injured leg, and I helped nurse it back to health.

Example 2: I lost many nights of sleep trying to nurse the stray cat back to health. Its leg infection was extremely painful, and it meowed in distress up until the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t mind it though; what mattered was that the cat regained its strength. So, I stayed awake to administer its medicine and soothe it with loving ear rubs.

The second example helps us visualize this situation and is more illustrative of the writer’s personality. Because she stayed awake to care for the cat, we can infer that she is a compassionate person who cares about animals. We don’t get the same depth with the first example. 

6. Don’t be afraid to show off… 

You should always put your best foot forward—the whole point of your essay is to market yourself to colleges. This isn’t the time to be shy about your accomplishments, skills, or qualities. 

7. …While also maintaining humility 

But don’t brag. Demonstrate humility when discussing your achievements. In the example above, for instance, the author discusses her accomplishments while noting that her parents thought of her as immature. This is a great way to show humility while still highlighting that she was able to prove her parents wrong.

8. Be vulnerable 

Vulnerability goes hand in hand with humility and authenticity. Don’t shy away from exploring how your experience affected you and the feelings you experienced. This, too, will help your story come to life. 

Here’s an excerpt from a Common App essay that demonstrates vulnerability and allows us to connect with the writer:  

“You ruined my life!” After months of quiet anger, my brother finally confronted me. To my shame, I had been appallingly ignorant of his pain. 

Despite being twins, Max and I are profoundly different. Having intellectual interests from a young age that, well, interested very few of my peers, I often felt out of step in comparison with my highly-social brother. Everything appeared to come effortlessly for Max and, while we share an extremely tight bond, his frequent time away with friends left me feeling more and more alone as we grew older.

In this essay, the writer isn’t afraid to share his insecurities and feelings with us. He states that he had been “ appallingly ignorant ” of his brother’s pain, that he “ often felt out of step ” compared to his brother, and that he had felt “ more and more alone ” over time. These are all emotions that you may not necessarily share with someone you just met, but it’s exactly this vulnerability that makes the essay more raw and relatable. 

9. Don’t lie or hyperbolize 

This essay is about the authentic you. Lying or hyperbolizing to make yourself sound better will not only make your essay—and entire application—less genuine, but it will also weaken it. More than likely, it will be obvious that you’re exaggerating. Plus, if colleges later find out that you haven’t been truthful in any part of your application, it’s grounds for revoking your acceptance or even expulsion if you’ve already matriculated. 

10. Avoid cliches 

How the COVID-19 pandemic changed your life. A sports victory as a metaphor for your journey. How a pet death altered your entire outlook. Admissions officers have seen more essays on these topics than they can possibly count. Unless you have a truly unique angle, then it’s in your best interest to avoid them. Learn which topics are cliche and how to fix them . 

11. Proofread 

This is a critical step. Even a small error can break your essay, however amazing it is otherwise. Make sure you read it over carefully, and get another set of eyes (or two or three other sets of eyes), just in case.

12. Abstain from using AI

There are a handful of good reasons to avoid using artificial intelligence (AI) to write your college essay. Most importantly, it’s dishonest and likely to be not very good; AI-generated essays are generally formulaic, generic, and boring—everything you’re trying to avoid being.   The purpose of the college essay is to share what makes you unique and highlight your personal experiences and perspectives, something that AI can’t capture.

13. Use parents as advisors, not editors

The voice of an adult is different from that of a high schooler and admissions committees are experts at spotting the writing of parents. Parents can play a valuable role in creating your college essay—advising, proofreading, and providing encouragement during those stressful moments. However, they should not write or edit your college essay with their words.

14. Have a hook

Admissions committees have a lot of essays to read and getting their attention is essential for standing out among a crowded field of applicants. A great hook captures your reader’s imagination and encourages them to keep reading your essay. Start strong, first impressions are everything!

15. Give them something to remember

The ending of your college essay is just as important as the beginning. Give your reader something to remember by composing an engaging and punchy paragraph or line—called a kicker in journalism—that ties everything you’ve written above together.

Where to Get Free Feedback on Your College Essay 

Before you send off your application, make sure you get feedback from a trusted source on your essay. CollegeVine’s free peer essay review will give you the support you need to ensure you’ve effectively presented your personality and accomplishments. Our expert essay review pairs you with an advisor to help you refine your writing, submit your best work, and boost your chances of getting into your dream school. Find the right advisor for you and get started on honing a winning essay.

Related CollegeVine Blog Posts

• Search All Scholarships
• Exclusive Scholarships
• Easy Scholarships to Apply For
• No Essay Scholarships
• Scholarships for HS Juniors
• Scholarships for HS Seniors
• Scholarships for College Students
• Scholarships for Grad Students
• Scholarships for Women
• Scholarships for Black Students
• Scholarships
• Student Loans
• College Admissions
• Financial Aid
• Scholarship Winners
• Scholarship Providers

Student-centric advice and objective recommendations

Higher education has never been more confusing or expensive. Our goal is to help you navigate the very big decisions related to higher ed with objective information and expert advice. Each piece of content on the site is original, based on extensive research, and reviewed by multiple editors, including a subject matter expert. This ensures that all of our content is up-to-date, useful, accurate, and thorough.

Our reviews and recommendations are based on extensive research, testing, and feedback. We may receive commission from links on our website, but that doesn’t affect our editors’ opinions. Our marketing partners don’t review, approve or endorse our editorial content. It’s accurate to the best of our knowledge when posted. You can find a complete list of our partners here .

How to Write an Essay About Yourself

Gabriel Jimenez-Ekman is a content editor and writer at Scholarships360. He has managed communications and written content for a diverse array of organizations, including a farmer’s market, a concert venue, a student farm, an environmental NGO, and a PR agency. Gabriel graduated from Kenyon College with a degree in sociology.

Learn about our editorial policies

Bill Jack has over a decade of experience in college admissions and financial aid. Since 2008, he has worked at Colby College, Wesleyan University, University of Maine at Farmington, and Bates College.

Writing an essay about yourself is no easy feat — although you may know yourself better than anyone, it can be tough to get the perspective needed to write about yourself in essay form. Despite its challenges, writing essays about yourself is one of the most crucial skills in the college application process, and we have some key tricks to make it easier. Keep on reading to learn about some of our best techniques to write about yourself naturally!

• Outline your experiences

Ask friends and family for input

• Don’t be too humble…
• Let your personality shine!

Try journaling

Read more: How to start a scholarship essay (with examples)

Outline your impactful experiences

Before you dig into prompts, try writing out a bullet-point list of meaningful experiences you’ve had. Underneath each bullet point, reflect on what they might demonstrate. Here’s an example:

• Working as part of a team
• Learning to balance school and work responsibilities
• Honing communication skills
• Developing writing skills
• Fostering a passion for my school community
• Learning to meet deadlines and balance responsibilities
• Learning to balance school and volunteer responsibilities
• Gaining an attention to detail

This is a little different than a typical resume — rather than focusing on your specific duties, try to focus on how the experience shaped your character. If you notice a lot of overlap between the experiences, that’s perfect! You can point out these recurring themes to make for an effective essay with a strong overarching point. Making lists like this early on in your writing stage can be helpful, and you may find yourself coming back to consult the list for many future essays.

Apply to these scholarships due soon

$10,000 “No Essay” Scholarship

$2,000 Sallie Mae Scholarship

$40,000 Build a College List Scholarship

$10,000 CollegeXpress Scholarship

Niche $10,000 “No Essay” Scholarship

$25k “Be Bold” No-Essay Scholarship

$1,000 Appily Easy College Money Scholarship

$5,000 Christian Connector Scholarship

$2,000 No Essay CollegeVine Scholarship

When writing about yourself, it is important to reflect on your strengths, and who is better to do that than a supportive team of family and friends?

Consulting family and friends is a great way to learn about strengths that you might not even know you had. Your friends choose to hang out with you for a reason, and they often notice your good qualities that you take for granted. Having your friends point these out can be useful for an essay, as well as a general pick-me-up!

And if you’re looking for a perfect anecdote to answer a prompt like “How have you demonstrated a commitment to your community ,” who better to remember your past acts of kindness than your parents? 

Also recommended: Top essay & writing scholarships

Is it okay to ask friends and family to read my essay and offer feedback?

Some students may be wondering, is it okay to ask for additional help from friends and family? And the short answer is: absolutely. Additional essay reviewers can offer valuable feedback as you write your essay. With this said, students should make sure that they are maintaining their own voice in the essay. Outside reviewers should not be rewriting the essay or having a heavy hand in changing the written voice.

Don’t miss:  How to respond to the Common App essay prompts

Don’t be too humble

There is a time and a place for humility. But don’t worry if you feel like your essay is verging on the braggadocios. These essays are an opportunity to showcase your best qualities, and you should not be worried about putting your best foot forward and telling the reader all the reasons why they should be impressed by you.

What makes these essays effective is that they both include your relevant experiences and demonstrate why they are so significant. You may feel as though you are making mountains out of molehills, but it’s important to emphasize the importance of your experiences. This is the main objective of writing about yourself.

Also recommended: How to write a 500 word essay

Let your personality come through

Most essays written about yourself will be written in first-person. This provides a perfect opportunity to add some flair to your writing. While your first priority is to include impactful examples and communicate your points effectively, it is also important to leave a lasting impression on the reader.

If you see an opportunity to show off your sense of humor or use a more personal tone, don’t be afraid to do it. As long as your remarks are appropriate, on-topic, and not too frequent, they can help put you ahead of the pack.

Recommended:  How does an admissions officer read your application and essays?

A great trick for becoming comfortable writing essays about yourself is to try keeping a journal. Journaling helps eliminate the pressure of writing an essay while helping you become comfortable writing about yourself in an informal setting. Spending 10 or 15 minutes every night writing about your day, or answering some informal prompts can help you to get more in touch with yourself and jog your memory about past events that could be useful for an essay. 

Don’t miss:  Scholarships360’s free scholarship search tool

Next steps for students

Now you’ve learned about the goals and techniques for writing an essay about yourself. Your next step should be to focus on making your writing effective and efficient. Make sure that your conclusion ties everything together impactfully . And once you’ve finished your draft, ask family members, friends, or college counselors to read over it and provide suggestions. Good luck, writers!

Related:  Overview of common scholarship essay prompts

Frequently asked questions about how to write an essay about yourself

How do you make yourself write an essay, how do you start off an essay about yourself, what are the 3 main parts of an essay, scholarships360 recommended.

10 Tips for Successful College Applications

Coalition vs. Common App: What is the difference?

College Application Deadlines 2023-2024: What You Need to Know

Trending now.

How to Convert Your GPA to a 4.0 Scale

PSAT to SAT Score Conversion: Predict Your Score

What Are Public Ivy League Schools?

3 reasons to join scholarships360.

• Automatic entry to our $10,000 No-Essay Scholarship
• Personalized matching to thousands of vetted scholarships
• Quick apply for scholarships exclusive to our platform

By the way...Scholarships360 is 100% free!

• SUGGESTED TOPICS
• The Magazine
• Newsletters
• Managing Yourself
• Managing Teams
• Work-life Balance
• The Big Idea
• Data & Visuals
• Reading Lists
• Case Selections
• HBR Learning
• Topic Feeds
• Account Settings
• Email Preferences

How to Write a Personal Essay for Your College Application

What does it take to land in the “accept” (instead of “reject”) pile?

How can you write an essay that helps advance you in the eyes of the admissions officers and makes a real impression? Here are some tips to get you started.

• Start early.  Do not leave it until the last minute. Give yourself time when you don’t have other homework or extracurriculars hanging over your head to work on the essay.
• Keep the focus narrow.  Your essay does not have to cover a massive, earth-shattering event. Some people in their teens haven’t experienced a major life event. Some people have. Either way, it’s okay.
• Be yourself.  Whether writing about a painful experience or a more simple experience, use the narrative to be vulnerable and honest about who you are. Use words you would normally use. Trust your voice and the fact that your story is interesting enough in that no one else has lived it.
• Be creative.  “Show, don’t tell,” and that applies here — to an extent. The best essays typically do both. You can help your reader see and feel what you are describing by using some figurative language throughout your piece.
• Make a point. As you finish your final body paragraphs ask yourself “So what?” This will help you hone in on how to end your essay in a way that elevates it into a story about an insight or discovery you made about yourself, rather than just being about an experience you had.

Where your work meets your life. See more from Ascend here .

We’ve all heard about the dreaded “college essay,” the bane of every high school senior’s existence. This daunting element of the college application is something that can create angst for even the most accomplished students.

• AA Amy Allen is a writer, educator, and lifelong learner. Her freelance writing business,  All of the Write Words , focuses on providing high school students with one-on-one feedback to guide them through the college application process and with crafting a thoughtful personal essay. A dedicated poet, Amy’s work has also been published in several journals including  Pine Row Press ,  Months to Years,  and  Atlanta Review .

Partner Center

Write About Yourself: Tips and Prompts

by Joe Bunting and Sue Weems | 199 comments

When you have to write about yourself, do you hit a roadblock? If so, you're not alone. There are a number of situations when you have to write about yourself for school, work, or publication. Let's break down a few ways to make it easier and then use some prompts to get you started.

When Do You Have to Write About Yourself?

Several scenarios might require you to write about yourself from personal essays to job applications and biography blurbs. 

The key for each is to think about the purpose and the target audience. Then shape your personal history or life experience into a well-crafted piece of writing that meets those needs of purpose and audience. 

Let's look at a few of the most common scenarios where you have to write about yourself. 

Personal Essays

Personal essays aren't just for high school. A personal essay typically reflects some aspect of your life that you are sharing for a specific purpose. Many college applications or scholarship applications ask for a college essay or personal statement to help them get to know you as a student or applicant. 

If it's for a university or school application, you might write about:

• academic achievements
• personal accomplishments
• difficult experiences that helped you grow
• personal stories that relate to your desired field of study

Personal essays will have a friendly tone regardless of the essay topic. The personal examples you include or the personal stories you tell will need to be focused tightly on the audience and purpose. If you're trying to get into a university engineering program, you don't want to write about a pet's passing.

Your story of losing a pet is likely moving and will tell committee members about you and your personality traits, but it won't communicate why you might be a good fit for their school or program. 

If you're writing a personal essay for a course in narrative or memoir, then of course, your story of your pet's passing would likely be a solid choice. 

Personal Essay Prompts

1. Tell about a time you overcame a significant hardship.

2. Describe an interest that makes you lose track of time. 

3. Tell the story of an experience or person who changed the way you thought or lived.

4. Describe a time you overcame rejection or fear.

5. How has your community shaped you as a person?

Job Applications

More and more job applications include personal statement sections or questions that ask you to describe your professional experience in more detail. Job seekers are often used to listing out bullet points on a resume, so writing about yourself can feel uncomfortable, even in a letter of introduction. 

In professional settings and applications, you want to focus on four elements as you write about yourself:

• relevant experience
• recent professional accomplishments
• personal details that enhance your qualifications
• specializations

Again, keep your purpose and audience in mind. If you're having trouble narrowing down your relevant experience, consider looking at the job listing to see what they require of applicants. That way, you tailor your experience to what the position requires.

Some common job application prompts

1. Tell us about yourself. (They aren't asking about your favorite food or vacation last year! Focus on professional experiences.)

2. What are your strengths and weaknesses?

3. How have you managed conflict in former roles?

4. Describe your strongest professional accomplishments.

5. Why do you want to work here?

Remember, each of these questions is designed to help a company get to know you as a professional—share only relevant stories and details that align with that purpose. 

Author or Speaker Biographies

As a writer (or speaker!), you need an author biography to include on any publications. These can be short 100 word statements that give the audience a sense of who you are as a person.

Again, the purpose and audience matters. If you are a scholar writing and speaking on a topic in your academic field, it's appropriate to list your relevant degrees and major publications to build a sense of credibility and authority. 

If you're a fiction author, your biography will likely reflect a few personal details that are meant to connect with readers in a positive light. 

The best way to know what will connect with your intended audience, is to look at the biographies and About the Author pages in books like your own. 

A few things you might include in an author or speaker biography:

• where you live (generally speaking—not your personal address)
• themes you explore
• awards, recognition, or other publications
• relevant personal background info

You can see our full guide here on writing an author biography here .

Prompts for author or speaker biographies

1. What are the two most important things for your audience to know about you?

2. Find two authors writing in the same genre you are. Write your biography using their bios as models. 

3. What themes do you explore in your work and why are they important to you? Write them out, and then condense.

4. What experience or awards are relevant to your work? List them out and pick the top two.

5. Make a list of all the things that you likely have in common with your target audience. Choose two to include in your biography. 

How to Write About Yourself 

Whenever you're asked to write about yourself, take it as a challenge to share relevant personal experiences with vivid details and your unique point of view. Remember that you're not sharing your entire life story. Stick to short personal anecdotes and pay attention to your purpose and audience. 

How do you feel about writing about yourself? What tips have made it easier? Share in the comments.  

Choose one of the prompts above. Set the timer for 15 minutes and write about yourself without stopping. If you don't have an essay, job app, or bio to write, then simply try to capture something true about yourself and your experience in the world today.

When time is up, share your practice in the Pro Practice Workshop here and leave feedback to encourage a few other writers too.

Joe Bunting

Joe Bunting is an author and the leader of The Write Practice community. He is also the author of the new book Crowdsourcing Paris , a real life adventure story set in France. It was a #1 New Release on Amazon. Follow him on Instagram (@jhbunting).

Want best-seller coaching? Book Joe here.

Sue Weems is a writer, teacher, and traveler with an advanced degree in (mostly fictional) revenge. When she’s not rationalizing her love for parentheses (and dramatic asides), she follows a sailor around the globe with their four children, two dogs, and an impossibly tall stack of books to read. You can read more of her writing tips on her website .

199 Comments

This is one of my favorite ways to write 🙂 Except I like to use “you”, as if I am talking to myself and telling myself what I am doing or have already done.

He sits in his office chair, staring at the computer screen. In the cube next to him he can hear the sound of a coworker banging on a loud keyboard. The printer spits out paper after paper, other co workers talk and laugh. “I would never want to be a landlord.” “It’s not so bad.” The light of the mid morning day streams in behind him as he works on his assignments, filling in forms, completing spreadsheets, answering emails. Sometimes he thinks the entire job is all about email management. How did he get to this place, to this life? Simple, small choices add up until years later he finds himself bored and unenthusiastic about where he is. His cell buzzes next to him, notifying him of a text message. He checks it, hoping to see a message from his girlfriend but finds instead a message from his ex-wife. He ignores it. Chatter continues around him, papers turning, the mail delivery guy singing to himself pushing a squeaky cart down the aisles. Time passes under the glow of fluorescent lights and the hum of overhead heaters. The fan on his laptop starts spinning and he places his hand next to the computer to feel the warmth blowing out from it. Simple pleasures. He puts headphones on to drown out the noises and looks at his plan once again. The way out. Hope for a future of freedom and joy, real life, not the feeling of entrapment and stagnant death. It all begins with courage. The courage to face up to the difficult choices ahead, courage to face his fears, courage to be honest and real with himself and those all around him. It starts now.

I learned a long time ago that I am not trapped in any place in my life. I think the truest thing you said was to be honest and real with yourself. This certainly touched a chord in me.

I continue to learn that lesson. I’m glad the message touched you.

brilliantly inspiring. I don’t know if you meant for that. Like it!

I’ll take it, thanks!

i’m intrigued as to what the details of “his plan” are; like the mystery with which you end your last paragraph.

i might try deleting certain phrases to slim it down. for example, i might get rid of “notifying him of a text message” after “His cell buzzes next to him” and just end the sentence there, since in the next sentence you talk about anticipating a message from a certain someone.

“email management.” i like how it all reminds me of the movie office space but has more depth. thanks for sharing!

Thanks Sara, great feedback!

Josh, I recognized the office. In fact I think I worked there. Good job. I like your last sentance. “It starts now.” If you were writing about a fictional character would he get up and walk out of that office then?

You got it Vicki!

I love how you wrote your piece this morning. It shows your longing to discover who you want to be..

Here’s my attempt at it:

The morning starts as it always does, with the cold seeping into her bones. Although she is under the covers somewhere there is a gap in the covers because the cold invades her dreams. AS she wakes her thoughts begin to race as she wondered where her writing will take her. Which story will she choose and what will she learn about herself from her Characters today.

Because the cold works to sap her energy as she pulls herself from the covers, she sets her feet on the rug. She feels older then she is. Reaching for her robe she works to keep the dreams fresh in her mind so shemay write them on paper before they are lost forever never to resurface again. Until she is away from writing instruments.

With her eyes barely slits she shuffles to the kitchen to start her day. Knowing where everything is she begins the task of making coffee and waits impatiently as it heats. Finally with her cup filled she carefully moves to her desk by the window and takes a seat. Pushing the button that awakes her ‘baby’, she listens for the hum as it awakes ready to take in what her fingers type.

What will her writing revel to her today as she steps one step closer to discovering who she is, for she can only know these secrets when her fingers what no one else will see.

But we want to see the secrets. 🙂 I’m intrigued.

When I finish writing I will share with you, then we’ll both know. *smiles*

Good timing! This is the morning I am having. And having written this, I know what I am going to do.

My practice…

In a moment of utter frustration, she walked away from the computer. The story in her head wouldn’t form; it came out in bits and pieces.

She knew she needed more research but couldn’t find what she wanted. How do you explain a world when your perspective is that of a child? While the world swirled around her, she didn’t take notice. As a child, she didn’t care about things she couldn’t comprehend.

The story’s important. It’s a tale of innocence that was destroyed by events she didn’t understand. The story’s old. Ruth died 46 years ago. The anger at her death is old too but doesn’t seem to lessen. Sometimes, it seems like it happened yesterday. The images of the last day are clear. The sounds and the smells are as fresh now as they were then.

Again, frustration overtook her. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to change her perspective to that as an adult. The child in her would not let go. It was easy enough to check dates and events but those were just the things that happened to other people outside her realm. In their small neighborhood, none of the global events affected them. They had been sheltered from the reality of the adult world.

Years later when she was able to piece the events together, she realized what had happened. She was angry all over again. And the child in her took over, raging at the adults who let it happen, who shattered the innocence forever.

“Screw this,” she thought. She sat back down at the computer and started to write. “I am going to write it from the child’s perspective.”

Yay! That’s what I was hoping for!

Throughout your piece I KNOW what you are writing about. The fact you were able to make me feel your pain and frustration, without actually describing the acts that caused them,

I really like your practice, Joe. Here’s mine:

Alicia should be ashamed of herself, but she isn’t. She should be working on her recent assignment but has yet to make it past 16 words, and she still doesn’t hate herself. Instead of getting paid to write, she’s spent the last hour writing about why she loves writing and reading about writing. Does that bother her? No. Should it? Probably.

Alicia normally has a full cup of self-discipline, but with the end of the semester approaching, she just wants a break, and it can’t get here soon enough. So she finds comfort on her couch, crosses her legs, and types whatever comes to mind through her fingers. She lets the writing consume her, take it where she needs to go, until she can muster up the energy to begin her assignment.

But the day is still young, and it’s quiet in the living room, with just the soft sound of running water in the fish tanks to calm her nerves. And while Alicia’s been stressing all week over her endless to-do list, she’s calm now because she gets to write about what she loves and learn how to improve her talents.

Alicia glances at the clock, and her heart flutters with annoyance. She had planned to finish her assignment before heading back to class, and now she only has an hour to research and write 675 words to meet this goal. She narrows her eyes. Will she be able to do it? Or will part of the article have to wait for later? She exits out of the extra tabs on her browser, even the pages she has yet to read, and prepares to settle down and get to the writing she should actually be doing.

Love that “the writing consumes her” and the “water in the fish tanks calm her nerves”. She “writes about what she loves”….the best reason to write!

Thanks for the feedback. I wasn’t actually sure how I did since I was in a rush.

She had been up for two hours and only after making picky- eating- nutritionally- acceptable breakfasts, appetizing yet balanced lunch boxes with the right sized plastic containers to fit every corner of the bento boxes, looking for toys, crazy loom bracelets, socks, shoes, super hero shirts, underpants and sweatshirts, negotiating every minute of TV watching and making up games to get everyone off to school on time, only then, she was able to finally sit and be herself. It took making sure that the 4th grader had the confidence to ask classmates to come to his birthday, even though they “think I’m weird” and that the 3 year old could look forward to playing with preschool toys instead of swords and handle being away from his mommy for at least four hours straight. It took giving more than what she had, setting aside her needs, her feelings, her frustration, her anger, her timing, her opinions, her natural inclination to wake up slowly into the world, to induce her children into a hostile world that had to contain them while she could become a person again. A person who had to reconstruct herself everyday at 9 am; reviving memories, making sense of goals and lost dreams, making sure she retained the spark in between errands and chimerical schemes.

[whew]. i feel like i got caught in the whirlwind with you.

Love all of it, but especially the lines, “It took giving more than what she had, setting aside her needs, her feelings, her frustration, her anger, her timing, her opinions, her natural inclination to wake up slowly into the world, to induce her children into a hostile world that had to contain them while she could become a person again. A person who had to reconstruct herself everyday at 9 am; reviving memories, making sense of goals and lost dreams” … you have captured many moms’ gut-wrenching feelings, and done us proud!

Been there, done that. I’m right with you on this. It is but a thumbnail sketch of a mother’s morning.

Ditto. My kids are grown, but you took me back. And your last sentence is spot on, with or without kids underfoot.

Her days are filled with projects and a certain urgency to life, a hurry to complete goals before time floats away. Her head is full of stories, imaginary and fully lived. A favorite time of day is retiring to the small office, just off the kitchen, where she writes. One wall of the office features an oil painting by her sister of a mountain scene, another photo depicts the Appalachian mountains with low clouds floating like angels across the peaks. A small window allows a glimpse of sky, a few leaves tumbling out of the roof gutter and the imprint of a dizzy bird which hit the window. Stories spill out of her mind as fast as she can type, with hesitation just long enough to find the right words to transfer an image to paper. The urgency is there: don’t let the memory fade, the precious moment escape before sharing it. Her heart is overwhelmed with gratitude for life itself. Sticky notes surround her desk: a reminder to read a new book, a list of stories to be included in a collection, several titles for her book, a reminder to run a backup disk of all her writing. Every week she reads books to elementary school children, pouring out her love of written words to children dominated by TV and the Xbox. Others her age have passed on to a different life. Time is precious. She considers the title for a blog, “Not Done Yet”.

so. i forgot to describe my surroundings. it’s been awhile since i’ve done a prompt! i think the last time was to help me get started on my personal statement, so maybe this one will rev me up again for the final onslaught/phases of my applications. thanks, joe. now i have to resist the temptation to revise this instead of working on apps. 😛

————————-

Desperate times calls for desperate measures, she thought as she clicked “Deactivate” on the screen. This might’ve been a good weekend to hole up in a cabin, somewhere in the Hudson Valley, maybe. But with what money? She’s trying her best to resist the plastic precious in her wallet.

She’s also trying her best to focus on the many tasks at hand. Revise her resume for one school. Send a Hail Mary email to a professor for a letter of recommendation. Write about how she would add diversity — convincingly, too; debunk the notion that there are enough Asian females in law school, and in law in general.

She also wants to do the right thing. Her heart has entered yet another spin cycle of “Does he like me like me?” She’s not tired of being wrong, she’s tired of the uncertainty. She’d rather know if he’s just not that into her — those late night text messages actually don’t count?! — and be put out of her misery.

But it’ll hurt anyway. Is it wrong that she just so happened to connect with someone else that might actually be into her? She thinks there might be something there…

But she still can’t forget how quickly the two of them connected. How they met twice in the span of one day. Who does that?

She clocked in at the library and went to sit down at the library’s little coffee bar. If she she was lucky she would have time to study in between customers… if she was lucky. Her eyes scanned the little library…. it looked like it would be a slow day. Time to study… but would she use it? It seemed forever ago since she had started the semester and now she was almost done… not really done though… school always just seemed to keep on going. Semester after semester…. year after year. “Study,” she told herself, but her mind would not focus. Too much had happened to not just take a moment to think about. Sometimes she wondered if God liked to see her scrambling so she could remember… remember Him. She’d had so many instances to turn her mind to God that week, too many times it felt like… and probably many more times in the future. She sighed. Study.

I can see myself playing this mental/spiritual game too.

She wakes before the clock radio starts muttering. Realizing that she slept through the night makes her giddy. Yes. All right! A full night’s sleep. The Holy Grail. She wakes rested and ready to take on the day, but not quite yet. Husband breathes deeply next to her in the king-size bed she loves. Day has not dawned, but there is enough ambient glow from night lights and electronics to take in the cloud-like expanse of their white comforter. This is her nest, her safe haven. She would be embarrassed to tell anyone how much she loves this retreat, with its cathedral ceiling, extravagant crown molding, paintings and family photos. It is hidden away in a corner of their townhouse that looks like hundreds of neighboring abodes from the exterior. And yet, even though she shares it, she coverts time alone here to read, to write. to muse.

Love this…can relate (except the husband part) … laughed out loud re: “She would be embarrassed to tell anyone how much she loves this retreat, with its cathedral ceiling, extravagant crown molding, paintings and family photos.” Men are not the only ones who have their caves! Your retreat sounds so cozy and I share your love for having my own comfy hideaway, my respite from a sometimes chaotic outside world!

Tami, I hadn’t thought of my retreat as the equivalent of a man cave. That made me smile and nod.

She might have been embarrassed to share how much she enjoys her retreat, but I’m glad she did. Loved that thought. And knowing people who struggle hoping to get a good night’s sleep, I understand giddy. I liked your piece.

Anne, Thanks for affirming that what I was feeling came across.

I empathize with the feeling of not wanting to move from your space, to actually enjoy what you’ve bought, cleaned, and decorated.

Thank you, Susan. It feels so good to know that my words connected with you.

She would always hide in the corner, and curse quietly in a funny little accent she wouldn’t dare identify if you remembered her name. She’s usually silent, invisible, and overly polite, but once you got her to start talking there was no end to her rapid fire run-on sentences, stretched analogies, and skewed logic, peppered with random facts acquired from a long reading history or else personal experience. Sometimes people gather around her and just listen, if they can follow, and it’s the only time they see her at all–when she’s rambling incessantly. She gets weird looks from everyone around her and it’s one of the only things in the entire world that make her smile. Ah yes! The humans think she’s an oddling! Cue the fanfare.

She’s willing to talk about almost anything, but sometimes certain things come up and she quiets right back down and doesn’t say another word for hours. Did you hear about that celebrity that just got diagnosed with cancer? How about that girl who killed herself? The dude caught dealing drugs and killed a cop? And what about that serial rapist they just caught?

If you looked closer, you might see the way she trembles. You might guess what sinister reminders it brought.

But she’s not talking, and nobody sees her when she isn’t talking.

I’m not sure why this doesn’t have more comments, because you’re certainly not silent in your writing.

Beautiful, beautiful! I can identify with her, silent and invisible, until she speaks, and people listen because her words are rare, precious and unique!

She lays back in the chair, hair still damp, her skin glistening. The smell of coconut oil conjures up tropical beaches and swaying palms; a strong contrast to the snow covered view through the window. As her eyes open, grey as the sky, she thinks of tomorrow. A fresh pot of coffee, followed by a quick pick up, and since the heavy chores are done the day will unfold as she chooses. She anticipates choosing to think about things that have not yet been thought. She anticipates the time to remember things that deserve remembering, and maybe some that do not. Perhaps since she’s been ‘good’ she can start now. After all, she can’t see the clock from where she sits so time is not really passing. It is better, she thinks, to measure time by what gets finished- a thought, a smile, a loaf of bread, a good book.

Very nice mood, here. I can totally picture it.

Thank you, Susan. Maybe now that the mood is down on paper, I can conjure it up on demand 😉

You’re welcome. I love writing that evokes (invokes?) mood.

Evoke vs Invoke- Initially evoke worked for me, the idea that the writing “calls up” a mood. But then your choice had me googling- and I like that invoke suggests an active calling, maybe even with incantations. And I see that I posted more than once in response to your initial comment….time for that second pot of coffee!

I’ll join you for coffee.

Thank you Susan. I liked hearing that you can picture the mood.

“After all, she can’t see the clock from where she sits so time is not really passing.” What a great line! An inner thought that probably all of us have felt, but never quite put into words. Thank you for sharing.

Thank you. This is my first prompt exercise and it is lovely to get feedback. I had recently had a conversation with a friend about the bane of electronics and clocks in our lives so I suppose that this thought has been brewing for a while. When I saw the 15 minute limit for the prompt, I ‘promptly’ turned away from the clock and so…..

What about the numbers that rule our lives?

Well, only if we let them….but truly, people impart a magic to the ‘right number’. Just look at how the media uses numbers: the TEN best, SEVEN most……

I was thinking of our numbers for social securiy, bank accounts, cellphones, passports, vehicle registrations, etc. Must admit they bring a sort of order to everything.

very nice description of your thoughts, feels like a calm mind

Thank you. I think that writing brings me calmness.

Those are wonderful measuring tools. Enjoyed this peaceful peace. Wondered if she was drinking a cup of tea as she sat there. Nice.

Thanks. And no, she was not drinking a cuppa. But the pot was set to boil.

Very simple, but very effective. I love her thoughts on time- just passing thoughts, but important all the same

“It is better, she thinks, to measure time by what gets finished- a thought, a smile, a loaf of bread, a good book.” I really loved this. The true value of time is found in the things that make it special.

13:23 to 13:38 She prefers numbers to words. The numbers maintain their meaning whether she says them or someone else tells them to her. She’s sitting outside this afternoon, warming in the sun, thawed out for the first time today. The sofa faces the garden, downhill and she sifts through the chores in her mind, the only way she knows how to avoid getting up, finding her garden gloves and walking down and through the gate to get dirty. But today she has limited time, a to do list perched on her desk reminding her to stay on task. Lunch has been eaten, dishes cleared away. It was bean soup, the same thing she’ll have for dinner tonight and the same thing she’ll have for lunch again tomorrow. She would be happy as a dog, eating the same food every day. She read and wrote on her lunch break instead of rushing back inside to sit at her desk and finish the lingering items. What was the use? There would never be a day without a long list if to do items. She abandoned her desk every day at lunch. She demanded outdoor sunshine, the smell of dirt and the sounds of birds and bugs, of leaves skittering across the pavement. The same wind that scattered the leaves made the chimes release their music. Planes roared over head at thirty thousand feet. The numbers would call her back soon enough. She’d arrange and rearrange them and send them off in different forms to different departments. She didn’t believe for a minute that anyone read or analyzed her numbers but since she was paid to do it, she worked the spreadsheets and calculator. One day she’d total everything up in a today package and start using words. A backlog was developing and she knew that one day they would have to come spilling out across pages and pages and books and books. The End

Yes, one day the words would have to come out. They can’t be jammed in there forever. I liked the wind that scattered the leaves and made the chimes release their music. I also like how she had to choose between numbers and words. Though I have made similar choices, I still prefer the words. They dance.

Numbers…the universal language…

I felt a bit wistful (on her behalf) reading this.

The Yahoo Mail waiting symbol chugged slowly in a circle as it pulled messages from who knows where. He wasn’t too worried or impatient, though. It had only been a couple days, and he was sure there wouldn’t be a response yet. Even if there were, he was prepared.

99.5 percent of new authors are rejected, he’d told himself a thousand times. And he believed it.

On top of that, he wasn’t crazy about his query letter. And, after reading his manuscript a hundred times over, he’d decided there were parts he positively hated. But this was a crucial step. Unlike all those other times in his life, he was saying, “Fuck you” to fear. It felt nice, and was especially easy this time, because he knew exactly what would happen. In fact, he was downright excited to get that first rejection.

I’m putting myself out there.

Smiling to himself, he clicked the “Check e-mail” button for the hundredth time that week.

This time, a new message appeared, and he gasped after reading the familiar e-mail address.

This was it. And he was ready. More than ready; this wasn’t even one of his favorite agents. He had decided to submit to a couple ‘middle of the pack’ agents, first. That way, he could hone, as needed, for the big dogs.

Not even bothering to take a breath, he clicked the e-mail and its contents flashed on the screen.

Dear author:

Blah blah blah blah blah blah Rejected blah blah blah blah.

Sincerely, Agent

He stared at the screen, wide-eyed. There it was, exactly as he had expected. And, exactly as expected, he tried to grin and nod to himself.

But something different happened.

For some reason, his neck faltered and his head hung like a corpse.

Then, before he could stop himself, he’d lowered himself to the desk. The second his forehead touched the cool metal, his eyes overflowed, and he choked a sob into his keyboard.

This is such a great portrayal! Though I haven’t gotten that brave yet, I can see myself acting and reacting just the way this guy does, even after he’s steeled himself for rejection!

Thanks!! This actually happened *today* :/ It’s a little exaggerated but the wash of emotions was definitely accurate. Oh well, it will get easier! And if I can be that brave (although I wouldn’t call it that, lol), anyone can.

He should just remind himself how many times some bestsellers were rejected. They say you don’t finish a novel, you abandon it. We’re always learning. Right till the moment when we write our last words and curl our toes.

Just a hint of light was showing through the datk navy roman shades. The three cats were already restless, anxious to be fed. Ghost, the smallest of the three, curled up next to her right ear purring loudly. Brother began to paw at her feet, nibbling on her toes. The third cat, pounced onto the bed, and curled himself onto her belly.

Pulling the covers over her head, she moaned. “I’m not ready to get up yet guys. Go away.” Flexing her right shoulder, she dislodged Ghost and rolled onto her left side. The cats, sensing her mood, quickly.vacated the bed.

Like a blow, the large empty space in her bed confronted her. This was where her husband should be. Instead, on the nightstand next to his spot sat a black box. It contained all that was left of the man she had loved for thirty.seven years. Seeing the box always caused her to sob. Crying was better than not having something of him with her. She reached over and touched the box. “I love you sweetheart.”

Slowly she swung her legs out of bed and sat up on the edge. The room around her was cluttered, dirty, and disorganized. She sighed and heaved herself slowly up, holding to the edge of the bed for balance. Already her back ached and hard pain shot down her left leg. As she reached for.her mefication bag her shoulder screamed, “time for.a pain pill.” Hastily.she swallowed a handful of meds. In thirty minutes she would feel better.

The boys were now milling around her feet, begging to be fed. First she bent and scooped the nights gifts from the litter box. Then, she filled thier bowl with dry food topped with a can of tuna. With her furry children content, she finally turned to her laptop.

Now was her time, in the quiet morning hours, to put words on a blank page. This was what kept her getting out of bed each day. This was the gift she gave herself, permission to create.

I like the “nights gifts from the litter box”.

She’s surrounded by her favorite entity – words. A long bookshelf mostly contaning classics, hangs overhead, winding the wall. Small hands with slim fingers type on the laptop placed on her lap. Though the room is dim, christmas lights hang around the window, cast a festive glow. The black coated corgi keeps her company, laying at her feet and occasionally popping up for a pet. The girl, for she is not fully a woman, bites her pink lips and runs her hands along her auburn hair when stuck for ideas. As she writes away in her second book, thoughts of doubt begin to creep in. For a minute, her hands stall and the fire drains from her green eyes when she listens to the lies. Is it worth it? Who would read it anyway? Success has been slim thus far, why would this book bring a different fortune? With a sigh she glances at the books behind her. Some of them are so tattered that the binding is becoming undone, so often has it been read. Very few of them are from this century and as she ponders why, she turns to her work again, mindful of her passion. She MUST write this story for the love of good literature, wholesome stories and beautiful writing. Though in many ways, she knows she lacks necessary experience, that is why she must write all the more. So that perhaps one day, she can contribute to the world that has helped her so, if not just to say thank you.

I love this picture! The Christmas lights around the window, the black corgi for company, shelves of old books for inspiration, small hands on the laptop. I’m a bit confused by listening “to the lies”? Maybe you could expand on that a little? Very touched by “she can contribute to the world that has helped her, if not just to say thank you.” Thanks for sharing.

I really identify with the “lies”, for that’s what many of our self-doubts are. Also the good books on the wall, I share that affinity, and very few of mine are from this century either! And writing as a thank-you to the world is a beautiful idea. Good work!

Thank you! I’m glad I’m not the only one 🙂

Isn’t that how it is for us writers? To be compelled to keep on writing, not knowing how successful we will be. We owe it to the craft itself, to write, not just to be published, but to become better. Good empathy.

As if swimming were not lonely enough, she ventures off to the beach for an open water swim. All by her lonesome. She and her sisters coined this part of the shore, “Lonely Beach.” It was where they went when they didn’t feel like being social or seen.

She waded in on a Sunday afternoon—the sky shrouded in gray humidity. Sharing the sand with an old lady walking a dog and a hippy wielding a metal detector, she sighed. Within the sigh she asked herself a question and then answered it. “Why do I do this? …You’re paddling the extra lap.”

She stood staring at her feet as the water washed over, their prints seeming like primitive clay monster feet. She crossed her arms, hugging each elbow in a palm. Her hair blew across her nose, causing it to itch. She paused to watch the guy deliberate over the metal detector. To her, it was an odd way to spend an afternoon.

Yes, she was stalling. There is a certain amount of psychological readying to taking the plunge. She bolstered herself, silently.

“You’re here.”

“You might as well get started.”

She thought that may be she was a lonely soul, an old soul. She craned her head over a shoulder to look at a vacant lifeguard stand, imagining a chiseled sun bleached body, shading his eye contact in Ray-Bans. The sign read, No Lifeguard—Swim At Own Risk. She was swimming, at her own risk.

I like the lonely feeling of the place, that certain stretch of beach, and the sense of looming risk that she stalls from facing. Her response to the sign — swimming, at her own risk — sounds like it could be a theme in the story. Good practice!

Thanks John. Yes, you nailed it. The theme for a story that is…

Hope this develops into a short story (.meant as one of the highest compliments) … want to hear more…want to know where this goes!

Thank you, Tami. I kind of cheated. This is part of a larger piece I’ve been working on for years. It was not an impromptu writing effort.

I was able to step into the image and the feelings you impart in the paragraph describing her staring at her feet, hugging her elbow,etc. Thank you.

Thanks JC. Again, writing can be so creatively charging!

Loved the primitive clay monster feet. I got to experience those when I went to Michigan with my daughter so you gave me a chance to revisit. And I almost felt like I had to brush the sand off my feet even now. Thanks for your piece. And stalling. I know stalling.

I liked how that came out too, Anne. Isn’t it great fun to create something out of the blue? Wouldn’t know it was there if I hadn’t started typing. And the word, ‘stalling’, I had to use that. It is a strong verb.

Mister Computer says it’s 34 degrees Fahrenheit. The rain hasn’t started yet; they’re saying it could be worse than at the 2011 Superbowl. If it sleets/snows, the office will be closed and he won’t have to go and repeat yesterday’s terrifying wrestling-match: answering calls, first-day panic, taking questions he didn’t know the answers to yet — he answered phones for the gubm’t for nine years through sheer force of will, Before. Does he have it in him to do it again? He kinda hopes it snows.

He remembers how much fun it was this morning helping with the produce at Seniors, wrestling three dozen frozen turkeys into an upright position so his partner could slip a wal-mart bag over it. He broke a sweat, he’d have you know. It’s good to work for your dinner.

It’s gonna be a tight couple of weeks due to car registration, high heat bill, just too much dang month left at the end of the money. But that sackful of food from this morning is gonna help a whole lot. He’ll make it. He always makes it.

He’s just a little less self-confident at the moment, with the new job, new people to deal with, and the memory of backing into that man’s pickup in the bank parking-lot Monday morning isn’t helping. He keeps worrying at it in his mind. His fault. Insurance likely to go up. Is he losing his edge? Should he give up the car and start riding the bus? Did it for five years in the ‘nineties, and has less problem with the idea than some would.

He’ll never get too old to make a mistake. And he’ll never escape change.

Definitely a man aging back and forth. I like the word picture you use in the first paragraph of the office zone being like a wrestling mat. I also like the line about too much dang month at the end of the money.

Aging back and forth, yeah, exactly, I like that! Age coming on, but the youth hasn’t left the building. Thank you!

Agreed, I loved the line “too much dang month…”. I actually did a double-take when I read it, thinking “huh?” Then it hit me and I smiled (maybe a little jealously 🙂

It’s amazing how self-doubt creeps in with age. That’s when you start taking a hard look at the person you’ve lived with all the years.

Yes, taking a hard look at that person — and still choosing to accept him/her! Self-doubt is a temporary state of affairs.

I can’t explain it, but I love the line (and the feeling that goes along with it), “He’ll never get too old to make a mistake”.

Today the flame went out. It had been slowly dying for quite some time. Flickering, waning… But always still there.

Today it gave up. It no longer had wind, wood nor heat. Today the fire died.

The wind should have come on the wings of laughter,

From whispered words of love, kindness and affirmation. From the sheer joy of knowing they had been SO blessed. But even then, Wind is not enough.

The wood should have been there too. It used to be. It was determination, commitment to their future together. Fuel is necessary, and it must come from

A renewable source, Unconditional and full of promise. They must have stopped gathering wood together.

The heat is gone too. Flames would sometimes rise, showing promise of the Once familiar fire… Sometimes it was all-consuming, Sometimes warm and comfortable. Now, it is neither. There is no wind, no wood, no heat.

He had big dreams, but she doesn’t know what they were. He didn’t share them with her. She’s not even sure he could because maybe He didn’t even know what they were himself.

She had dreams too…everybody does, right? Not lofty dreams, but good dreams still. And her dreams included him. What she thought they had together, Yesterday, today, and all her tomorrows.

She doesn’t know which happened first. Did the flame go out and she awakened from the cold? Or did she just become cold, And watch the flames die? All she knows is, today the flame went out. Today, the fire died.

Tami, This is so poignant. I want to mourn for what they have lost because they stopped trying and didn’t share their dreams and hopes.

Thank you, Marilyn. I realize it didn’t really follow the prompt directions, but sometimes, it’s just what comes out, ya know? Thanks for sharing.

I like the element of fire showing a relational climate. It was pleasant to follow your prose with the way you formed your lines, like a poem.

Thank you, Susan, for sharing your observation. It did, indeed, evolve into more of a poetry format, though not intentionally. I often write long hand — maybe how I process things — and I decided to use the same format when posting.here.

This grabbed me, a very interesting and well done way to describe a relationship and how it flickered away.

Tami, Great piece. Sadly it captures what my brother is going through. His plans included her. Hers did not. He’s hurting because the fire died. Also it reminded me of a song my son’s group just released. His words and yours run parallel. Enjoyed this.

She sits there, staring numbly into the computer screen of a random website. Noises of her father and brother are behind her along with their laughter and christmas music. But she just stares, thinking of her life, how she is beginning to see things differently. She thinks of the morning of school today, waiting for the bell to ring as her childhood friends laugh and just goof off but she just couldn’t bring herself to laugh. She yawned and just looked to her left, passed her closes friend’s face. Should she feel guilty that once she sees another friend she only known from her early years at the school she begins to laugh and enjoy herself? She questions herself in front of the computer screen. She blinks…then her mind travels to another problem:her dream. Her dream of writing short stories. She has good ideas and her mind won’t shut up but of course right when she grab that dreadful pen her mind suddenly zips up and her ideas hitch a train for nowhere. And that train would be reality.

The alarm rings, and she presses the snooze button every ten minutes for the next half hour. It’s early, way too early, but she finally gets up at 5:30 to the sound of classical music. Her chocolate lab watches as she rises, and she could hear his tail thumping against his mat. Adorable. By the time she goes downstairs, the coffee has already perked; its wafting aroma stimulating her senses.

By the time her husband comes down, the breakfast table is set, and they share the first morning brew along with some conversation. Once he’s out the door, things quiet down once again. Her mind wanders as she does the morning dishes., but as usual, it focuses on her afternoon down time because once the chores have been completed, she ensconces herself in her nook and writes. Once her imagination is liberated, it’s the highest kite she can fly…

The highest kite she can fly. Love it. I also loved the tone of your piece. It just quietly unfolded. And how nice to come down to a table set. I felt as if I were peeking in to see it all. Love the tone.

Thanks, Anne. That’s about how it unfolds.

Writing as the antithesis to chore. Love it!

Yes, JC, “antithesis” is an excellent word to describe what writing is to me as compared to other things. Thanks.

He could have taken the car to work. But that meant sitting in traffic, and a hefty slice out of your savings for the parking. After all, his retirement, or call it by its real name, retrenchment, loomed. At his age he’d never find anything. He sits on the upper deck, among all the youngsters. Not for the company, but for the view. From there he can see into people’s houses, how they scramble around to be in time at the office. He tried sitting downstairs once, but it wasn’t the same. He was lower than them; it felt as if they were watching him. So he went back upstairs among those boisterous youngsters, who spoke about which club they’d been to the previous night, and other mindless things. Energy is wasted on the young, he often thought. Rather give it to us adults, who’ve had a lifetime learning to put it to good use. On the way back there’d be those drunkards heading for that rough working class neighbourhood on the route He later found that if he buried his nose in a book they left him alone. And the noise faded into the background as the youngsters excluded him from their sphere of attention. Now that his pension days were around the corner he’d like to turn the clock back and do things he should have done. And undo those things he shouldn’t have. He’d spent his life as a passenger, becoming part of what went on around him by being a spectator.

And now it’s time to pull out all those treasures you’ve been storing up through all those years of spectating, sort them out, categorize them, and share them with the world. No time for retirement! You have work to do! I agree, energy is wasted on the young. Those of us with things to tell need the energy to do it!

Thanks for the advice.

The room is small, cozy. The air is still, having not yet been disturbed by the travels of the people still sleeping in the darkness. Looking out the window he sees the trees reaching up towards the grayish sky waiting for the rain as a young boy would be as he watches a ball falling toward him, anticipating catching it. His back is achy despite a few hours of rest. These 15 minutes of tapping on the keyboard a pleasant new exercise, for his brain if not his body. Despite the quiet of the day, the current task at hand, the single light on in the darkened house illuminating his desk he is struggling to keep his mind on the task at hand. So much work ahead of him in the next 12 or 14 hours. Shortly he will get up from this silent moment and awaken the day. Start the rushing process of making sure she is ready for the bus. A lunch to make, to approve of an outfit, breakfast to prepare, dressed warm enough for the day, the hair!, the hair is always the delay, even at a young age of 11. He marvels at how hair is a concern everyday for him despite him losing his 15 years ago. The anticipation of the craziness that is about to begin has his mind racing already, a warm cup of coffee adding to the adrenaline rush starting to kick in. He glances at the clock, 2 minutes and this quiet day will kick into overdrive very quickly. Off to the races, time to put the silence back to bed for another 24 hours.

I like that your writing cocooned you with silence at the start of the day.

She sits in the quiet. The darkness still surrounds her but she knows in time the darkness will give way to light. It always does. Oh sure, sometimes it takes its sweet time like when the cold embraces us. Days like today.

She pecks away at the keys watching stories slip out of her head. Wondering all the time how they got in there and then she remembers. She used to run to stories when life was hard, when life was scary. She ran to stories a lot.

And now she does what she has to do again. She waits. She waits to see if the test results are good for her brother. She waits to hear that the procedure went well. She waits to breathe again.

She can’t afford to lose any more people she argues. But she knows that she knows nothing compared to the one who holds the keys to life and death. She knows, but still she argues. It’s the one thing she can do. The only thing she can do.

And yet, there is this place inside her. This room that she goes to when she’s afraid. She sits there waiting and knows He will show up. And she won’t be alone. He always comes. He always sits with her when she’s afraid. Always.

He was there when she stood at her mother’s coffin at 16. There as she said goodbye to her father at 24. She was there as she revisited the cemetery again and again. Too many times to count and yet she does.

It’s easier to count the remainder. Two. There are just two left. There were five of us siblings and then Peggy was gone. Domestic violence. Brutal thief. But years in between another huge loss. And those years got her used to living. Well, kind of.

Then she saw cancer rip away one brother. Watched as it took his health day by day. Had to remind him he was dying when he’d say, “Get my coat, let’s go home.” And later he’s say, “Oh yeah, we ARE home.”

And then there was February when she sat in a hospital bed with anxiety. Something new that keeps pestering her life. Something that causes her blood pressure to spike when should flow steadily. Yes anxiety had visited her. Intruded and refused to leave.

Anxious about her one brother getting a heart procedure. Unaware another brother clutched his heart and died.

Two. There are just two of them left. And while she tries not to think about it, that thought bullies its way in her mind and pushes out all the other thoughts. No thoughts like to be bullied.

She sits quietly and as she suspected she senses His presence. And hears His voice remind her she is not alone. He’s right there beside her. Just as He promised He’d be. And He never broke one of His promises. Not one.

Anne, this line caught me: ‘She can’t afford to lose any more people she argues,’ yet not in the way that I think you intended. I guess I put myself in her place. I mentally added the word, ‘with’ at the end of that line. As if the people, or God himself, being the ones we argue, love, and struggle with are the ones who cost us the most. They are the ones that we stand to lose the most of ourselves. Like a part of us dies with each one.

I should have put a comma after the word “people.” She is arguing with God.

I wasn’t correcting you. I got what you were saying, I just liked the twist of arguing with everyone, including God and self. hugs…

Sorry, Susan. I didn’t mean for it to sound abrupt. I was actually angry at myself for not putting in the correct punctuation. I also like the twist of arguing with everyone. Thanks.

Anne, You introduced us to a lifetime of grief and loss so great that it could rip your soul apart.

And except for the fact God was in it, you’re right. And do you know what he brought out of it? Poetry.

Thank goodness that you have experienced Him — so much love !

Joe, Loved your piece. There were so many things about it that made it alive. Loved the continual thankfulness that just had to ooze out of you. Absolutely loved how you ended your piece. The piece just flowed so evenly. Actually inspired me to even sit down and take part.

Thanks Anne. 🙂

So, here he sat again in front of the screen. Open the last page of his book. Words appearing in succession, staining the whiteness with characters burping from the brain.

For some time now he was aphasic to open it, almost scared. He might have turned on, to check emails and to play solitaire, but even that reluctantly. Many, some several months old, particularly those related with writing were loitering in the list of unopened mail. There was no reason for it.

A slap of life had smashed all desires to write.

I have to commence writing again. Now! And in the same sentence: Why write? It will not contribute to be alive. Arg! Too damn trumpery and useless! Thought of impotence heaped his mind. Had a bad mood, even snappy. It took awhile for him to grind down the disappointment and in the end accept he had to live a life whatever the circumstances. The end will come soon enough.

Some days ago, he started again reading the book with an earmarked leaf, which was lying around for a while. That night, he couldn’t sleep, and for him, reading was the best somniferous. Soon, ideas invaded the spirit, and he made notes, searched words, concentrated in modisms. That night and many after, he did not sleep enough.

Bad habits were kicking in again.

But there was a difference. He realised, just today, a big difference. Before, when his wife asked what he was doing, the answer had been: Working! Nowadays he says, Writing!

What a difference a misfortune makes!

Misfortune? Maybe, maybe not. Who knows? He remembered the old Chinese saying.

The energy is back with vigour. Carelessly ignoring the numbness his backside and the urge of nature. Barely walking to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He has to prepare it. It takes too long. Better, some water, he decides and is back to the frantic clicking on the keyboard in one corner of his bedroom. The music plays away. It’s cold. His heart has, though, been warm and palpitating to the rhythm of the script.

Hey! Of that, life is all about!

I love what you wrote….a bit of mischief is getting ready to happen, I think…..

Here is what I wrote for 15 minutes:

She sits at the desk in front of the laptop almost everyday. But nothing comes to her mind. There is too much going on around her – even the dog and cat prevent her concentrating on what she needs to say – what she must say. There is a story inside her somewhere. But she has no time to dwell on its location, to find out where in the body or mind such a story could be. She is a writer. She has always been a writer, even if she rarely puts pen to paper. She has been a writer since she was very young, sitting on the back porch on a hot summer day with nothing but chores to do.

She used to wonder about eternity. The concept of eternity was troubling her when she was only eight or nine years old. Sitting on that back porch in the heat of the summer in Dallas, wondering about eternity. She would imagine the world never, ever ending, like the nuns told her classmates and her, but somehow she could not get a true connection. What would eternity look like, she wondered, forgetting that she was only in the third grade…what could it be like?

Well, it had to be better than just sitting on the back porch, waiting for her mom or dad to come yell at her for not doing anything. They had small patience for little girls, especially for her, since she was the eldest girl in the family and should be helping her mother to care for the younger kids. Man, what a life for a kid! But that is what an adult would have thought, had an adult been sitting on the porch with her, sharing those eternal thoughts. Kids had not much of a past, so they had little to refer to. Still, she knew that whenever there was not much work to do, the little kids were asleep, and she had finished her homework (funny that she could not remember doing homework, for the most part!), she ought to have a bit of time for herself. Time to swing on the swing set before her dad opened the screen door and hollered for her to get her butt inside and do more work.

Little did she know, however, what lay ahead. And that was definitely a good thing. A damned good thing. Because if she had known even a little bit, she might have found the courage in her heart to take a short cut while walking home from school and end up elsewhere.

Funny because I’m listening to Above and Below, which seems to go along with this.

Where would I find “Above and Below”? I am a newbie here. Thank you for your comments.

It’s by The Bravery and there is a moon version and a sun version. Youtube has both.

The murky shape of a fish torpedoes through her peripheral vision and is swallowed by the clouded lake waters. She cranes her neck in its direction, hair following suit in a dull golden cloud and coming to rest in front of her eyes. Her back arches as she kicks deeper where pressure begins to replace sunlight and the sandy bottom full of discarded clam shells beckons as a silent refuge. Her elbows come to rest against the gritty surface as she releases her air from its chambers, watching it flee to the surface in a shimmering cloud of light. She could beat it if she wanted to; kick up from the bottom and satisfy the dull ache in her chest, but she doesn’t want to. Not yet anyways. She closes her eyes and the water seems to disappear, swaying around her with the same heat which runs in her veins, melting itself against her skin until the two are indistinguishable. She could lie here forever, in her secret, dim world. But it isn’t hers. Her lungs tighten to remind her that hers is up there, into the sun which shines so far away from this place. She jumps off the her throne of sand, rising into the surface.

You must know something about diving. I would not have been able to create this scenario without having been underwater myself. Good job !

Thank you, It’s one of my favorite pastimes and I bought my first monofin last summer.

She wakes reluctantly, feeling him stir by her side. The familiar feeling of heaviness returns as the reality of their life now seeps into her consciousness through the last wisps of sleep. Further rest will elude her now. Should she get up and try to use the time when he is asleep to do some writing? She is bone tired, but she knows there will be little chance for time alone later in the day. She turns to watch him sleeping and thinks of other Saturdays when he would be first to wake, always active, vital. Perhaps after some leisurely lovemaking he would return to her with a cup of tea and her favourite – hot buttered toast with marmalade. Then off to get the paper, maybe stop for coffee on the way. Now he can’t get out of bed by himself anymore or pee alone. This horrible disease is taking its time to kill him. She watches his dear face, at peace in merciful sleep for a while. She is sad but angry too. Maybe she will get up and write, despite her weariness.

While I have no really experience of what this is like your writing doesn’t use such fancy words that make it seem like a show. Yours seems real, but still showing how you feel underneath the words. I like it.

She stood at her computer, wishing she could feel comfortable in her own body. The room is lit with natural light and her husband is listening to the book Wise Blood on AudioBooks. She needs to jump start her energy, needs to get her blood moving. The calendar tells her it really isn’t good day to do anything, unless it is to work on her own set of personal challenges – releasing her bad habits, for god’s sake.

How does one work on one’s bad habits, she wonders. They are there, the patterns of behaviors. She circles around them and then gives in to nap. It is like earlier this week when her calendar asked her to retrieve her soul. Retrieve her soul? That is a long process, but she tried. She went through every memory she had – sitting on the front porch when scarcely older than a toddler, wondering what is infinity. Come here, little girl, she entreated. She remembered the last time she wet her pants after they stopped letting her wear diapers; squatting under a shrub, being amazed there was no diaper to catch it. Come back to me, she asked. Playing in her sandbox, riding her bike for the first time, climbing a skinny tree to get away from either a small snake or a big worm. Come back to this big empty spot in me, she asked. The memories of her life flooded her and with each memory, she invited herself home. Some of the memories weren’t so good and she hadn’t behaved admirably. She invited that girl back too. Get them all here, retrieve them, she told herself. Before long, all the retrieved people she could ever remember being gathered in her solar plexus and built a bonfire. They raked the coals around. This made her nervous. She wanted to fill that hole, not burn a bigger one. Oh well, all those soul pieces were in charge of this, not her. Just let it happen and she did.

Is she more whole now? More of one cloth? Who knows. There is an ache in her left back side. She feels full, lethargic. What are her bad habits? Is procrastination really that bad or is it her creative process? Certainly eating potato chips, her new vice since quitting gluten, could be something she skipped today.

Her husband stops listening to his story and comes over to the computer and wants to talk about the parade Saturday and had she told her youngest granddaughter they were staying in town, so now they could all go to it. Leave me alone, she finally explodes. Just 15 minutes, that is all I want. 15 minutes to write this exercise. And it is done. He goes away and the 15 minutes are gone.

Sorry for posting so late on this. I loved the exercise! I did it a day late and then my internet was down for an entire day. Finally this morning, I have internet!

She sits, reclined on the couch, trying to escape reality for the umpteenth time that week. Not that it’s been a hard week, or that she doesn’t love her life or anything, she’s actually enjoying life; she just likes to pretend it’s different sometimes. She picks up the book on the table and shimmies down into a position that says, “leave me alone. I’m reading.” A frown crosses her face as she struggles to drown out the sounds of her five younger siblings and piano-playing dad by immersing herself into a different world.

Later she will probably try to drain her emotions through writing, allowing the paper of her beloved notebook to carry some of the burdens weighing on her heart. Typical teenager burdens: love, hate, wonder, and longing. Regret too. And Nostalgia. All of these mixed up feelings trapped inside her will flow out onto the blank pages in inky words that will somehow sooth everything. She’d like to think she was unique, but she has the same problems as every other teenage girl. And then some.

Left to her own mind is much too dangerous these days. It’s a trap that ensnares her at her weakest times when she’s alone. Which is most of the time. There are certain people who help her though, and she’s seen them all this week. The greenish grey eyes of her best friend. The grey ones of her beloved music teacher. These are the people who put a little bit of light into her dark mind and draw her back into reality: the good reality. They keep her safe from the trap her mind has set for itself and remind her that love is a very big part of life. Not being loved necessarily, but loving. Being the one TO love is what matters most and it makes all the difference.

She lays with her knees up, covered in three army surplus wool blankets and an old, yellow stained feather blanket she’d known for years, though it wasn’t hers. Her bed, which takes up most of the room, is on the floor, the bare dirty white walls sometimes remind her of one of those old, padded asylum rooms. The kind that don’t exist anymore. And while that might have once really bothered her, even scared her, it amuses her now.

The room sits in the back half of the “house,” which is actually an old trailer, half of one, where they used to hang the plants to dry. The front half of the house is wooden, with wooden walls and floor and a high ceiling. Behind her, cold air comes up through the cracks between the wall and the chipping lanoleum floor. Last night, she had made a feeble attempt to remedy this with another rolled up wool blanket, but then figured out that a sheepskin did the trick.

It’s her idea of luxury. She’d been sleeping on the floor for years, with intermittent mattresses here and there, but she preferrs the floor. Maybe it’s just that it reminds her of the last place she called home, where they slept on the floor, and ate meals together in a circle around a fire or a woodstove. Where things made sense.

The house is finally quiet. It’s her favorite time, when she doesn’t feel the pull of anyone. Somewhere inside of her, the tug of an impending decision making time. She has no idea where to go from here. This little room, which for some reason she can remember seeing for the first time three years ago, when it was filled with April’s willow baskets and craft making materials, is starting to feel like hers. Even the weather seems to be comforting her here all of a sudden.

Fall in Northern California is strange for her, someone who has never missed a real winter. It’s sunny and warm, and her body kept expecting the change. Something, anything to signal that it was this time of year, and not another. But it never came here, and it felt like she was somehow stuck in time. The wintery slant of the sun was strange in the heat. Finally it changed.

This morning she sat outside on the porch, the sun just barely coming over the horizon but nowhere near her, those huge, intimidating redwoods stood in the east and shaded everything. Her afternoon cigarettes were the time where she could find a tiny patch of sun. this morning the wind howled, and she put on a wool hat and wool shirts and felt the crispness, and imagined brown leaves falling. She had never been so happy for a brisk morning chill. And wind, actual wind, blowing a fall hello. Her body swayed with it as she smoked her cigarette and the smoke didn’t matter. She didn’t want to smoke with all this weather calling .

She needs to get back to that piece, due tomorrow morning. She hears Susan sneeze in the other room, and Chris beside her shifts. They whisper to each other, and then go silent. She hears the hot water heater, and feels at home.

I like the phrase about her room – “where things made sense”.

Her childhood was a happy one, filled with pine forests and pussy willows, shading trees and deep shadows, bright sunlight and fairies. Her mind was a blessed country where music filled the air and magical creatures were waiting with secret smiles around every corner, offering new adventures. A little sister was a ready and willing companion in her exciting fairy world.

As she grew, reality pressed in with dawning dismay. Too late, she discovered that her childhood world had been one of the imagination, and in the business of growing up the door grew narrower until it closed altogether. The only way she could alleviate the anguish was to write – anything and everything.

Her one delight in the agonizing world of puberty became a pure white sheet of paper before her, and a pen poised in readiness. It was only then that her soul could be at ease.

With her teenage years came the realization that she must find an identity for herself, or perish, and that involved searching with every bit of strength she possessed.

The search lasted for many years, tumultuous, exhausting and filled with some bitter sorrows and some unspeakable joys, but the search bore fruit. She discovered who she was at last!

Outside her office window the sun is blazing. The temperature is frigid, below freezing. Her garden appears shocked, the plants struggling to breathe outside of their designated zone. Whoever decides what will thrive through winters in the Pacific Northwest probably didn’t have a day like today in mind.

The sun is a mixed blessing for her. In her chest she wants to run outside, through her arms open wide and hug those rays for the weather forecast indicates the usual gray clouds will return in just a few days. Yet, she looks at her desk. A half-done presentation awaits, due on Monday. Follow-up with a creative team on her new website is tugging at her “let’s play inside” persona. And then there’s the prospect of a trip to Costco to get the wreath, the garland … the overdue beginnings of the whole holiday decoration process. In the next room her husband lingers over the New York Times. They only subscribe to the Sunday edition so she looks forward to that leisurely read every week (and, she just learned, having something to look forward to can increase your personal baseline for happiness).

Happiness, she decides, shows up physically today. Sun rays streaming through the window. A second cup of coffee resting on her desk. The prospect of unpacking the Christmas decorations makes her smile inside. Finding a place for the crystal snowman, the mantletop garland, the collection of German smokers – a yearly ritual that signals the holidays have arrived, along with that endless of to-do’s that never quite get done.

WOW ! I love especially the image of the sun streaming through the windows. And yes, we have the have just the perfect place for each Christmas item, don’t we? I wish I could read more !!

First job on a dark winter morning: tending fire. The fires of evening languish after midnight and leave the big house chilled in this snow country. She is the designated early riser.

She stirs hot ash to wake red coals, then adds wood scraps that in a moment will blossom into flame. Coffee goes on while she waits. Once the fires start up again she adds firewood, small and then larger pieces. When they catch she damps the flow of oxygen back down for a slow burn. The fireplace in the family area is first, followed by the wood stove in the entry way. Family first.

A glance outside the window answers the pivotal question: is it falling, blowing snow today, or are bright snow fields already dimly visible down the hill? Her favorite is dry snow that glitters under the sun. It’s like a field of cool white velvet thickly strew with tiny opal chips.

Maybe this will be that kind of day. Warmly dressed now, she does a few minutes of yoga while the others stir and wake. An hour before dawn, with the sounds of day rising and the first cup of coffee in hand, she sees a small herd of deer cross the field below. They are graceful dark silhouettes in the dusky blue. As a small child she once cried for wild things outside in the snow, at the unfairness of it all, and sometimes she still wonders how they manage. Often, she knows, they don’t. Perhaps that germinal sense of fairness has wandered over time. Perhaps it’s merely been polished by emery grains of experience.

These deer, though, seem lively and inquisitive, at ease in their travels today, unperturbed by human habitation near by. Her kitchen is warm, bright, and yellow, and there’s a day of writing ahead.

Jealous of that morning routine! Maybe I wouldn’t be over time, but it sounds like such a perfect way to ease into the day: a little work to get a fire going. Some exercise. Then recollection.

Thanks, Brett. I’m a little conflicted about it, though. Having read some of the stunning entries here (plus almost all of Glimmer Train Issue #89, which to my mind has kind of a bleak feel) this little practice piece seems “fluffy” in comparison. I’ve taken it aside to give it more than 15 minutes. Notwithstanding my encultured training to convert lemons to lemonade, the hand of a darker angel rests on this character’s shoulder. It deserves observation. These prompts are great practice, but I think practice only works for us to the depth we actually dive.

It’s 5:49am and about 39 minutes behind schedule. My coffee never seems to be as warm as I want it to be. By the time I top it off and sit back down, it feels like it needs to be nuked.

The Bible and journal next to me, open to Isaiah. It’s mostly confusing to me right now, but slowly meaning pops out. My car journal is to my right. It’s a little spiral bound notebook that I keep in the car while I listen to podcasts. Texting and driving is unsafe, but I hope note taking on the center console isn’t. The laptop is open between them.

The lights are off and I’m typing in the dark. This space between 5:30am and 6:00am is tricky in our house. One of my children, were I asleep, would wake and crawl into the big king bed between my wife and me. But since I’m up, he might hear me and come downstairs for some attention.

I’m selfish. At least, I try to be selfish prior to 6:00am, or 6:15 if I play my cards right.

Across the dining room table is a my belt, my t-shirt, a children’s Bible, and a couple spiral notebooks that the kids like to write in. Plush green and white candy canes barely visible, are hanging in the dark underneath the light fixture.

I know the condensation is puddling around my water glass. This is my second day trying to write first. 500 words daily before I do anything else. I should probably get an earlier start and take a walk or do some stretching. It always seems I’m much more inspired after some early exercise. My brain seems to function. I’m using this prompt from deep in my Gmail because the cupboard was bare. And writing as a discipline, apparently, is tough the first couple mornings especially since I don’t have a clear end game. The last thing I want to do is write for work. And I’m not excited to write for my personal blog that centers around living a simpler life. And the blog on the url for my name has been in technical difficulty for over a year.

Consequently, I’m on Evernote practicing.

It’s 5:49am and about 39 minutes behind schedule. His coffee never seems to be as warm as he wants it to be. By the time he tops it off and sits back down, it feels like it needs to be nuked.

To his left is the journal open stacked inside the Bible, also open, opened to Isaiah. That ancient book is mostly confusing to him right now, but slowly meaning pops out. His car journal is to his right. It’s a little spiral bound notebook that he keeps in the car while he listens to podcasts. Texting and driving is unsafe, but he hopes note taking on the center console isn’t. The laptop is open between the two books of records.

The lights are off and he’s typing in the dark. This space between 5:30am and 6:00am is tricky in their house. One of his children, were he asleep, would wake and crawl into the big king bed between his wife and him. But since he’s up, his young son might hear him and come downstairs for some attention.

He’s selfish. At least, he tries to be selfish prior to 6:00am, or 6:15 if he plays his cards right.

Across the dining room table is a his belt, my t-shirt, a children’s Bible, and a couple spiral notebooks that the kids like to write in. Plush green and white candy canes barely visible, are hanging in the dark underneath the light fixture.

He knows the condensation is puddling around his water glass. This is his second day trying to write first. 500 words daily before he does anything else. He should probably get an earlier start and take a walk or do some stretching. He always feels much more inspired after some early exercise. His brain seems to function better. He’s using this prompt from deep in his Gmail because his idea cupboard was bare. And writing as a discipline, apparently, is tough the first couple mornings especially since he doesn’t have a clear endgame. The last thing he wants to do is write for work and his insurance blog. And he’s not excited to write for his blog that centers around living a simpler life. And the blog on the url for his name has been in confounding technical difficulty for over a year, so that’s not an option.

Consequently, he’s on Evernote practicing.

The coffee part was funny. Towards the end you wrote me instead of he. Also I did not like the last paragraph as much of the rest of the story. Maybe there are too many details in it. I’m not sure. The writing overall is good and I can feel the balance between being dutiful to the family and also having a special time to do one’s own work. And the grappling with is it selfish to hope the boy stays asleep a little longer.

He knows the condensation is puddling around his water glass. I think it would be better to say: Condensation is puddling around his glasses. He knows feels like it slows it down to me.

He wants to be a writer. He knows wanting to be a writer is not the same as being a writer. He sits in front of the laptop every morning before the birds have begun singing, before the sense of duty comes alive to distract him. But he always ends up posting, commenting, arguing.. on the facebook, anything to avoid actually writing. His other hobby is reading. He reads everything, with no discrimination. His childhood heroes were not cricket players or action heroes, but writers. While his friends admired Amithabh Bachan and Kapil Dev, he worshipped R K Narayan and Arthur Conan Doyle. In his dreams, he saw himself publishing Sherlock Holmes stories. But he could never convert these dreams to reality.

The moment he cherished most from his childhood was when he won a writing competition inschool. More than the prize itself, what he remembered was the praise he got from a famous writer, a judge for the competition. Yet he could not write.

Recently, he suffered a mental break down. It dawned on him that he wa 40, he had passed the prime of life, perhaps crossed the half way mark. He realized with surprise that he could not recapture time, recreate the past, that he was locked in a day time job that he loathed, that he was also shackled by the sense of duty from which thete may not be any escape.

very moving, and throughout I could sense the struggle and the longing to be formed and changed (thinking of a caterpillar/butterfly) seeing what you know you need to be, but also feeling not there yet. And then the sad realization of not being able to go back in time was a good ending paragraph.

All around her, the air was still. Not just still, but paused, muffled. All the world seemed to be put on mute. It was probably because of the snow outside, padding the roads and the sidewalks with white fluff. She didn’t mind- the quiet was a nice break from the noise and the cluttered mess. She sits beside the window this morning, curled up into a tight ball underneath a patchwork quilt, in a too-large chair. The heater is blowing out warm air besides her, and she can’t help but be a little reassured at the gentle hum of it running. Not that she needed it- her dachshund was curled up in the crook of her legs, acting like the miniature space heater she was. She couldn’t sit there forever, she knew. As she typed, the list of things she needed to do pressed on the front of her mind with continuing urgency, barrating her with a buzz of reminders and loose ends. But a little time for herself couldn’t hurt, could it? A thin strand dangled in front of her eye, and she blew it aside in mock irritation. Maybe this wasn’t the best time for this. Maybe this was just her way of procrastinating while she had real work to be done. That was very probable, and very like her. She knew there were real things to do, things that had to do with nasty words like ‘school’ and ‘chores’, but for the moment she was fine with brushing them off with a flick of her wrist and delving deep into her writing.

good job using the five senses so someone can really feel your environment. That makes it cozy. And even though there is a lot of stuff that the writer knows will have to get done, you could feel how she was still very immersed in her writing, and not getting overly stressed by it.

She sits at a funny little place – too small for a window seat, too large for a windowsill. Her cheeks press against the cool dampness of the glass, her fingers curled into the nails which she had been painting a few hours ago. It was the holidays – she should be relaxing, why was she agitated anyway? There wasn’t any homework assigned anyway. Her family ignore her and her own little ramblings, they only treat her ponderings and opinions as ‘teenagerdom’ and something ‘bound to change when she grows up’. They’re too busy in front of the television, intent on ‘The Wizard of Oz’, unaware of the clock ticking on the wall, that the children they have in their arms will eventually be doing the same. Perhaps it is only her who can glimpse into such thoughts. Perhaps it’s due to how she is in that time in adolescence when you know that you’re going to grow up, and that you’re nervous about what it will bring. Perhaps… She slides off the seat, and plops onto the sofa. Her younger sibling comes to her lap, bringing the scent of warm milk and love, something which will outlast all time. She smiles. Love, which can outlast all time.

yes. I like this. The writing is good, it doesn’t have unnecessary words. And also I like how you go into the feeling of fear of growing up and leaving what is known and people loved.

He, sits. He thinks. He ruminates. What is he doing with his life? Come Jan 24, 2014 and he would be completing 23 years of existence on planet Earth. But what has been accomplished so far? A bachelors degree, a film school diploma and now on his way to gain his Masters in Marketing and still he doesn’t feel very accomplished with himself. Still leaving at home, feeding of Dad’s income with absolutely no work experience as such, was he worth anything?

The fact that the girl he really had a thing for not only rejected his romantic advances but went on to say that “I will never like you” didn’t help his cause. He needed to find his ‘eureka’ moment where he finds the true purpose of his life. Maybe it lies in the world of words. Maybe that’s why his heart always kept tugging at this direction but he was too lazy to sit and let the words flow. Maybe it’s time for him to realise that there is no point in trying to rush and see what his future is going to turn out like. Live life and Just let it be.

I could really relate to this and the feeling of not yet being there, at that place where one wants to end up.

The blue chair was her throne, her childhood home her castle. Right now, just for right now, there were no doors opening and closing. No pounding on the stairs as parents and/or a brother made their way to the second floor. Not even the hum of the dishwasher or the thump of the washing machine intruded into her time.

All she heard was silence. That blissful, marvelous silence that came from just being. Not doing or crying or wondering or worrying. Just being.

For these few minutes, she could pretend. Pretend that it hadn’t been almost a year since she had to move back home. Pretend and remember what it was like to live in her own space, among her own things, free to think her own thoughts or even to dance in the kitchen with no one watching. If she wanted to, she could even watch an entire episode of “Glee” without any eye rolls or scoffs thrown her way. Or questions. She was so relieved, really, to have this time without questions about how had her day been, and who did she eat lunch with, and why did she like this show or that so much, and had she heard from so-and-so lately?

Not even the temptation of having the family TV all to herself was enough to pull her away from her words. The words were there, always waiting. She just had to sit still long enough to see them. To feel them, run her hands over them, testing their strengths, their weaknesses.

She wasn’t always sure of what she was writing, or why she was. “Writers write to be read,” she remembers telling a friend, many moons ago. But somewhere along the way, she stopped. The writing fizzled, save for a sporadic blog post here and there. She didn’t remember when, exactly, but she had lost herself, and was always, always in search of the She she used to be.

The blue chair didn’t have any answers. Neither did the blue walls, or the red mantle. My mother is a colorful woman, she thought. The fake greenery arranged artfully around the room also offered no secrets, no clue to the person she was looking for.

So she ignored them all — the reds, the greens, the blues — and leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The searching could wait another moment. For now, there was just being.

This was really intriguing and interesting to me.

Love the opening line

Life is complicated for her, if not physically, then on the inside. Between work stress, school priorities, and guys, she doesn’t always make time just to talk to God, and often suffers for it. She struggles with finding her identity. Her family is always supportive and loving, and that gives her strength and hope.

She is inside now. She wishes she were drinking coffee but she thinks it a waste of time to make some for just a few spare minutes of writing. She loves the outdoors though. She also loves people. Everyone coming from different places with different ideas, many she had never thought of. She loves how life changes. But she is starting to realize somedays things don’t seem to change. At least not for her, not always. Someone told her once life doesn’t hand us a new lesson until we first master the one given. Perhaps she was stuck on something. But perhaps she just expected too much from the universe.

Her garden is being eaten away by bugs, and she has been working to get ahead of it. And even though she had gotten the bugs under control, the plants look damaged and many have died. Can the plants catch up and be in time for the harvest time, she wonders.

This one is actually quite, quite mad, but I’m literally just writing the first things that come to me on these prompts!

————————————————————————————–

22, single, Bristol! Straight up social construct looking for love. Seeking the sort of love that can be conceived of as a ‘lagoon’ or ‘oasis’. Enjoys music and gambling, always up for a PARTYYY! Young displaced whisper floating among suburban streets. Massive Kanye fan, second biggest hero probably Messi!! Youthful fun-lover carried invisibly by a discourse I can’t remember. Travelling, traveller forever <3 .

he was lying in bed. another day is over.every night it occurs to him that he hadn’t been giving much attention to the the passing of days, to opportunities he missed. but then he admits that counting them wouldn’t really make a difference. you’d think it will end there and he’d go to sleep now, but it never does, because he always needs to do something about it or at least think about doing something about it. why is it that he never feels satisfied at the end of the day? may be because he’s not doing something he likes, may be because he is not doing anything, or may be because it doesn’t matter what he does as long as it is HE who’s doing it. he’s not dissatisfied with life, he’s dissatisfied with being.

three body in the small dim room- two sleeping. one sits cross-legged, her fingers tucked in around the cover of her small neon notebook. her eyes constantly gaze around the object that surrounds her and for a second she wondered why she loves to write in the dark so much when there’s plenty damn lights in the daytime. her heavy eyes darts to her brother’s sleeping figure, his snore low and she always find it funny in some way; maybe because she could tease him about it later and she always wonders about her sister’s eyes when she sleep; they’re never fully closed and she still think about it at some point. suddenly, her hand pauses and she took a short breathe, reciting what she had just wrote in a careful whisper. it’s almost three in the morning. she felt a familiar feeling of wishing she could just drift away to her beauty sleep haunts her every night, though she could never come close to stop thinking about so much things.

Sunlight gently streams into her room, caressing her face. Her eyes flutter open; another day has begun. She carefully selects the outfit she will wear; the dress must match her shoes while the earrings must offset the color of her hair. Everything must look perfect because in reality nothing really is.As she carefully applies her make-up she notices tears glistening in her eyes. She smiles weakly and although her eyes shine with life, the lace of death within them is unmissable. Try as she might she cannot hide the pain that is always with her.

She tries to remember a time when laughter was her life’s song, and hope was her constant companion. A time when she had a spring in her step, a trunk full of dreams and a heart bursting with love. Reality intrudes on her wistful musings and she remembers she must get to work. She carefully tucks away the pain and meticulously hides her bleeding heart, and once the burden of loss is tightly secured on her back, makes her way to work.

‘laughter was her life’s song’- beautiful

He sits on his computer all day his mum says, wondering out his window, what is actually out there? look, whats that and whats that? it looks like a rock falling from the sky in the distance burning with fumes of smoke, the rock is the same size as Africa I heard on the news, it was cooling but they say it could cause collateral damage on a major scale, like one we’ve never seen before, this is the end call it judgement day, the end of days, the second coming. I didn’t care for that one moment I knew what to do with my life…

“Wake up, you lazy mongrel! Time for school!”

Those blaring words, coupled with a rigorous jolt made against her shoulder, ends her long sleep nestled with a dream. It seems to her that her mind stiffens as still as a frozen figure before it adjusts to reality. In other words, the brain waves take a long while to recognize what is happening now.

Slowly, eyes half-closed and struggling with her depleted energy, she reaches out for the alarm clock which is situated on her bedside table. It is now six o’clock in the morning, when she realizes it is fifteen minutes too late to get up. A thought dawns on her: must she go back to sleep or head for school? With a quick burst of energy, she dashes off for a good bath and after ten minutes, emerges from the bathroom all wet, with a wrapped towel on her wet hair and another covering her naked body. Without further hesitation, she dresses into her school uniform and stamps out of her room with her bag in tow.

While having a breakfast with her family, her thoughts are on her assignments, which are almost complete at that moment. She leaves very little time to ponder on her dreams as doing this would waste precious time. Having finished with all the usual preparations, she skips off outside.

He shows up to job that moved him across country, that he was unsure of. He graduated from school July 2011, and didn’t get a call from a company until January 2014. He wasn’t sure if it was the right decision. He believes the move part was right but the job, the job is boring and doesn’t challenge him like his last. Their is a lot more down time and sitting around. He often jokes with is coworkers he has watched more tv the past year and a half than he has in the previous five combined. He doesn’t know what to do. He went to school to work on planes, but he doesn’t like it. It is not what he expected. Coming on to the age of 30 what does he do? Does he stay in this career path or find another? He doesn’t have any special skills or hobbies to make a career out of. He kind of misses his old way of life. Doing electrical wasn’t so bad always busy at work, did not have to work second shift and sit around until 2-230 am while his supervisor fucks around on the internet, just because.

His old boss knew how to take care of his men. He would buy a few thirty racks for the guys every week, sometimes twice depending on how thirsty we were that week. Occasionally he would takes us out to dinner. It was a fun environment to work at. Its funny how things work he tries to better himself and make himself happier but all he has done is made him more frustrated. He is a city 850 miles away from his friends and family. He has a smaller social group. He loves the city of Chicago and is glad he made the move. Because it’s a fun city and always something to do. And if he didn’t take this risk, he could look back at his life 10 years from now regretting he never took this risk.

On the sofa laptop in place cats at his feet yearning for touch

Warm summer night air invited in through fully opened windows cars speed past passersby talk in swift whispered tones

He finds words to add to a new poem some fall from his fingertips with ease others drop haltingly fishing for the right word in this first draft

like he usually does uncertain where he’s going fear to share to much, not enough thinking, thinking of the point

of why his writing this poem words battle in his mind for recognition to be chosen

to show the feeling he’s trying to capture with words on a laptop in place cats at his feet yearning for touch

He stops and strokes them they need him now

She’s sitting on a bed with a mac on her laps. Her toes are freezing even though she’s on a tropical island with the ocean in a safe distance hiding in the dark, frogs quietly perfecting their tunes, and the wind coming in and out of a little house without using the door.

Solitude. Silence. Nature. Time. She has almost everything a writer could be dreaming of.

Has she written much since she came here about a year ago? A few Facebook posts. Three probably. No. Four.

In her defense, she’s just recently discovered that ‘morning pages’ or the stream of consciousness that helps get rid of what’s obstructing the writing and is intended to be kept private just like a diary does not count as actual writing. Who knew?!

Plus she was busy with work. The work she loves. And can conveniently hide behind.

And often times it just felt pointless. Someone else surely wrote about the things she wanted to write already. Or will write about it very soon. And better than her.

And doesn’t she need to learn more, understand more, become more, better, enough to write the book she wants?

She also had to finish reading yet another book about creativity, sincerely wishing it was longer. Or endless. And read more about writing. And how all the above and below should be solved by a simple motion of typing word after word, sentence after sentence, otherwise known as writing.

This evening all she wanted to do was write. But then she had to find the log-in details (that haven’t been used for two years) to the unfinished online course on how to create a blog that makes a difference. And think about a perfect topic. And a WordPress theme. Just to kill that urge to write. Something. NOW. Nobody would read that blog anyway with the plentitude of brilliant ones out there to choose from.

Maybe she’s not that passionate about writing after all. She could definitely survive without it. She could keep updating the list of things she wants to write about and share, and keep exploding about not doing that on those private pages that will never be shared.

She would survive. But would she thrive? Another year might be given for her to find out.

She puts her headphones in as she types away on her laptop. The music drowns out her problems and the writing washes away her pain. A cold cup of coffee sits beside her, but it’s been long forgotten as she absorbs herself in the lyrics that were made to speak to her hurting ears. She imagines the life of her characters and fantasizes about slipping into her precious books and never coming back to reality.

The messy kitchen that surrounds her is suffocating and she thinks of just walking out of the house and starting a new life somewhere else. Her mind is in a million and three places all at once. Right now, all her mind is filled with is the fantasies of her dreams and the music that calms her soul.

Her frizzy, curly, brown hair is in a messy bun and her brown eyes sparkle with inspiration. Her mind has doubts about society finding her pretty and talented, but the writer in her has a different personality and she has a confidence in her that only comes through in her writing.

As she sits in school, her headphones have been banned and the only writing she does is equations and the answers to problems that are not her own. She watches the other people and envies their happiness. Everyday’s a struggle not to snap under the pressure of having straight A’s and expectations that her shoes are too small to fill. Day to day this is the same feeling, the same agony.

Someone changes her though. When she’s around this person, the pain fades and not a keyboard in sight, her problems are forgotten and the headphones she so often turns to are abandoned as she embraces this person. True happiness can be seen in her eyes, but of course this is just another fantasy that will fade as quickly as the door is shut and she once again is left in the messy kitchen with her writing and headphones.

She always has a smile on her face. Sometimes it’s real and sometimes it’s not. The truth is that, deep inside, she’s a warrior. Her head is a battelfield. One might think she’s always optimistic, like her life is a musical where a happy tune is playing in the background. But no. She’s constantly at war with her mind, struggling with keeping her innocence intact. She likes to think of the world as an ocean. But she’s not fooled by it’s beauty. She knows very well that the ocean isn’t such a scary place if one’s solely observing it from the shore. She knows she’s not brave enough, not strong enough. She knows she can’t dive in, even in her wildest dreams. So she lays there, on the burning sand, watching the sunset, thinking about love, as if she were in a fairytale. Thinking about reality terrifies her. Thinking that there’s a world out there where only few know happiness makes her want to stay forever in her little happy place where people desperately get out of the ocean looking for someone to make them see the good in the world again. And the fact that she hopes to be that someone, for any stranger who’s struggling with life, makes her who she is. And that’s why she makes it a point to put a smile on her face and laugh, no matter what war she’s in.

A very real scenario a lot of us will identify with

She always has a smile on her face. Sometimes it’s real and sometimes it’s not. The truth is that, deep inside, she’s a warrior. Her mind is a battlefield. One might think she’s always optimistic, like her life is a musical where a happy tune is playing in the background. But no. She’s constantly at war with herself, struggling with keeping her innocence intact. She likes to think of the world as an ocean. But she’s not fooled by its beauty. She knows very well that the ocean isn’t such a scary place if one’s solely observing it from the shore. She knows she’s not brave enough, not strong enough. She knows she can’t dive in, even in her wildest dreams. So she lays there, on the burning sand, watching the sunset, thinking about love, as if she were in a fairytale. Thinking about reality terrifies her. Thinking that there’s a world out there where only few know happiness makes her want to stay forever in her little happy place where people desperately get out of the ocean looking for someone to make them see the good in the world again. And the fact that she hopes to be that someone, for any stranger who’s struggling with life, makes her who she is. And that’s why she makes it a point to put a smile on her face and laugh, no matter what war she’s in.

He sat staring in to the laptop screen. It’s dull light painting his face a subtle shade of cyan. Was it dull though? Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the afternoon sun streaming its heat in through the three wide windows behind him, in his bedroom, was just too bright. Everything was relative. None of it constant. He realized as his fingers, now slightly oily with sweat, drew circles on the touchpad and traced the edges of the black ‘accutype’ keys. Sweat was trickling down his forehead too, forming droplets on his thick eyebrows, dampening them and blurring his vision. He didn’t wipe them off with the handy towel he kept nearby, as was his custom. Let the heat burn this sickly feeling inside of me, he thought.

He couldn’t think of any other way to get rid of the feeling. What had he done? He had said his good byes to her. That’s what he had done. That’s what he had accomplished with his morning. Ended something that had kept him human and alive for a year. He had destroyed something he might have on this very day, in the previous year, sworn to keep true forever. Why had he done it? The flurry of strong, sharp, pointed reasons that had left his quiver of logic and pierced the bond that tied them together, seemed flaccid now. Strangely impotent. Was he happy now? He could tell that if only he could feel his heart. It had gone silent, and numb.

The blinking cursor on the white screen gave him no comfort. Write! His head screamed at him breaking the silence. Write something! Let it out!

What would he write about? Every word seemed to form around her, framing themselves around her face and her smile.

Find something else to write about.

Look it up. Find a prompt. He finally moves and the fingers that were caressing the plastic keys before him, began to press them with vague intent taking shape in him. Find a prompt, he thought, wiping the droplets of sweat hanging from his brow, and trickling down his face. Let it out…

She keeps biting her nails. And she doesn’t know why she just cant quit this disgusting habit. Disgusting. Do you really write it like that? She doesn’t remember. Its already 5oclock in the afternoon and she still is in her pjamas, too lazy to even get off the couch and get a glass of water, she is much too comfortable. She feels ok, but the rainy day outside makes it hard for her not to think about negative things, like her break up and the fact that she hasn’t written for such a long time. She even forgot how to use the keyboard properly. Why did she quit? Was it because of him? Maybe he wasn’t encouraging enough? Too full of himself as a writer? That he made her feel like she isn’t good enough? No. He did a lot of things wrong, but not this. It all comes to herself and her lack of self confidence. What happened now? What changed? She did. She is herself again, because it all depends on her. How she feels, how she behaves, how she speaks. Its kind of like karma. What goes around comes around. She hates cliches, but its true. If you don’t love yourself, who will love you truely in the end of the day? If you don’t believe in the story you are telling, how can you expect others to fully believe it?

She is too lazy for everything, or maybe not lazy but too scared. Scared of trying, scared of losing, of disappointment. Maybe thats why she keeps biting her nails, doesn’t even try to quit it, because she knows that she will not be strong enough and start it again anyway. But you know what they say, if you don’t try you will always wonder why. Another cliche. But thats why right now she is writing, because she doesn’t want to be the one to not even try. Who knows, maybe putting her fingers on top of the keyboard instead of in her mouth, might even help her to overcome that disgusting habit. She still doesn’t remember how you write that word, and she is still too lazy to look it up.

He sits in a dimly lit room, typing on a dimly lit laptop. He is lost in himself and lost in the world. He finds himself lost in a maze he doesn’t understand the dimension of. Up is darkness and left is melancholy. But he still types.

He has always been numb. He has always been detached. He was ok with how it was before. He is a thinker. Once a problem presents itself he decides right then whether to pursue it or to wipe it from his consciousness. But he knows he can’t wipe The Question away.

The Question is why he has always read. He hopes to find a glimpse of an answer. He doesn’t have any other choice. Someone else must have had The Question before. Therefore, there must be instructions or directions or a fucking path to follow to lead to an answer. But he has come up short. 21 years of searching and he has only just grasped the simplicity of The Question.

“Who am I?”

It haunts him. It lies behind every word, underneath every step, and right at the edge of his vision. He sees the world as nothing but a mirror by which he can maybe hold fully catch a true glimpse of the answer. Before high school, books were the mirror. Then it was that hurricane of a woman. Now it is in friends and maybe just maybe he won’t need a mirror for much longer.

But it is hard work. To drown but to hold off on getting help. To suffer but to refuse to ask the pain to stop. He knows the answer to The Question is in these experiences. He writes for the same reason he once read.

Hopefully the answer arrives soon. Treading water isn’t easy.

Really well written. I find this so easy to follow a see the growing emotions and battles.

He;s sitting quite content in a sense. Throughout turmoil being anything but rare state of mind. As he sits here computer in lap writing, he feels home again. Trying to chase various paths of life throughout the past couple years, yet always knowing in the back of his head that he will end up home. Writing. Doing what he has always truly loved since he first discovered it in elementary school. Funny thing is; he discovers this in the most humorous way, at his best friends house, regardless of the fact that he is 2000 miles away at school. His best friends name is Andrew, and he goes to school in Colorado. Andrews house was always the 2nd home in his life. Single mom, raising 3 kids Andrew being the oldest. The boy on the bed, yeah over here *waving*[trying to use imagery], he on the other hand is home from school taking part time classes after being a full time student for the past 2 and a half years. You see, he was in a dark place for a while. Lots of things going on in his life, battling unhealthy relationship with long-time girlfriend, various family medical situations, trying to catch up on sleep from being a student-athlete with a rigorous schedule constantly. On top of all that he is being told these will be the best times of my life, yet all he feels is a cloud of depression over his head glooming larger and larger as the day goes on. Throughout all this, he decided it was best to come home for the semester. He has had a lot of time on his hands; a lot of support from his one and only woman he will ever need in his life, his mother. The true best friend. He has come to realize a lot of things about life. Life is what you make it, there’s only so much opportunity out there that you have to be willing to put the work to achieve your true goals. The right people relationship wise will come to him. All he needs is his family of five sisters and one brother with two loving parents behind his back. He can achieve anything he wants. Throughout the past couple days, he had a chance to think very deeply. He decided he’s going to attend college to play lacrosse, while majoring in business with a minor in some sort of english or writing. He feels like this is the right thing for him to do. He is very personable, and feels he can excel in the business world by day and by night take care of his body, be athletic, and destress and by night doing what he loves most, writing. And heck, if he ends up being good at it and maybe pursue a career in that path, then screw it. Life is what you make of it, you have to do what feels right, and what truly at the end of the day put a smile on your face and make you happy.

Her Bed is made. That’s a change. It isn’t always. For once she made it. She dared to tame unruly blankets that had twisted and tangled themselves throughout the night. Confined to her room, quarantine self imposed, she lay on her neatly made bed. Propping her head up on pillows she angled her laptop to just the right angle for bearable squinting. Her glasses were annoyingly smudged, but un-cleanable on the black Batman t-shirt she wore. She gave them a once over. Better than they were before, good enough, she pushed them onto her face. There. Comfortable.

She sighs. What is she doing anyway? Music plays over the internet radio. There is so much passing through her mind that the firewall is up to keep the virus from corrupting essential programming. So far high functioning. So far so good. Processing power is diverted to essential tasks, managing the menial necessities. Depression is a daily deviant she fights.

Around 15 minutes long:

She sits on a soft and cushioned couch, legs close together, eyes staring at an electronic screen of white and light. A glass of water rests close by. In her mind, words gush forth like a national gyser, and her hands shake with excitement on top of the black keyboard keys. She could already imagine the clickity-clack sounds they make after each of her fingers’ caress.

She clicks her tongue, and carefully navigates the keyboard, placing each fingure on a well travelled path. Usually, she does so with confidence, joyfully skimming the web and dreaming of a future of transformation and delight.

Today, she tilts her head and clucks her teeth, straightens her back, and glares. She glares at the notepad from left to right, tilting her head to and fro. Her toes start fidgeting, and she moves her knees up and down, as she searches her house for inspiration.

She sighs, and blinks. The cursor blinks back. She cradles the mouse carefully in her hands, preparing to place a few words to look at.

“Come on,” she thinks. “I can do this!”

She types one word, “She”, then another. And it seems as if she has finally broken through the dam holding her vocabulary hostage. Then she stops, and takes a look at her work.

After what has felt like weeks of travel from one country to another she sits looking out of a huge floor to ceiling window at the undulating tropical ocean. Despite the air con, the room feels warm and the air close. After a fortnight on European shores yearning for the heat on her back the unerringly grey and stormy weather has put a dampener on her mood. Whenever she feels like this, she reminds herself of how many people would give their right arm to be living in a tropical island paradise, but on days like today its hard not to remember the laughter, ease and shared history of familiar faces back home.

Man’s best friend commands her attention by snuggling his face on the seat in front of her. He misses his Daddy and with only one human in the house today to look after him he’s insistent on commanding her full attention. His eyes wonder to his ball. The intention is clear, “Play with me then?”. A game ensues of ‘throw and fetch’. She’s amused that he hasn’t quite mastered bringing the ball back; he takes it back to his bed each time then pushes it slightly with his foot and draws her eye as if willing her to take action through his glance.

Her thoughts wonder to the feelings this furry friend stirs inside her: maternal instinct. Is it a desire that will ever be fulfilled? Does she even want to disturb the calm freedom with which they lead their lives? Maybe nature should decide. Is that selfish or human nature she wonders?

As her mind fogs with the racing of thoughts inside her head, she hears a gentle snoring from the furry mound on the floor. Life is so simple for him she thinks, maybe they should both take a leaf out of their pet’s book and stop thinking too far ahead. “ Enjoy the moment”, she thinks and smiles to herself as she remembers how many times an online article has advised her to do just that.

I’m so alone. I thought death would bring me peace but instead it is a constant torment. I thought finally after all my pain and suffering I could have an endless sleep, an infinity of nothingness. But no. I’m stuck, forever here to watch drones get married, start families, fall in love… Why am I here? What did I do to endure this suffering? I’ve been here for centuries. Watched the decimation of my family line, the rape of my sister, murder of my father, things I probably would have been able to prevent if I was there.

It’s so lonely here on the other side, I haven’t spoken a word out loud for almost 80 years. Because what’s the point? The worst thing about it is being able to see everyone progress and not being able to interact with them, or maybe the inability to have someone touch love and care for you. It’s just nothingness.

Live your life to the fullest as this is what is in store for you, an eternity of torture and torment, oh well.

She is restless. Sitting in front of a computer monitor trying to contain a lifetime in 15 minutes. Trying to squeeze in a few words a life that was lived and a life that wasn’t. Her heart can’t contain it, her mind can’t, her room can’t contain it either. How could then a few words do it?

She is writing about the hope that is renewed as the dawn is re-birthed every day. The faith that hasn’t yet seen it all. About her real self that is yet to be manifested in a whole new way as she is becoming more and more who she was born to be.

The pictures on the wall remind her of the special moments she has lived. The sleeping man next to her reminds her of all that is yet to be lived. The silent hot night is just one of the many that she has lived; yet it is special. She can hear it whisper to her : “you are blessed”.

He woke up in the morning, and looked up at the damp patch in the corner of the room. He then wondered who was going to show up on this day, would it be white lightning, or the green eyed monster. White lightning was the mad wild white stallion that he was trying to break in, he is attempting to get a saddle and reins on this wild horse, but white lightning is a feisty beast, and doesn’t like to be controlled. But given time, he hopes that they can learn to respect one another, and white lightning won’t give him to much of a bumpy ride.

He knows that there will be times when he will loose control of the wild horse, and loose grip of the reins, and fall off. But he hopes that with help from his family, he can stand back up, and dust himself off, with only a few minor cuts and bruises. He hasn’t named the green eyed monster, as he doesn’t want to be familiar with him. This beast turns up unannounced, and at anytime, night or day. He was doing so well riding white lightning, and he was approaching the finish line, when the monster showed up, and ripped the reins from his hands. This is how he describes what it’s like living with bipolar disorder.

This mental state of hers is deteriorating, falling apart as she types. Another pretty face taken for granted, and lost in a wonderland of words. Only sure about one thing, she is alone. Alone because she pushes them away, the human race. She picks up a book and is lost again. She reads to escape this world, and writes to turn it into something else. Looking close, while she grips this pencil in her hand, a familiar feeling, it shakes. If you trace her fingers to her arm you see the cuts that bury deep into her wrist and forearm. Three months have passed and they have only faded a little. If only you could see into her body, you would notice the crack in her rip cage, and the collapsed lung that threatened to take her life two years ago. But the only visible scars from that night lie among her face, busted cheeks and scarred temple. Bruises long gone. Her shoulders start to cave with the weight of her mothers relapse, her dads disappearance and reappearance, death following her in every step along the way. She made her peace with him, why can’t he make his peace with her. People threaten to take her life and he said no. She tried to take her own and he said no. Begging to put her out of her misery. Wondering if she is here for a reason. Only time will tell.

Every form of creating is an escape, from what she still doesn’t know. She’ happy, mostly, even though she knows she shouldn’t be. There is a weird sadness and yet poetic justice about her situation. Moved from one entrapment to another, never sure which is worse. Yet here she is, still smiling and laughing because that’s all that she can do. To say she find’s this world disturbing is pushing it a bit far. There is a lot in this world she finds beautiful and there is so much to be happy about. Overly emotional and a weirdo in her own right, that’s what she is growing to accept. People come and go in her life, she watches her own life progress as if she is an on looker for things her body says and does without her permission. There have been so many late nights where she sits up cringing over thing’s she’s said and done anywhere from 2 minutes ago to 18 years ago. That in itself making her cringe. There are those around her, her friends and peers that she sees changing, being so different from who they used to be. So many of them posting their lives on social media, filling up folder after folder of selfie and fun yet hers lay bare, the latest upload 3 months ago of raspberries on her fingers because they looked like people. The childish curiosity and amusement still there. She sees all the statuses, while she sits on the sidelines of everyone else’s life, as pathetic as that is, and watches as they post how dweeb-y they USED to be and here she is, unable to say those words because the truth be told, she still is. Her weird, erratic behavior covering the scars and loathing. A volatile concoction of bitterness, love and naivety. The happy mess she’s made her life.

The same wind that scattered the leaves outside accompanied by the sounds of a passing train fills the room accented by the crisp fall air. The vibrant aroma of a fresh cup of coffee seemed to have extricated itself from the thick, cream coating over the surface, penetrating deep into his nose, watering his mouth. He craved the subtle undertone of caramel, and his cup showed a festive color. He wraps his fingers around it, enjoying the heat spreading through his hands. But without a conscious thought, it is in his hand, and the first milky sip creeps over his taste buds and down his throat. After only a few minutes he is bathed in the kick of the caffeine.

With cookies and candy nearby, he begins typing on his computer. At first his thoughts flow free and smooth like a quiet stream. But after twenty minutes or so his creative thought process hits a road block. He turns to his outline he made only minutes before hoping for more creative words. Checking the online timer he still has about ten minutes before the planned time runs out.

He has a to do list perched on his desk to serve as a reminder to stay on task. He loads some of his favorite mood music on his computer into his headset. The creative center of his brain stimulated by the music provides him with the visual and emotional thoughts he now types onto the page. Words begin to flow more freely and faster. Soon paragraphs, even chapters are written. Lost in his own world he can feel, taste, and experience every nuance his characters are experiencing.

As he types, the deep emotional thoughts translate onto the page bringing his characters to life. The timer runs out indicating a red flashing message on his screen. He stops typing. While taking a break, he reads the words his mind had provided him.

His eyes tear up as he reads what he created realizing the beauty of the words. Reading them aloud almost brings them to life.

If only he could enter that world.

She was the type of girl who was loud and outgoing. Her curly smokey brown hair and dark chocolate brown eyes that everyone though was always happy. when someone would look at her she would always be smiling , as if she had no worries in the world. At least thats what people thought. She was the happiest yet the saddest person. She never knew what she felt. she once mentioned she was seeing a psychologist to help with whatever she had,that didn’t help, it just confused her more than she already was. She was alice in wonderland but in her own world. she didn’t know whether she was mad sad or happy so she just smiled the pain away. No one ever seemed to ask how she felt because they didn’t care, but when it came to them she was the one who was always there. she was an excellent student, she played sports, and was loved by her family, yet she hated herself. Why? who knows. all she knows is that she doesn’t lover herself. she wishes that she could be the perfect picture of a teenage girl that society looks for. Those curves,flat stomach, colored eyes, etc. she had extremely nice features yet she wasn’t satisfied, she didn’t like what she saw when she would look into the mirror. all she saw was a hideous girl starring back at her. she’d would wake up knowing that she would be the same girl in the mirror. she worked out everyday and ate so little to meet societies expectations, but no matter what it wasn’t good enough for her or society. Her only escape was writing and music, she couldn’t describe her feelings or thoughts, she was emotionally and mentally muted. she would talk about anything and everything except herself. she doesn’t feel loved , she feels as if shell never be good enough for anyone or that no one will ever see her for who she truly is. On the outside she’s beautiful, smart, funny, outgoing etc. yet on the inside there is the ugly part of her that consumes her more and more everyday, she was sinking into a dark hole that no one knew about. she would take pills that would make her feel good, she would smoke pot and eat edibles, it didn’t complete her. she’s missing something that completes her but what could it be? Love? Attention? she doesn’t even know the answer to that, all she wants is to be left alone but at the same time she wants to be happy, she doesn’t want to portray to be something she’s not. She’s tired of it! She wants to be set free and be that little girl that everyone knew she was, she doesn’t want to be this rotten 16 year old girl. Her mother always tried to figure her out but she never got anywhere because she would never try to talk to anyone. Instead of talking to someone she goes to sleep or goes to work out. Her body says one thing yet her mind and soul say another. She is searching for ways to communicate through her actions yet no one understands her complexity, but thats what makes her who she is. Her complexity of emotions and mentality make her beautiful.

She sits on her couch. Goes for the remote to watch news. News is not her kind of thing but today she needs to watch. She feels the urge to see what’s happening to the world. How can she be so interested today in news? She asks herself. Deep down, she is scared. Not sure of what to do with her life. She has just finished campus and does not know what life ahead has in store for her. All she is sure of is that she wants the best life. She doesn’t want to look back and regret one day. As she sits there, she sees this cockroach just fumbling around her living room. It hits her that she has dirty utensils. Utensils from the previous day. Nothing nags her than doing the utensils but does she have an option? She let’s go the thought and picks her phone to call her little brother to see how he is doing. As she goes through her contacts, her phone vibrates..she looks, it is her boyfriend calling to ask her to meet up tomorrow they need to talk. What is it that he wants to talk about? What had she done? This freaked her out. The nervous feeling inside her does not allow her to watch the television in peace. She walks to her bedroom, lies down and lets the night slip away..

She always remembered herself listening to music. By now she pinned it down to the fact that she dreaded being alone. It wasn’t fear of the dark or any other shady thing that might be luring in dark corners, she had her own personal demons to keep her entertained. Those vengeful entities with such free will but no sense of boundaries that kept reaching out to gradually more sacred and untouched parts of herself. No music in the world could stop them today. The turntable was whistling jazz tunes and coffee was bubbling on the stove-top. She looked outside the window and the sharp stillness felt like failure. She felt the failures she’d experienced and all the failures yet to come weighing down on her. All those opportunities she’d missed and all of those she’d never gotten. Why? What was she afraid of? For one, she was afraid of answering that question.

He sits in his newly-furnished living room. Alone, as always. Of course, this is a burden that he has always bestowed upon himself. He could not be lonely, people like him enough. But nevertheless he is alone. Perhaps subconsciously, for his consciousness constantly dreads it, this is the way that he wants it to be. He silently types out his “creative” piece, only listening to the conversation within his mind and the only-occasional clicking of keys. You see, he wants to be a writer; ever since he was a small child he has dreamed of touching people’s hearts in the way that his heart has never been touched. A weird sentence? Yes, but truthful nonetheless. He has always had a sort of appreciation for the art of creative writing and reading, an appreciation that grew into a desire, not a desire to entertain but more of a desire to awe people, to make them think. Unfortunately, his laziness is the only thing that has ever stopped him from achieving his own potential. He certainly will never be the person who bows down to society and proceeds to lick it’s sweaty, fungus-ridden puss-covered toes but the least he can do, he thinks to himself, is work so that he eventually will not have to. There has always been this game he has played in his head. One where he writes something that is truly phenomenal, a piece that nobody in their right minds would ever dare to pass up, and then he shows it to a teacher or professor, somebody with power. Of course, they would be so impressed by it that they rush out of their office or classroom, wherever they are reading it at the time, and drive straight to their friend Steve-The-Editor’s house and he is so impressed by it that he immediately bestows a book deal upon the boy and he makes it big. Within two years time, he is talking movie-deals, daily interviews, widespread acclaim and above all else, a more than ideal living situation. But instead, the boy just sits alone in his newly-furnished living room, thinking of his glory-days and all they are meant to be.

An Exorcism

He listened to the audio tape, wandering idly in this crypt, that extended under the Parisian bedrock-the ossuary giving the city a foundation of bones. “This historic place was originally a quarry, a place where stone was dug…” He ignored it, too focused on exploring. He was not usually like this, but there was a difference lurking in his actions, something strong, something elemental, something overpowering. Fear-He was scared, not of the grinning skulls that littered this labyrinth, nor of the musky scent of the already decomposed skulls and bones, not even of the long narrow corridors, and leaking pipes.

He feared what the skulls implied; they were identical, forgotten, alone, and He prayed for them. For everything has a past, an origin, and with any beginning comes an end. With that realization He prayed. This time for himself. For his beginning was known, but his end, that was uncertain. Would He end forgotten, alone, indistinguishable, an enigma, from the rest, in the eternal conformity of death?

With these thoughts relentlessly agonizing him, He slowed, his extensional crisis not yet resolved, instead looming over him, in an insidious invasion. He felt meaningless, after all, without humanity the sun would still shine, space would still expand, and the mantle would still convect. What was the worth? Why were they here? What was life if not an exercise in futility? These Toxic thoughts pained his soul, and He could find no answer-no reason for his self-importance in the face of these fears and questions. It seems fitting that in a place of death, these questions haunted him.

He felt alone, until He looked at his family, and thought of his friends, and in a flash of realization, his blindness to the beauty of humanity lifted, and He remembered. He remembered the beauty of our endurance, dauntless in the face of a hostile world, a species that rose from the bottom of the food chain to the ones that create it. A race that when faced with nature’s wrath, they rebuild, and repopulate in the exact same places. Using the god-given tool of innovation, to create a society that links the world together. Rising above all that burdened them until they were smart and resilient enough to ask these questions.

With that, He realized that the answer to his crisis was in the company of his fellow man. He wouldn’t die as a nobody, because the people He loved would remember him. His life had barely begun, He had an opportunity-no a gift-to make an impact, and to change the world. With that his demons had been exorcised, that in an odd juxtaposition, his restoration of hope, occurred in a place of sadness, mouring, and death. But He supposed, that is the nature of humanity, finding inspiration in the oddest places.

He was lying in his bed, listening to the voice of newspaper flickering through the wind of ceiling fan. He was tired and having a sever headache. But was determined to learn how to write since he is very close to giving an entrance for a college. When I talk about his frame of mind, he is very scared, someone who has a confidence with a sense of doubt – “Will I be able to achieve this?”. He thinks and longs for sleeping, but there is a burning sensation, a desire, a goal that keeps him awake during the nights, gives him a typical of 4 hours of sleep every night. After all, what keeps him alive is the what kills him the most – desire to achieve success.

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know where else to go, who to tell or who even to trust. So he panicked. Without a second to think, he quickly grabbed the phone out of Uncle Jack’s coat pocket and dialed 9-1-1. The phone hardly rang before a operator answered. ” 9-1-1 what’s your emergency?” “Yes! can you please send medical help to 123 Main Street, my uncle has been shot and he’s not responding! There’s blood, a shit load of blood, everywhere.” he cried. After, he ended the call, quickly wiped the phone clean of any fingerprints and placed the phone in a wooden drawer near the closet.

She sits alone at a desk, a dual-monitor computer flickering lazily in front of her as she scrolls through websites online. Her eyes are tired, for such a young soul. She has had enough. The dark circles under her eyes made her seem like an infant panda, or possibly a raccoon, and no matter how much makeup she used she could never quite rid herself of them.

Often, she finds herself wandering aimlessly in her own mind; the mind itself seemingly a vast expanse of intrigue and wonder. Thoughts can linger for hours, or disappear as quickly as they come into being. After a while, she often forgets herself in her thoughts and lets time pass her by.

The stress of exams lingers over her, a hovering overlord dooming her to fail. She, however, ignores it. With a wave of her pen, she writes facts and figures to remember for the next day. A flicker of her weary eyes across a page gives her a sense of reassurement as she realises she knows more than she once thought.

The clock ticks seven. Her revision session is over. She is content and prepared, even if she looks physically exhausted.

She wakes up every morning at six o’clock sharp. Not a little bit more nor less. She likes doing that,even if its not a school morning or a day necessary for her to wake up so early. She thinks by doing that, she can catch up with time and run alongside it, not behind. She’ll sleep very late at night and wake up with the sun, a constant routine she’s careful not to break. Afraid that if she did, one precious hour will passed without her enjoying her favorite youtube channels, usually talking about different psychology topics or the meaning of her birth chart explained by amateur astrologers. She likes the silence that comes with the early morning, when everyone in her family is still asleep. For a moment, she knows that she’s safe, with only the sun and sounds of someone speaking through her iphone screen or sometimes, just her own thoughts ringing in her ears like small bells reminding her that she’s alive and all the reasons why she should be glad of that. Breathing in and out, opening and closing her eyes, a small smile tugged at her lips, and birds singing, vaguely signaling that a new day is approaching.

He is sitting in the separate room as a study room .He looks joyful remembering his family, his child and of course his parents too. Even he tries to ignore the some cuts he received in his fresh battle with his spouse. As he is somehow determine to overcome by this. Now again the question which makes him vociferous is what to do.. It is very long time ago now as he remembers his old work job. Because there is nothing credibility left in that concern or by that job. As it is morning time,he has to do some rituals but completing some more sentences. Of course he is now determined man. who has seen all gritty petty of life. He tries to answer his questions then why he is sitting ideal.

She sits back in the same seat she always sits in at 1:10pm. She scans the room around her. “What am I doing here?” she questions herself. “I belong somewhere bigger, better, faster.. most importantly more creative.” She begins to think of everything she’s ever been through and then moves onto thinking about everything she deserves. This girl had been through hell and back and never really seems to get a break. In her 7th grade year she was told that she needed to move to a house almost 20 miles away from her whole life, not extremely far.. But it was a lot for a 12 year old. There was something revealed about her parents. They were addicts. They were addicted to the effects that heroin gave them. The way it made them feel, but they realized they needed help and there was only one place their child could go and still have some sort of way to go back and forth to her school that she couldn’t just drop. Her heart dropped to her stomach every time she ever started to think about the place she was sent. She felt sick of everything she’d been through because she fears every day she’ll have to go back. The girl was sent to her aunt’s house. Sounds all great and family oriented until you realize the way she was treated and what she had to go through. When she first stepped foot into the home that she would live in for the next 6 months, she felt ery. She cried herself to sleep for a majority of the nights spent in the basement of their home. She contemplating ending her life more than once but she continued to hold on, “For mom,” she would remind herself, “Stay Strong for mom” She paced around the basement trying to figure out how to get out of her hell on earth. She was treated as a red headed step child… some would even call it a life like cinderella. She was told to make a meal once a day for the people she was staying with. She had family counselors that would come to the house and speak with her, they would find any way to possibly help her. She was in the deepest depression… nothing seemed to pull her out from the dark depths she had entered. Now the day she was taken out of the home was the most traumatic experience she had encountered. “TWO WORDS. THANK. YOU.” These words rang through her head to this day. Her aunt screamed these words at her whilst in a family counseling session. She now struggles keeping herself together everytime someone raises their voice even in the slightest bit directed towards her. Her body trembles occasionally throughout the course of her life due to these events. She doesn’t remember breathing this day. She just remembers crying and balling herself up for self protection. She was rushed into the basement to collect what she could grab. “You are the most ungrateful, disrespectful, selfish kid I’ve ever met!” The young girl still thinks about herself like this. She takes one look in the mirror. Disrespectful. Selfish. Not good enough.. This is what she sees. New things have been added to the ways she sees herself because her self esteem was destroyed. Ugly. Untalented. Rude. Broken. That word… Broken. There was no way to unsee this word written across her forehead. She never thought she would be able to be loved again. After she left her aunt’s house she moved from one house to the other of her family. She was moved to another aunt’s house, this time her mom was with her. Her mom had to leave the recovery house she was staying in because the broken hearted girl wasn’t able to keep herself together anymore after the horrifying memories that blocked her state of mind. After a few months they were asked to leave there as well, due to having a relationship with her father. He was also a recovering addict and wasn’t the best with keeping his old ways under keeps. He had stolen about 200 dollars in change from the woman who allowed his girlfriend and daughter to stay. They moved forward from this and the young girls grandmother allowed them to enter her home. At this time in her life she was about 13 now. Her mother was diagnosed with an unknown disease that caused her brain to swell. Her mom fell back into a deep depression and the only way she knew how to cope with this was to begin using again. She was constantly in and out of the hospital and her young daughter struggled with the idea that she had no clue what could happen to her mom. Eventually she was released and all was well, except that fact that they were sooner than later kicked out of this home they were staying in as well. Her heart broke. She wasn’t good enough, her mind flew to the conclusion that her family didn’t love her. Hate grew in her heart. She began to come off as hard and unloving. Her heart looked black. She didn’t feel anything anymore. She definitely believed no one would love her anymore. Here comes the part where we fast forward 2 years. She falls in love with a boy she never thought she would even have noticed. She fell in love with not only this boy but his family, his heart, his looks, and his interests. He put on the cover of loving her more than anything. She opened her heart to the boy, she gave him everything. Near the end of the relationship she gave him her body, her heart, her soul and her mind. He was the first boy she’s ever gave these things to. She valued herself more than expected and took these things very seriously. But not long after she did this he decided it was time for things to come to an end. She never saw this coming… she had planned so far in advance for them. She started planning for next year, next summer, their one year. She truly believed that he was the one to help her through everything. He lightened up her life in ways that hadn’t been lit up in years. She found herself in a dark space again. She didn’t really understand why it hurt her so bad to have her heart broke over and over again. Her mind told her this would become a normal thing. The broken girl never really stops being broken right?

At the moment, she was worried. It felt like everything was all too much and not enough at the same time, and it was overwhelming in a way that was seemingly impossible to explain. She was sitting in a chair with ugly red flowers sewed onto a grey fabric, and she was contemplating her life. It felt like so much had already happened, but there was still more to come. It was an exciting thought, but it was also what was frighting her. She had everything planned. A college acceptance letter was tacked onto her wall above her bed; her future was ready to begin. She would attend an unreasonably expensive school, live in mediocre dorms with a room mate she feared she would hate, but she would survive. The college wasn’t far from home, so any time she felt her sanity slip she knew her mother was only a twenty minute drive away. Her mother could always help her clear her mind, and she knew within the next couple of years, she was bound to need plenty of clearing. College wouldn’t be easy. She would be working on her writing, investing herself into the one thing she truly loved, even though she knew it was a bad idea. That this tacit rarely worked, and it rarely worked for people like her. People with so much doubt in themselves that the feel that maybe everything would just be easier if they gave up and did something smarter. Maybe she could do something easier with her life. Major in math, like she always thought she would, maybe become the veterinarian she had dreamed herself to be for so many years before she got it in her head that she wanted to be a writer. Still, as she considers quitting on her dream and doing something that would be more successful in the future, she can’t ignore that fact that she wouldn’t be happy in any other life. She’s passionate about writing, more passionate about creating her own words than reading others, and this is saying something because she can often be found hiding somewhere with a book in her hands, ignoring f all of the responsibilities of high school and life. She wishes that it would be easy to get where she wants to go, but she knows it won’t be, and all she can do is hope that she can keep her doubt at bay for long enough to do something amazing, because she knows she can. But she doesn’t know if shes strong enough for that. Strong enough to ignore the world and all the judgmental people in it who are trying to hold her back. Doesn’t know if she can ignore herself for that long. This is what scares her. Herself. So she sits in her ugly chair and prays that she doesn’t get in her own way of changing the world with her own words.

Behind a desk loaded with papers, she sits in an office chair looking anywhere but at those files waited to be sorted through. She wonders, ‘How much paper would it take to completely barricade me into this office I despise? Could I stop my boss from popping in periodically if I flooded this room with papers, making it impossible to open the door without risking a paper cut frenzy?’ She wouldn’t mind the paper cuts if it meant more autonomy and less need for these useless details depicted on every form. She sips her coffee, which the receptionist brewed too strong (again) and will surely cause a queasy stomach as she taps fingers and feet, hoping to make 5 o’clock come more quickly. Coffee is no time machine though – merely a morning ritual which always seems like a comfort until she’s at the bottom of the cup, realizing it actually brought her almost no comfort at all. ‘Oh well’. she thinks. ‘Maybe tomorrow’s cup will help the time pass faster.’ And yet time passes at the same rate it always has, ticking away her life, file by file, cup by cup.

Eleven Years Ago They make it seem like a past can just be forgotten. They don’t truly realize what it really was like. Smoke. Silence. Constant pain and fear. Hungers of a child compel her out of the safety of the closet. Creeping past the slumbering Bringer of Agony and Rare Love, she trips over imagined escapes. Scouring the kitchen, she looked for something – or anything to eat. But a roar of the mother’s wrath interrupted her anxious search. A fist met her stormy blue eye. Cries of confusion and agony echo in the sparse and bare apartment. She falls face first into the cruddy, grey shag carpet, fresh cigarette butts singing her cheekbones. She whimpers like a kicked puppy, trying her hardest to not let The Woman see her tears carving canyons down her pale freckled face. She knows this to be her life, and that it will never change. At the tender age of five, she already knew that her mother couldn’t and wouldn’t love her, and each day will follow like the one before it. Abuse would’ve been her eternity. But she also did not know of hope. She didn’t realize that the unexpected can occur in the deepest, darkest of midnights. When the silver moon was just a glowing crust, the storm in her eyes brewed. A thought rose like the tide, and an idea crashed down in waves. Before her mind could rationalize the idiocy, she crawled out of the sleeping bag in the closet. The Woman had left the child alone that night, again. Grabbing her coat, shoes, and a cereal bar, she climbed out onto the steel ladder going down the five story apartment complex. Her footfalls made little to no noise as she clambered clumsily. A tomcat yowled and hid when she stepped out onto the pavement. She looked both ways. The stars winked mischievously as she disappeared down the unknown alleyway, escaping from the frying pan and into the great and terrible fire itself.

Now She sat in her creative writing class. Creative non – fiction, huh? Sounded interesting. She recalled the stolen file hidden under her mattress. She knew she was adopted. Her parents knew that at seven years old, she was bound to remember something and thus didn’t keep it a secret. But they also never gave her any details. They say they really never knew the background of the little blonde child they opened up their arms for. It wasn’t until she was older that she recalled memories of eating rotten apples and discarded, half eaten sandwiches in the darkness. She remembered grey shag carpets, and a ripped sleeping bag in a tiny closet. Images that she couldn’t have imagined on her own began sprouting up from nowhere. She didn’t dare tell her parents. They always assumed her overactive imagination tended to skew her version of reality. They thought they knew better than to trust her words. So just the other day, when her parents were gone, she poked around in her dad’s office looking for the keys to the intimidating file cabinet prowling in the corner. She didn’t believe that her parents were as ignorant as they portrayed themselves to be. Besides, when you go through a huge financial and legal change like adopting a child, don’t you usually keep records of everything? They had to be in that filing cabinet. She had shuffled around through the desk drawers and the bookshelf beside her computer. She saw a ring of little keys beside a small wicker basket filled with other random brick-a-brack. Excitedly, she tried the first key. It didn’t even insert. She heard her mom open the garage door. The second slid in easily, but refused to turn. The dogs were sitting at the laundry room door expectantly. Her heart racing, she almost dropped the keys before using the last one. Slippery like butter, it turned. The drawer popped open. Her eyes glanced at all the different files, and saw the one titled Annalia. The file was heavy, and she thrust it into her shirt. The papers felt cold and sharp against her sweaty back as her mother walked into the house, laden with groceries. “What are you doing in dad’s office?” Her mom was definitely suspicious. “I was getting printer paper for a drawing. It looks nicer than the lined notebook stuff.” She nodded. “Ok. Help unload the car please, then get started on your homework. And remember, it’s trash to the curb night, and you have to be at choir practice at 6:30…” After school that day, she plopped herself on to her bed and pulled the thick file out from under her mattress. She didn’t know what she expected to find, but this – this was something else entirely. It was a record, from the day she was introduced to the family on their doorstep in the August air, to just few days ago while she was working out at the Dojo. She read her mother’s handwriting, of every single conceivable mistake and error she made, and was picked apart and analyzed. There were even notes from some parental class she was taking, something about child development and discipline. She read every single day entry. Then behind the notebook there were medical reports dating 2001 – 08. It was a little hard reading the messy handwriting of a doctor, especially with the older technology of photocopying fading the paper. The day that she put into state custody, apparently there was a very thorough physical examination. She had purple and black bruises all along her arms and legs and stomach and back, and even rings around her neck from a chokehold. The were long red streaks, presumed by the writer as proof of a constant whipping from a belt. There was also damage to her lungs from secondhand smoking. She had three deep puncture wounds on the bottom of her left foot that were infected. She vaguely remembered crying on brick steps, holding a bloody foot and smoke curling around her tear stricken face. She was horrified. She always dreamed of finding her parents, and meeting them again. She imagined herself to be like Annie, where her parents would come back for her someday. She knew that she couldn’t just go back to live with them again, but she liked the idea of both sets of parents all sitting down at the dinner table, laughing and eating delicious food together. She could see her adoptive dad taking out the monopoly game board, and both of them having conversations about boyfriends, and moms sharing their own mother’s chocolate chip cookie recipes. Her fantasy was destroyed. That could never be. Her own mother was only thirteen years older, young enough to be an older sister. Her father went unmentioned throughout the file, as if he only existed to bring her into the world, then ceased to exist. There were also gaps. 2006 and 2007 weren’t recorded. She knew she was going to have to learn more. This file – this wasn’t enough. Her hunger for the truth to be dragged out only increased when she snuck the file back to the cabinet after making more copies of every single page. She stored her copies between the layers of spare sheets on the top shelf in her closet. They couldn’t know. Not yet. She needed to know more. This couldn’t be the end.

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

• 10 Best Creative Writing Prompts - […] See the writing prompt: Write About Yourself […]
• 100 Writing Practice Lessons & Exercises - […] Write About Yourself [writing prompt] […]
• In Which I Pretend To Be Someone Writing About Me | Medium Rare Robot!Medium Rare Robot! - […] love to write more but the prompt I based this post on called for fifteen minutes and I’m about […]

Submit a Comment Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Submit Comment

Join over 450,000 readers who are saying YES to practice. You’ll also get a free copy of our eBook 14 Prompts :

Popular Resources

Book Writing Tips & Guides Creativity & Inspiration Tips Writing Prompts Grammar & Vocab Resources Best Book Writing Software ProWritingAid Review Writing Teacher Resources Publisher Rocket Review Scrivener Review Gifts for Writers

Books By Our Writers

You've got it! Just us where to send your guide.

Enter your email to get our free 10-step guide to becoming a writer.

You've got it! Just us where to send your book.

Enter your first name and email to get our free book, 14 Prompts.

Want to Get Published?

Enter your email to get our free interactive checklist to writing and publishing a book.

• PRO Courses Guides New Tech Help Pro Expert Videos About wikiHow Pro Upgrade Sign In
• EDIT Edit this Article
• EXPLORE Tech Help Pro About Us Random Article Quizzes Request a New Article Community Dashboard This Or That Game Popular Categories Arts and Entertainment Artwork Books Movies Computers and Electronics Computers Phone Skills Technology Hacks Health Men's Health Mental Health Women's Health Relationships Dating Love Relationship Issues Hobbies and Crafts Crafts Drawing Games Education & Communication Communication Skills Personal Development Studying Personal Care and Style Fashion Hair Care Personal Hygiene Youth Personal Care School Stuff Dating All Categories Arts and Entertainment Finance and Business Home and Garden Relationship Quizzes Cars & Other Vehicles Food and Entertaining Personal Care and Style Sports and Fitness Computers and Electronics Health Pets and Animals Travel Education & Communication Hobbies and Crafts Philosophy and Religion Work World Family Life Holidays and Traditions Relationships Youth
• Browse Articles
• Learn Something New
• Quizzes Hot
• This Or That Game
• Train Your Brain
• Explore More
• Support wikiHow
• About wikiHow
• Log in / Sign up
• Education and Communications
• Autobiographies
• Personal Profiles

How to Write About Yourself

Last Updated: July 31, 2023 Fact Checked

This article was co-authored by Lucy Yeh . Lucy Yeh is a Human Resources Director, Recruiter, and Certified Life Coach (CLC) with over 20 years of experience. With a training background with Coaching for Life and Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) at InsightLA, Lucy has worked with professionals of all levels to improve the quality of their careers, personal/professional relationships, self marketing, and life balance. There are 13 references cited in this article, which can be found at the bottom of the page. This article has been fact-checked, ensuring the accuracy of any cited facts and confirming the authority of its sources. This article has been viewed 5,702,629 times.

Whether you're writing an essay about yourself for a scholarship, a self-introduction, or a personal bio for a job application, coming up with the right words to capture what makes you unique can feel challenging. Fortunately, there are tips and tricks that can make writing about yourself a breeze. Want some help getting across just how impressive, interesting, and skilled you really are? Keep reading to learn everything you need to know about putting yourself into words effectively, complete with examples.

Writing of the Autobiographical Nature

• Who are you?
• What is your background?
• What are your interests?
• What are your talents?
• What are your achievements?
• What challenges have you faced?

• What is your most interesting or unique quality? What word(s) describes you the best? Choose that topic.

• Bad: I like sports.
• Ok: I'm a fan of basketball, football, tennis, and soccer.
• Good: My favorite sport is football, both to watch and to play.
• Better: When I was growing up, I would watch Big Ten football with my dad and brothers every Saturday, before we'd go outside and toss the football around. I've loved it ever since.

• Braggy: I'm the best and most dynamic worker at my company right now, so you should want to hire me for my talents.
• Humble: I was lucky enough to be awarded three employee of the month awards at my current job. Turns out it was a company record.

Writing Personal Essays for School

• Common themes or prompts for autobiographical essays include overcoming obstacles, great successes or spectacular failures, and what you learned about yourself.

• Depending on the assignment, you may need to connect a personal anecdote to a reading or an idea from class. Start brainstorming topics that are connected to that idea, to give yourself a variety of options to choose from.

• Common autobiographical essay cliches include sports stories, mission trips, and dead grandmothers. While these can all make for excellent essays if done well, it is difficult to stand out when telling the story of how your lacrosse team lost a big game, then practiced hard, then won. It has been written before.

• If you want to tell the story of your nasty break-up, start with the break-up, do not start with the star-crossed way you met. You have got to get immediately to the tension in the story.

• When you have an idea of your topic, start writing a "memory list" of specific things that you remember about the event. What was the weather like? What did it smell like? What did your mother say to you?
• Your opening paragraph will set the tone for the rest of the essay. Rather than telling the dull biographical details (your name, your place of birth, your favorite food), find a way to express the essence of the story you are going to tell and the themes you are going to explore in your essay.

Writing a Cover Letter for an Application

• Outline your qualifications and highlight your talents in a cover letter.
• Write about who you are.
• In a cover letter, describe how your education and experience qualifies you for this position.
• Explain how this opportunity will benefit your career goals.

• When in doubt, keep it brief and serious. If you are unsure whether or not telling an amusing anecdote about your friend's bachelor party is appropriate in a cover letter, it is probably best to leave it out.

• "I'm writing to apply for the entry-level position with Company Inc. advertised on your website. I think my experience and training makes me an ideal candidate for this position."
• Contrary to popular belief, it is not necessary to include your name in the body of the letter: "My name is John Smith and I am applying...." Your name will be included in the signature , as well as the header of a cover letter, so there is no need to put it in the text itself.

• Who you are and where you come from.
• Where you want to go.
• How this opportunity would potentially help you get there.

• Be as specific as possible. It is alright to note that you are "A passionate leader in all walks of life" but it would be much better to write about an example of a time you lead in a surprising way.
• Stay focused on skills and talents that connect specifically to the thing you are applying for. Extracurricular involvement, leadership roles, and other types of outstanding achievement may be important to you personally, but it may be totally extraneous. If you include something, ensure to connect it specifically to the goal of the cover letter.

• Be as specific as possible. If you are writing a university cover letter, it is obvious that you have to have a degree to get a job as a doctor, but how did you come to choose this field? Why did you choose this school? What, specifically, do you want to take away from the experience?

• Be careful about using a cover letter to critique a business. It is not the time to describe the suffering of a particular brand over the previous fiscal quarter, then promising that you will be able to turn it around with your ideas. That might not go over well if you are hired, and then you are unable to live up to the promise.

• Even if it is impressive, a high GPA or class ranking does not belong in a cover letter. Highlight it on your resume, but do not include it in two different places of the application.

• Mailing address
• Telephone and/or fax number

Expert Trick : Save time and effort by creating one generic format that you can use for many different job applications by tweaking the specific content for each one. Start with a general introductory paragraph , then a section or two fleshing out your resume and expertise as it relates to the job, and finish it off with a closing paragraph and a note of thanks.

Writing a Short Biography Note

• Pretend you are writing about someone else. Write your name and start describing that person like a character or a friend: "John Smith is the Executive Vice President of Company Inc..."

• If you are a jack of all trades, say so. Do not be afraid to list "actor, musician, mother, motivational speaker, and professional rock climber" if they all apply equally.

• It is common to list degrees that you have received. Pay particular attention to anything that ties into the work you are writing about. If you have special training, include it here.

• "John Smith is the Executive Vice President of Company Inc., in charge of marketing and overseas acquisitions. He received an MBA with distinction from Harvard and lives in Montauk with his cat Cheeto."
• Do not overshare. It can seem funny to immediately start with "John Smith loves rafting and hates eating Cheetos. He's a total boss" and such bio notes can be appropriate for some venues, however be careful to avoid awkward oversharing. Telling everyone about your killer hangover might be best left for after work talk.

• Stephen King, who is one of the most successful and popular authors in recent history, has a bio note that just lists the name of his family members, his hometown, and his pets. Consider leaving out the self-congratulation entirely.

Community Q&A

• Remember that you’re supposed to talk about yourself, it’s the main topic. Don’t talk about your friends or family, even though you may feel tempted to. Thanks Helpful 2 Not Helpful 0
• If you are having a difficult time writing about yourself, search online for examples of personal writing, in order to get some ideas and inspiration. Thanks Helpful 3 Not Helpful 0
• Don't think about how others feel about you. Everyone thinks from a different perspective. Thanks Helpful 3 Not Helpful 0

You Might Also Like

• ↑ https://www.indeed.com/career-advice/resumes-cover-letters/how-to-write-about-yourself
• ↑ https://writingcenter.unc.edu/tips-and-tools/brainstorming/
• ↑ https://ohiostate.pressbooks.pub/choosingsources/chapter/narrowing-a-topic/
• ↑ https://www.yourdictionary.com/articles/essay-about-self-writing
• ↑ https://writingcommons.org/article/using-first-person-in-an-academic-essay-when-is-it-okay/
• ↑ https://www.glassdoor.com/blog/6-unconventional-ways-start-cover-letter/
• ↑ https://english.washington.edu/writing-cover-letter
• ↑ https://www.indeed.com/career-advice/career-development/career-goal-statement-examples
• ↑ https://www.indeed.com/career-advice/resumes-cover-letters/resume-vs-cover-letter
• ↑ https://www.indeed.com/career-advice/resumes-cover-letters/whats-the-ideal-cover-letter-length
• ↑ https://www.indeed.com/career-advice/resumes-cover-letters/how-to-format-a-cover-letter-example
• ↑ https://writingcenter.uagc.edu/first-vs-third-person
• ↑ https://www.grammarly.com/blog/how-to-write-bio/

About This Article

If you have to write an autobiographical description of yourself, write down a list of your talents, interests, and accomplishments. Use this list to help you choose one specific topic for your description, such as your academic achievements or your leadership qualities. Use specific, unique details to support your topic, such as being awarded an academic scholarship or the fact that you were president of the newspaper in high school. You can list bits of your personal life, but be careful not to overshare. If you want to write about yourself a cover letter or personal essay, keep reading the article! Did this summary help you? Yes No

• Send fan mail to authors

Reader Success Stories

Zohra Asefi

Sep 13, 2017

Is this article up to date?

May 1, 2017

Feb 7, 2017

Mohammed Zufishan

Dec 30, 2016

Shubham Sanklecha

Jun 3, 2018

Featured Articles

Trending Articles

Watch Articles

• Terms of Use
• Privacy Policy
• Do Not Sell or Share My Info
• Not Selling Info

wikiHow Tech Help:

Tech troubles got you down? We've got the tips you need

9 Tips for Writing an Essay About Yourself

You know yourself better than anyone else, but writing about yourself can still be tough! When applying for scholarships or to college, essay prompts  can feel so general (and yet so specific!) that they leave us stumped.  So we’ll show you 8 tips to write an essay about yourself, so that you can land more scholarships. (Psst – Going Merry makes applying easy .)

1. Create a List of Questions

2. brainstorm and outline, 3. be vulnerable, 4. use personal examples, 5. write in the first person, 6. don’t be afraid to show off…but stay on topic, 7. show personality , 8. know your audience, 9. proofread and edit.

Let’s start with some examples of personal essay prompts:

• Tell me about yourself.
• Describe a challenge or event that made you who you are today.
• What are your short and long-term goals, and how do you plan to achieve them?
• Write about a time you failed at something. How did it affect you?

These are just a few of many scholarship essay prompts that require you to look internally, to answer a question, solve a problem, or explain a scenario in your life.  

We get it. You might not be a big fan of bragging about yourself, or you might want to keep your personal stories to yourself. But by opening up and sharing your story, you can show scholarship providers, colleges and universities who you are, and why you’re deserving of their scholarship.

(Don’t just take our word for it – check out our scholarship winners page full of students like you who were brave enough to share their stories with us).

To get started, check out these 9 tips on how to write an essay about yourself:

After reading through the scholarship essay prompt, breathe, and make a list of smaller questions you can answer, which relate to the big essay prompt question. 

Let’s say the main essay prompt question asks you, “What were challenges or barriers you had to work to overcome?” Then the smaller questions might be something like:

• What is your background? Family, finances, school.
• What was challenging about that background?
• What’s your greatest accomplishment? How did you get there? How have previous challenges influenced your goals?

Think of these questions as mini-prompts. They explain your story and help you answer the main essay prompt with more details than if you just answered it without a plan in place.

After considering smaller questions, it’s time to brainstorm your answers.  Take out a pen and paper – or open up a document on a computer – and take your time in answering each mini-prompt. Organize your responses in order:

• Intro to main essay prompt.
• Answer about 3 mini-prompt questions.
• Conclude by rewriting the answer to the main essay prompt with a summary of your mini-prompt answers.

This organization will help you stay on topic and answer the prompt directly. (Or check out these 6 scholarship essay examples for alternative essay structures.)

Don’t be afraid to let your strengths, challenges, and personal stories shine through in your essay! Scholarship and admissions committees love to see that you’re self-aware how you can improve as a person, or how you’ve grown because of your experiences. Honest writing can help tell the best stories (in this case, YOUR story).

Since this essay is all about you , you should make your answer as specific as possible! Avoid using generalizations (e.g., “I’m really good at music). Instead, go for more personalized statements (e.g., “My fourth-grade teacher Ms. Matay really inspired me to pursue my interest in the clarinet”). Your personal examples are what will help your scholarship essay stand out among the thousands of applicants..

 You’re telling your story, so write from your perspective! You can narrate your story. You can provide an overview of what you learned from your experiences. However you choose to answer the prompt, we recommend writing in an active tone, and using “I” and “me” throughout your essay.

Most students worry about bragging in their essay, but we say go for it! This is your time to shine, so highlight your accomplishments and strengths.  Review your essay to make sure that you’re keeping the tone informative and that you’re still on topic. (Brag while answering the essay prompt; don’t just mention random, unrelated but impressive facts about yourself!)You can use this brag sheet where you can brainstorm your accomplishments. While the worksheet is geared toward requesting letters of recommendation , you can still use it to write out your hobbies, interests, college list , and strengths to help you answer your scholarship essay prompt.

Just because it’s an essay doesn’t mean it has to be dry and boring. This essay is all about you, so let your personality shine through. If you’re the class clown, you can use a bit of humor. If you wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t be afraid to show emotion. Trying your best to express who you are as a person will have a huge effect on the admissions or scholarship committee!

If you’re applying for a scholarship, research the scholarship provider. If you’re applying to college, research the school. Understanding what makes the provider/college unique and what their motivations are, will allow you to incorporate that information in your essay. For example, many scholarships are funded by private companies that sell products. You might want to reference those products in your essay. A good example of this is Emily Trader’s essay for the Life Happens organization , where she uses her personal narrative to explain the importance of insurance planning, since that is the mission of the organization (which is funded by insurance companies).

The last step in answering your essay prompt is to double-check your work! One typo can be distracting and cause scholarship providers to scratch their head while reading the essay. ( Psst, humble brag: Going Merry’s application platform includes spellcheck because we’ve got your back .) In addition to proofreading for typos and grammatical errors, also consider whether the sentence or paragraph structure makes sense. Are you breaking paragraphs in the right place? Are you using topic sentences well to signpost your main ideas? Does the essay flow? Consider these “bigger” structural questions too.  You might also want to ask a friend, family member, teacher, or guidance counselor to review your essay. They might catch something you didn’t see the first time around, and that can really help your essay! In fact, that is scholarship winner Daniel Gill ’s #1 tip. (Another tip is to apply for scholarships using Going Merry !)

Also, check out this helpful list of the 10 most common scholarship essay topics while you’re brainstorming!

Now that you know how to write an essay about yourself, it’s time to start applying for scholarships! Remember: You’ve got this. 

Sign up for your free Going Merry profile . From there, you can easily upload and submit your essay for thousands of scholarships. We make it easy so you’ll only need to enter your profile information once! And then, you can apply away. In fact, we even have some bundled scholarships so that you only enter your essay once, to apply for multiple scholarships at the same time.

Or if you’re not ready to register, simply sign up to receive an email with 20 new scholarship opportunities each week. Just enter your email address below:

• Recent Posts

• 7 Outstanding Oregon Scholarships for 2021 - November 6, 2020
• Great Scholarships for Students in Ohio for 2021 - November 4, 2020
• Great Scholarships for Students in Texas for 2021 - July 30, 2020

Ready to find scholarships that are a match for you?

5 Steps To Write An Essay About Yourself

Writing essays and academic papers are two such responsibilities for which students often face challenges throughout their academic life.

In fact, self-introduction essays are among the most typical assignments students confront among the many other essays.

Writing an essay about yourself necessitates you to possess excellent writing and storytelling abilities.

To produce a great personal essay, students must devote time, patience, and work. This article will educate you on how to write an essay on yourself, your family, a personal experience, and so on.

However, if you are time-pressed and unable to compose an essay, there are services that write same-day essays for students too.

When Might You Need to Write About Yourself?

Self-introduction essays or writing an essay about yourself is required during various circumstances of your academic and professional life.

Aside from the obvious cases, such as a personal statement or self-evaluations/appraisals, here are other situations where you’ll be required to write an essay about yourself:

• For graduation school applications
• When writing biographies
• For career advancement opportunities
• In cover letters and resumes
• Seeking internship opportunities
• In grant proposals

Most people think that writing an essay about yourself is one of the easiest tasks to do. Nonetheless, that may not be the case for most students.

One must possess good college writing skills to put their best foot forward and impress the reader to stand out among their peers. And here’s how you can do it correctly and confidently.

What Must the Self-Introduction Essay Include?

Writing an essay about yourself is a perfect opportunity to write about your strengths, achievements, and unique characteristics that provide an insight into yourself.

You may be confused about what exactly to write or express in your self-introduction essay. So, in this post, we will explain what you can write about yourself that will help you score brownie points and stand out amidst the competition.

Also, check out these examples and samples on self-introductory essays .

For instance, when writing about yourself, consider your path and the things that have shaped you into the person you are. You can also write about various things such as:

• Your hobbies
• Your aspirations and dreams
• The things you want to learn
• The things you are best at

How to Write an Essay

Before composing an essay, understand the basic structure and prepare an outline to avoid any mistakes down the road.

So if you are wondering how to structure an essay, remember that all essays follow a basic structure – introduction, the body, and conclusion.

Introduction

This is the first part of the essay, and it must pique the reader’s interest. You must add a ‘hook’ here to keep the reader glued.

You must provide a thesis statement at the beginning of your writing that exhibits the main idea of your essay.

Overall, the introduction must provide a brief overview of the entire essay in an engaging way.

The section contains a minimum of three paragraphs that explain the major themes or story of the essay. Ensure that each paragraph connects smoothly with the next. It is best to write in chronological order to avoid confusion.

This is the last paragraph or last section of the essay, and it must logically conclude your story. Here you can highlight the lesson you’ve gained throughout your experience. It is better to keep this section short.

Essay Structure

This is the basic structure that one must follow when writing an essay. Once you understand the essay format, create an outline that includes:

• An introduction about yourself
• Your most significant professional experience
• Noteworthy awards or personal accomplishments
• Relevant information about your personal life

Note: Make sure you use an appropriate tone if it is not mentioned. While an informal tone is used when writing about personal experiences, remember not to use any ‘slang’ words that might look unprofessional.

Steps to Writing an Effective Essay

Use particular anecdotes to highlight your accomplishments and traits without appearing pretentious.

You can also write about difficulties you’ve encountered or mistakes you’ve made to demonstrate vulnerability and personal progress.

1. Self-Reflection

The first step is to reflect on the topic before you begin writing to determine what you want to include in your essay.

Having a thorough brainstorming session can help a lot. However, here are a few starter questions that can help you:

• What has influenced your hobbies or future ambitions?
• What are you most pleased with?
• Why do you look up to someone in particular?
• Consider how your values and aspirations mirror your target university’s program and culture as you self-reflect. Develop tales that highlight the fit between the two.

2. Write Something Extraordinary

Using the questions above, pick an incident or some strong point about yourself to elucidate.

Remember that you must write about a single incident or quality that makes you stand out. Avoid talking about two qualities or two incidents.

3. Define the Goal

Read the essay guidelines and align your writing with that. The goal of your essay must reflect well in your words.

4. Know Your Audience

Think about your audience’s expectations and interests. It is critical to capture their attention and keep them reading your work until the finish.

5. Detailed Outline

The outline must be detailed and include all significant points.

Once the outline is ready, you can expand it into a full-fledged essay using the vital points. After completing the essay, proofread for typos and grammatical errors to ensure there are no mistakes.

These are the steps that college students can follow when writing self-introduction essays.

The first step to writing a successful essay is selecting an incident or quality that you want to write about.

It is recommended that you brainstorm the ideas and create an outline to avoid mishaps later.

You may also like

Seven Ways to Make your College Essay Stand Out

Thank You Notes: Following Up After a College Interview

8 Differences Between Aussie and American Schools

Example of a College Essay that Needs Revision

Preparing the Best Answers for College Interview Questions

Top 5 Most Difficult IB (International Baccalaureate) Subjects

About the author.

CB Community

Passionate members of the College Basics community that include students, essay writers, consultants and beyond. Please note, while community content has passed our editorial guidelines, we do not endorse any product or service contained in these articles which may also include links for which College Basics is compensated.

Calculate for all schools

Your chance of acceptance, your chancing factors, extracurriculars, how do i write a good essay about myself.

I'm struggling with writing my college essay. How can I write a compelling and genuine essay about myself without it sounding boring or braggy? Any tips would really help!

First, I understand that writing a personal essay can be challenging, but with a little guidance and practice, you can create a compelling piece. Here are some steps to help you write a strong essay:

1. Choose a unique angle: Instead of providing a broad overview of your life, focus on a specific experience, interest, or aspect of your personality that has shaped who you are. This will make your essay more focused and memorable.

2. Show, don't tell: Instead of simply stating your qualities, provide concrete examples of how you've demonstrated those characteristics. Use vivid details, anecdotes, and sensory language to bring your story to life.

3. Be authentic: Be genuine in your writing and don't try to present yourself as someone you're not. Admissions officers want to get to know the real you, so let your personality shine through.

4. Reflect on your experiences: Point out the lessons you've learned and how those experiences have influenced your growth and decision-making. This will show maturity and self-awareness, which are traits that colleges value.

5. Avoid clichés: Steer clear of overused phrases, ideas, or experiences. Make sure your essay stands out by giving it a fresh and original perspective.

6. Edit and revise: Once you have a draft of your essay, review it for clarity, grammar, punctuation, and flow. Make sure that each paragraph supports the central theme of your essay and that your writing is concise and engaging.

7. Get feedback: Share your essay with teachers, family members, or friends to gain different perspectives. Incorporate their feedback to help refine your essay and ensure it's an accurate representation of yourself.

For example, if you have a passion for community service, you might write about a specific volunteer experience that had a significant impact on you. Talk about the challenges you faced, the people you helped, and the lessons you learned. Make sure to incorporate personal stories and reflections to give your essay depth and substance.

Remember, a good college essay showcases your personality, values, and growth. By following these steps, you can create a compelling and genuine essay that will leave a lasting impression on admissions officers. Good luck!

About CollegeVine’s Expert FAQ

CollegeVine’s Q&A seeks to offer informed perspectives on commonly asked admissions questions. Every answer is refined and validated by our team of admissions experts to ensure it resonates with trusted knowledge in the field.

How to Write an Essay about Yourself

Although you may know yourself better than anybody else, writing an autobiographical essay — an essay about yourself — can be hard. But don’t worry because you’ve come to the right place! 

I’m Constance, and I’ll show you how to write an essay about yourself in five simple steps. We’ll also write a sample essay together! 

Let’s get started!

Write an essay about yourself in five easy steps:

Step 1. Plan the word count for each paragraph.

Planning the word count for each paragraph will be much easier when you know the exact number of words you need for an essay. It will help you organize your ideas and present them clearly and concisely.

Any essay has three key elements:

• The introductory paragraph (introduction).
• Three body paragraphs.
• The concluding paragraph (conclusion).

For example, you can follow the diagram below to easily distribute 300 words across the five paragraphs in a 300-word essay:

Step 2. Choose your essay’s main point and its supporting ideas.

First, you need to come up with one main, overarching point. To do that, you can choose one quality that describes you best. It doesn’t really matter if it is something people can see (your appearance) or not (your kindness, intelligence, etc.) as long as you pick just one.

What do you want to say about yourself? What do people say about you? Whatever you think of, it will be your essay’s main point — your thesis.

For example, “ I am a kind person .” This thesis will be enough for now. In the next step, you’ll better understand how to expand it into an entire essay.

Now, divide your topic using the Power of Three to prove your main point using three supporting ideas.

The Power of Three effectively divides an essay’s main idea into supporting points. It is a three-part structure that helps produce your body paragraphs .

Let’s try it for an example of an autobiographical essay with the thesis, “ I am a kind person.”

For example, here are three supporting ideas describing a kind person:

• I am a good listener .
• I always try to speak positively and avoid criticism .
• I am always ready to lend a helping hand .

Excellent! Now we’re all set for the next step!

Step 3. Write your introductory paragraph.

Here are the key components of an introductory paragraph in writing any essay:

The first sentence is the introduction, which should catch the readers’ attention and make them want to know the person in the essay (you).

The rest of the paragraph is the thesis statement and three supporting points.

Example of an introductory paragraph about yourself

“Although I am not perfect, others see my good qualities. Many people say I am a kind person because I am a good listener, I always try to speak positively, and I love helping others with their tasks. I like listening to my family and friends when they need support. I also like to use kind words and avoid negative and forceful language. And I am always ready to lend a helping hand whenever someone needs it.”

Note that our introductory paragraph goes from a general statement to three specific ideas that support our main idea.

A general statement (our introductory sentence) briefly sets the essay’s context. Next comes our thesis statement and three supporting ideas.

Step 4. Write your essay’s body paragraphs.

After the introductory paragraph, you will write body paragraphs containing the supporting ideas for your thesis. Here’s how to structure a body paragraph:

Keep this diagram in mind when writing your body paragraphs. Start with a topic sentence, and then provide a brief explanation and example/s.

Paragraph 1

“Many people tell me that I am a good listener. I listen carefully whenever people talk to me, making sure they know I’m willing to hear them out and that they have my support. For example, whenever my friends want to talk to me about their problems, I listen carefully and avoid interrupting them. After they talk, I ask questions about their feelings and thoughts about their situation before giving them advice.”

As you can see, our first sentence in this body paragraph is a topic sentence . It gives context to our body paragraph and briefly summarizes it.

Our second sentence describes an empathetic person. And the remaining sentences illustrate our main point (topic sentence) by providing examples.

Paragraph 2

“Regardless of whom I am talking to, I always try to speak positively to make them feel good. I try to talk in a positive manner that inspires and encourages others and expresses my respect and gratitude for them. I also avoid mocking, insulting, or cursing at people. And even in uncomfortable situations, I try to offer constructive feedback instead of complaining or grumbling because I do not want any negative energy to rub off on the other person. The other day I spoke with my friend who had made a mistake. I never criticized her and offered some good advice to help her correct the situation.”

Just like paragraph 1, paragraph 2 follows the same structure outlined in the diagram. It proceeds from a general statement to more specific points .

Paragraph 3

“I am always willing to lend a helping hand. I love helping others and finding ways to make tasks easier for them, especially my family. I always wash the dishes and clean our kitchen without my mother telling me to do so. I also like helping my dad fix things in the garage and repair things in our house. And I also like helping my siblings with their school projects and homework.”

Once again, paragraph 3 follows the body paragraph structure. Now, we’re all set for the final step — the conclusion.

Step 5. Write the conclusion.

If you want an easy and quick way to write a concluding paragraph for your essay about yourself, just restate your main idea and its supporting points using different words.

Let’s try this method to write the conclusion for our essay.

“No one is perfect, but it is great if people know you best for your positive qualities. Many people tell me I am a kind person, and it tends to draw them to me. I listen carefully and attentively whenever people talk to me. I speak in a positive manner. And I love helping others and making things easier for them.”

Note how we paraphrased our introductory paragraph to restate the points we’ve already made. Keep this in mind when writing any essay.

I hope you find this tutorial helpful! Now go ahead and write an essay about yourself!

Tutor Phil is an e-learning professional who helps adult learners finish their degrees by teaching them academic writing skills.

Recent Posts

How to Write a 300 Word Essay - Simple Tutorial

https://youtu.be/qXST2gJbkhw If you need to write a 300-word essay, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Tutor Phil, and in this tutorial I’ll guide you through the process step by...

Essay Writing for Beginners: 6-Step Guide with Examples

https://youtu.be/w6yanrc1a_g If you need to write an essay, whether for a college course or to pass a writing test, this guide will take you through the process step-by-step. Even if you have...

• Legacy Projects

How to Write a Short Essay About Yourself: Step-By-Step

Updated 06/4/2022

Published 06/19/2020

Yvonne Bertovich

Contributing writer

Cake values integrity and transparency. We follow a strict editorial process to provide you with the best content possible. We also may earn commission from purchases made through affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, we earn from qualifying purchases. Learn more in our affiliate disclosure .

Writing or even talking about yourself may not come easily to you. However, for professional or educational reasons, it’s often a necessity. There are other instances when writing about yourself may make more sense, as you can provide the rawest and most honest perspective.

Jump ahead to these sections:

Steps for writing about yourself, tips for writing about yourself creatively or confidently.

• Examples of Things to Write About Yourself

You should feel empowered—not intimidated—in taking on a writing project about yourself. Use it as a way to challenge how you view your own experiences, talents, and more. We’ll discuss some steps for writing about yourself as well as provide a few examples.  

Writing isn’t for everyone, especially when it’s required. As much as you may dislike it, following the steps below can help the process go that much more smoothly.

If you find that following a different order than what we’ve recommended for you works better for your process, feel free to adjust accordingly. 

Step 1: Determine your purpose 

What’s causing you to write this “thing” about yourself? What exactly are you writing? It may surprise you that people write all kinds of pieces for themselves—even writing your own obituary isn’t out of the question anymore. 

The more specific you can get with yourself about your purpose will help the rest of the process. If it’s something stressful, like a college admission essay or a cover letter, try to frame the project in a different light. 

For example, “I’m writing this essay to show people my heart and how passionate I am about removing disparities and barriers in healthcare. I believe in my abilities, and I want to further my education, so I can help heal people.”

Step 2: Ask yourself some questions 

For any good piece of writing, there has to be fact behind it (if even these facts are abstract in narrative or fiction). The best way to gather facts about any subject is to ask a variety of questions, both soft- and hard-hitting. 

You may ask these questions internally, during research, or directly and literally. Treat this question step as a self-interview.

Here are some questions to ask yourself . You may also ask yourself:

• What is my goal of writing this piece?
• What themes or ideas do I want to focus on?
• What are my strengths and weaknesses?
• What are some important lessons I’ve learned?
• What do I want others to know or understand about me?

Step 3: Organize your answers 

After asking yourself the example questions above as well as others, you should be sure to write down your answers and begin organizing them if you haven’t already. 

It may be tempting to just answer your own questions in your head as you go—but don’t. This will just make the writing step more difficult. You may think that you’ll remember every good point or profound thought you come up with, but memory is a tricky thing. 

If you’re working through your questions during a time when you’re not ready or able to sit down and type or scribble them out, at least make some notes in your phone or in a journal so you can have some descriptive hints for later. No matter how big of an epiphany you may have, it’s possible you’ll forget it. 

Step 4: Write a draft 

If your ideas are already fairly organized, writing your draft should come fairly easily to you. The draft process, however, is when you can start spicing things up with anecdotes, your own personal voice, themes, metaphors—all that fun stuff. The point in you writing something about yourself for yourself is for the very reason that you can make it unquestionably you .

Dull, watered-down words or even over-hyped language from a thesaurus plug-in isn’t going to impress anyone. Writing something about yourself (unless the assignment is creative or unorthodox) isn’t the time to act like something you’re not.

All of this being said, don’t stress yourself out too much. Letting your ideas flow freely and then editing or revising them later is how you should approach the process anyway. You don’t want to put too many restrictions on your ideas from the get-go. Warring with yourself about your ideas while writing is only going to tire you out sooner. 

Think about it—you may spend hours trying to write a piece while overthinking that’s no better than a draft you could have written in 30 minutes on the fly. Not being totally in love with your first draft is normal. It just allows you that much more room to improve. 

Step 5: Put your progress aside

Much like during the draft process, it’s very possible to overthink your work after it’s mostly done. If you constantly keep re-reading it or rehashing your ideas in your head, they may start to sound odd, or you may try to add where you need to trim. 

For example, the same concept applies to repeating the same word over and over aloud — it’ll likely start to sound strange or even wrong the more you hear it. This also applies to music — ever play a song you love over and over till you hate it? 

You need to give your words and your brain some time to rest away from each other until you try to make any drastic edits or changes. That being said, you may love what you’ve written already and decide you don’t need to change a thing—that’s great!

Step 6: Review and edit

After your break, you can pick up your writing once again. Read it with a critical eye. Go back and think deeply about your purpose and any provided prompts. Have you answered everything you intended to or are required to?

It’s not uncommon—though devastating—to write an entire piece only to realize you wrote from the wrong frame of reference or focused on the wrong issue. For example, if you were asked to write about a challenge you overcame in your life by following an important virtue, but you only wrote about winning a basketball championship and not the struggle behind it, this may miss the mark. 

If you find a good number of issues in your work, don’t feel tempted to scrap the entire thing. What may work instead is to copy and paste your writing line-by-line into a new document. This way, you can save as much as possible while being sure to resolve even small discrepancies.

Step 7: Finalize your work

After you’ve undergone the brutal process of self-editing (or enlisting help from someone else you trust) you can prepare yourself for the home stretch. Finalizing your work shouldn’t take very long.

Y our process may differ; however, it’ll likely come down to reading over your work a few more times just to make sure you haven’t missed words, punctuation, or proper grammar. 

It’s OK to use this step to feel proud of yourself, too. You may not take a lot of time to reflect on your life and everything you’ve been through—it’s important to practice self-love in this way and celebrate your accomplishments.

Talking or writing about yourself may not be everyone’s cup of tea. For example, did you need to provide a fun fact recently but draw a blank? You’re not alone. In fact, many people have a false assumption that they’re boring. 

On the flip side, perhaps you’re used to talking about yourself, or, at least you’ve got the “fake it till you make it” type of confidence down-pat. However, you too can only benefit from adding a bit more razzle-dazzle to your spiels and writing assignments. Here are a few tips for writing about yourself creatively or confidently.  

Allow yourself space

If you have an upcoming project or writing assignment that has you on edge, consider stepping away. Even if you don’t consider yourself an outdoorsy person, a walk around the block may help you breathe and get your creativity flowing. Naturally, the more sound your idea or angle, the more confident you’ll feel about your upcoming performance.  

Keep that ego in check

An underinflated ego is just as bad as an overinflated one. Pay close attention to your internal dialogue when approaching new projects or writing tasks (or, honestly anything that comes up during your day). How much of what swirls around in your mind is fact? How much of it is just fleeting thoughts or opinions? You are not your thoughts, and you always have choices. Make good ones and be kind to yourself. 

Try this: Instead of thinking to yourself, “Wow, this is a really complex writing assignment. I can’t do this.” Or, “How am I ever going to get into my dream school with this essay? I’m not a strong writer.” 

Change your internal dialogue to, “I have good ideas. I may not have my plan figured out right now, but I’ll get it done,” or, “I have so many great skills to bring to the table and I am very passionate about what’s brought me here. I will convey this the best I can.”

Crowdsource

Sometimes an outside opinion can give us much-needed perspective. Ask your friends, family, loved ones, or coworkers to describe you in a few words or even in abstract ways. Don’t view this as you’re fishing for compliments. Ask your loved ones for honesty, as this insight can only help you when writing about yourself. 

Build up a fuel bank

Pulling inspiration out of thin air may not always be possible. However, if you build up a few reliable sources of inspiration, the next time a project hits, you’ll be prepared. You can fuel your creativity and confidence in a variety of ways. 

For example, you can create certain playlists for different moods, save favorite art or graphics in a digital folder or keep printed versions in your home or office, write down affirmations or notes-to-self in a journal or app, and so on. 

Reflect on past accomplishments and setbacks

Even if you aren’t a fan of journaling, writing about yourself is far easier if you take the time to reflect, if only mentally. If you know you have a deadline to write about yourself in the near future, you may want to physically or mentally jot down a few real-life examples or experiences that come to mind. 

But how do you get in the right headspace to reflect? What if you only witness recurring thoughts about past events while trying to fall asleep? Be sure to practice the first tip in this section: Give yourself some space to think. For once, limit the distractions, keep all other screens put away or turn on your "do not disturb" feature.

Now, think about some past accomplishments or setbacks that may not even seem relevant to the topic of the assignment. You may have an epiphany about unrelated things or discover something about how you operate. For example, you might realize that you feel less nervous in social and professional settings if you call out your anxiety as being excited. 

Examples of Writing About Yourself

Even if you feel super confident about writing about yourself now, we wanted to provide a few short examples to help you get started. Your tone, word choice, and more may differ depending on which piece you’re working on.

Here are some tips for writing or publishing your life story you may also find helpful. 

In a memoir or essay

Those were probably the best and the worst days of my life. I had never felt more happy and never felt more sad. I felt as though I were so close to having everything I had ever wanted, yet it seemed with every step forward, I had to take two steps back. It was exhausting. How did I get through it? To be quite honest, I have no damn idea. 

Perspective helped. I knew I could have had it way worse; I knew that my struggle wasn’t unique. I knew, too, that even when the small wins would come they’d have yet another loss right on their tails. I paid dearly for having too much heart and optimism, so I regularly had to hose myself down with logic and pessimism. 

On your blog or website

If you’re reading this, it’s too late. Just kidding! That’s just a really good Drake album. I wanted to take some time to talk about what’s been going on in my life lately for those of you who are nosey enough to care. Again, kidding, I know some of you really care. I’m so grateful to have even this small following that I have. It’s wild, really. Who would have thought that people want to know what’s going on in my head at any given time? Joke’s on you guys, though, because I don’t fully know all the time. 

I guess I’ll start off by saying that work has been a whirlwind. As you all know, it isn’t an easy time for anyone, so please don’t take this declaration as a complaint. I’m thrilled to still have a job despite everything going on. However, leaving this reflection at just that would be doing both myself and you all a disservice. It’s weak. It doesn’t really describe what’s been going on. Allow me to continue.  

In a college essay

When I was young, my grandmother told me I couldn’t please everyone — that some people just wouldn’t like me for no reason at all. This was very hard for me to swallow at times. What does this have to do with who I am today and why I plan to attend your university? 

Well, this early lesson demonstrates that in order for this world to keep spinning, we all have to be unwavering in our own pursuits. We are ourselves. We can’t be anyone else. In that, we all have the responsibility to bring our unique talents, wisdom, and heart to the table — even when we’re seated across from people who may not like us. 

Sometimes Only You Can Do It

Writing about yourself may always be challenging for you, but who better to do so than who knows you best? If you work through the process in every situation and give yourself some patience, there’s no question that you can’t craft something amazing. You may also be interested in this article about how to write family stories .

Your written words mean more than you think. This becomes a part of your legacy when you're gone, and it's one of the ways you'll be remembered. While many families choose custom urns from Foreverence or even to craft memorial diamonds from Eterneva , your words are something that live after you're gone.

While it might not seem natural at first, learning to write about yourself, your perspective, and your experiences carries a lot of significance. Who knows who might read these words when you're gone?

Categories:

• Condolences & What To Say

You may also like

9 Tips for Dealing With Family Dysfunction After a Death

How to Write a Meaningful Letter to Your Future Self

How to Write a Thank You Letter to Your Mentor: 6 Steps

How to Write a Legacy Letter From the Heart: Step-By-Step

How to Write an Essay About Yourself With Tips and Examples

• Icon Calendar 18 May 2024
• Icon Page 2372 words
• Icon Clock 11 min read

Essays are essential in demonstrating student’s proficiency in writing academic texts. Basically, this proficiency includes writing creatively and without notable mistakes and errors. By considering writing essays about themselves, students should follow the same approach that they use when writing other types of essays, including research papers. In essence, authors should focus on preparation, stage set up, writing process, and perfecting their compositions. Also, these steps are essential in ensuring the writer’s essay is of high quality. In turn, these essays on yourself do not rely on external research to strengthen the main arguments. On the other hand, papers rely on personal anecdotes to make them authentic and original. Hence, a student needs to learn how to write an essay about yourself.

General Guidelines of Writing an Essay About Yourself

Essay writing is one of the activities that students engage in to develop their creative writing skills. Unlike a research paper, an essay that a student writes about yourself does not rely on external research. Basically, one can argue that this type of article is exploratory. Also, it explores the writer’s life across different settings, such as school life, home life, and social life. While such essays may differ from a research essay in content, it follows the same structure: introduction, body, and conclusion. Then, a research paper utilizes external research to make it relevant, but a personal essay that a student writes about yourself uses personal anecdotes to create relevance. In other words, since such a piece explores the student’s life, it is only prudent for a person to include one or several stories that give readers a glimpse into their personality.

Writing an Essay About Yourself: A Step-by-Step Guide

The strategy of writing academic texts is almost the same, regardless of the kind of the type of text. In short, whether academic writing involves a research essay, report, thesis paper, dissertation, or personal story, writers must engage in some activities that are similar across these types of papers. Basically, these activities include preparation, stage set up, writing process, and wrap up of the writing process.

Step 1: Preparation

Preparation is the first step in writing an essay of any type. Basically, this stage has several components, including defining the topic, preparing ideas, and considering the audience. Concerning the topic, a person who writes about yourself can use the instructor’s theme or choose one if none is provided. In the latter case, authors should settle for a topic that interests them, one that they can find information to back up claims and arguments easily. When it comes to writing all about me essay, students should choose topics that allow them to capture a broad perspective about their lives. On preparation of ideas, students need to reflect on their lives, including positive and negative experiences and strengths and weaknesses. About the audience, they should write with expectations of instructors in mind.

Step 2: Setting Up the Stage

After preparation, the next step in academic paper writing is to set up the stage. Basically, components of this step include making notes, creating an essay outline, and creating an annotated bibliography. When writing an essay about yourself, a student should make notes when reflecting on your own experiences. In this case, a personal anecdote comes into play. Then, authors should use a personal account, highlighting a positive or negative experience and areas of strength or weakness. When it comes to creating an outline, students should use academic standards of essay outlines – introduction, body, and conclusion. Although it is unnecessary to write down these headings, authors must ensure that those reading all about me essays can identify where each of these sections begins and ends. In turn, there is no need for an annotated bibliography since no external research is required.

Step 3: Writing Process

After preparing and setting up the stage, students start writing their essays about themselves. Basically, components of this step include making the first draft, ensuring the paper captures everything that authors intend to write about, has a thesis statement, and captures the writer’s concluding thoughts. In this case, first drafts are essential because they allow writers to have an opportunity to perfect their papers through revisions and editions. Then, the thesis statement is the writer’s guide. Besides, it dictates what authors should focus on in body paragraphs. In turn, concluding thoughts are the writer’s words that summarize lessons learned. Hence, each of these components is essential in an essay about yourself.

Step 4: Wrapping Up

After writing the first draft, students begin to write the final draft. But before they start, they should read and reread the first draft to ensure it is free of any grammatical mistakes and other writing errors, such as inconsistent arguments and illogical flow of ideas. For example, if writers identify such mistakes and errors, they should revise and edit an essay about yourself accordingly. In turn, revisions help authors to eliminate inconsistencies in arguments and illogical flow of ideas, while editions help them to fix grammatical mistakes, such as a lack of punctuation or wrong use.

Use exceptional writing services that guarantee original and well-researched papers.

Main Features of Writing All About Me Essay

1️⃣ topic and concluding sentences.

When writing an essay about themselves, students should begin each body paragraph as they would in any other article – start with a topic sentence. Basically, this sentence captures a single idea that writers interrogate in a particular section, meaning that it offers an insight into the paragraph’s content. On the other hand, a concluding sentence is a final thought about what writers have said in a specific section. Then, rules of academic writing dictate that the concluding sentence links the topic sentence with the thesis statement. In other words, it is the part of a single paragraph that creates sense for readers regarding the topic sentence and its place in the writer’s main argument.

2️⃣ Transition, Peer Review, and Final Draft

Students need to ensure that, as they write an essay about themselves, they create a logical flow of ideas from the beginning paragraph to the end. Basically, such elements may be transition words, like “consequently,” “furthermore,” “nevertheless,” and “hence.” To ensure that students do not miss identifying errors in their essays, they should subject their work to a peer review. For example, this aspect involves giving the first draft to a mentor who reads through it to make sure it is perfect. When mentors are satisfied with the paper’s quality, students start writing the final draft. However, they should also read through it at least twice and subject it to peer review before submitting it to a specific department.

3️⃣ Specific Information

As indicated, writing an essay about yourself differs from a research paper because it does not rely on external research to back up claims and arguments. Instead, writers utilize a personal story to shed light on their experiences and attributes. In this sense, such personal anecdotes are the specific information necessary for an essay about yourself. Moreover, this information is specific to a person provided through reflective writing. Hence, a personal essay that a student writes, which is about yourself, should be exploratory, descriptive, and thoughtful.

Common Mistakes

Like any other academic text, writing an essay about oneself is often prone to mistakes. For example, some of the common mistakes that writers or students make when writing an essay about yourself include writing about things that do not help readers to have a proper grasp of their personality and using exaggeration. Basically, writing an essay about yourself should enhance the readers’ understanding of authors – their life experiences, attributes, likes and dislikes, and strengths and weaknesses. In turn, exaggeration involves using information that is likely to be untrue to impress readers. To solve the first mistake, writers need to focus on personal anecdotes, as they help to highlight instances of the author’s life that is worth noting. To avoid exaggeration, students should desist from trying to impress and seek to be authentic in their writing.

Example of Writing an Essay About Yourself

My First Year of School by Zac

I walked into the classroom, shaking in terror. The class was full of howler monkeys, but I was not with howler monkeys. I was with a bunch of five and six-year-old kids. I acted as if I was watching a horror movie until I met the super lovely Mr. Keig. Mr. Keig was the best teacher in the universe.

Mr. Keig was like a giant to us, and he still is. At first, I was scared of Mr. Keig, but I found out he was super friendly. He taught me how to read and write. Add and subtract. He even taught me how to make school fun. At the beginning of school, I was horrified by math and reading. I was soon shown that those subjects were not formidable opponents, but I had yet to meet my match.

Writing. I hated writing. I had met my match, my enemy, my formidable opponent. The reason I hated writing was that I wrote slowly.  It took too long for me to write, and I was always the last one to finish my newest story. It was also ever boring for me. It was hard to find inspiration or the urge to take a step up. Math and reading, on the other hand, I sped through like Speed Racer. I was still shy, and I only had a few friends in the first couple of weeks of kindergarten. I figured out making friends was not a piece of cake. I eventually made friends. Thank God that problem was over.

Even though we got to play and create our own art, sometimes, school days were dull. Sometimes days felt like they were two million years long. There were other times when I was terrified about a test, and it seemed like the paper was laughing at me, and my pencil was dodging my paper. I was sweating, shaking, and FREAKIN’ out. I eventually pulled it together and got my test done. Relieved, relaxed, and incredibly calmed down. Tranquil and thrilled I was. It felt like I was soaring through the sky a million miles per minute.

What I learned from my year in kindergarten was to face your fears.  If you are scared, don’t run away from your worries. Another lesson I learned was not to judge a book by its cover. I assumed the school was going to be extremely hard, and tests were going to be impossible. I assumed wrong. The school (kindergarten) was not as hard as I thought it was going to be. While kindergarten was a bit challenging, I knew I could succeed if I set my mind to it and work hard.

Summing Up on How to Write an Essay About Yourself

Essay writing is an essential activity in a student’s life, as it exposes one to the dynamics of creative writing. When writing such an essay, authors learn how to use personal stories to highlight their positive and negative experiences, including strengths and weaknesses. In essence, such stories replace external evidence that writers use in research essays. Then, the guide to effective writing of such an essay includes several components, including preparation, stage set up, starting the writing process, and wrapping it up. Also, these aspects of writing an essay about yourself allow a person to build own thoughts, organize papers, and perfect academic texts. As a result, perfection involves revising any inconsistent ideas and illogical arguments and revising any grammatical mistakes, such as punctuation errors.

When writing an essay about yourself, a student should master the following tips:

• Be thoughtful, but not fretful. Writers should, through reflection, highlight areas of their lives that provide an insight into their personality. In this case, they should do it without fear of what readers might think about them.
• Keep an essay personal. The majority of the essay’s information should be about an author. For example, such elements involve talking about life experiences, attributes, strengths, and weaknesses. In turn, the use of personal anecdotes is essential in achieving this goal.
• Do not guess what readers want to hear. Students should not seek to impress readers, but they need to inform them.
• Feel free to be creative. Without exaggeration, authors should use personal stories creatively to keep readers interested in essays.
• Tell readers something that they do not already know. The best way to keep readers interested is to use stories that writers have probably never shared publicly. In turn, such stories or experiences inject all about me essays with an aspect of amazement.
• Ask for input from close ones. Students can ask parents, friends, mentors, counselors, coaches, and teachers to provide ideas, as they know about personally.
• Polish a paper about yourself. Essays should not be about the writer’s story only. In turn, it should demonstrate the writer’s proficiency in writing by lacking grammatical mistakes and other notable errors.

To Learn More, Read Relevant Articles

How to Start an Essay With a Quote With Examples

• Icon Calendar 2 September 2020
• Icon Page 3811 words

How to Title an Essay: Basic Guidelines With Examples

• Icon Calendar 31 August 2020
• Icon Page 2692 words

Money-Saving Services for Writing College Essays Online

Writing argumentative essay like an expert.

Having big plans for the future? Willing to enter the best college that will develop your skills and talents? Unfortunately, thousands of other students think the same. Writing college essay is the first step to understanding that your career will be bright!

On the basis of your work, admission committee will decide whether you’re worthy to be enrolled in the college. Just imagine how many application they receive annually. Some of them are brilliant, others are commonplace and naive. But your task here is not to turn writing a persuasive essay into a nightmare by thinking about it.

What should you start with? The first step to write college essay is think about the main idea you want to describe. There should be something important, impressing, heartwarming in your work. And, of course, it should be truthful and original as well. Even if you know how to write an argument essay, there’s also a necessity to follow the right structure and composition. And here, you might need help of professionals.

Special services that help students in writing college essays exist all over the world. You can see it for yourself. Type “write my essay” and scroll through the results – the amount of websites will surprise you. Be careful when choosing a cheap service: you might end getting your paper done by a non-native English speaker. Do you actually want to waste your money on that? Make a little research before you start writing an argument essay, read the examples you find on the Internet, make notes and try to write down all the thoughts you have during the day (not when you actually seat in front your PC).

In attempt to write a college essay, people are spending countless night drinking one cup of coffee after another and rotating thousands thoughts in their heads. However, it might not be enough. People who write a persuasive essay also seeking help on the side. There’s no shame in that.

Quality guarantee

Short Description About Yourself Sample

Start generating short description for free below.

If you need help, please refer to the detailed step-by-step instructions entitled below.

Write about

Generate short description in these simple steps.

Enter topic

Select language, tone and word count

Click on the Generate button

Introducing WriteCream’s Instant Short Description Generator: Crafting Descriptions with a Single Click

Writecream’s Short Description Generator is an innovative tool designed to simplify the process of crafting concise and compelling personal summaries. Whether you need a short bio for social media, a professional profile for your resume, or an engaging introduction for your website, Writecream provides a seamless solution to create high-quality descriptions with just one click.

How It Works:

• Input Details : Provide your name, profession, key achievements, interests, and other relevant details.
• Generate : Click once to have Writecream’s AI create a concise and impactful description.
• Review and Customize : Review and adjust the description to fit your personal or professional brand.
• Copy and Use : Copy the final description and use it on LinkedIn, resumes, websites, or any other platform.

Key Features:

• Speed and Efficiency : Professional-quality descriptions in seconds.
• Versatility : Suitable for various platforms including LinkedIn, resumes, and personal websites.
• Diverse Templates : Offers multiple templates to suit different tones and contexts.
• SEO-Friendly : Generates descriptions optimized for search engines, boosting your online visibility.

Writecream’s Short Description Generator is your go-to tool for creating compelling personal summaries quickly and easily. Ideal for job seekers, freelancers, or anyone updating their profiles, Writecream ensures your personal description stands out.

Create content in minutes, not weeks.

© Copyright 2024 Writecream | All Rights Reserved

Wait! Before you go...

Sign up to get 10,000 words per month for free, please enter your name and email below:.

Crying Myself to Sleep on the Biggest Cruise Ship Ever

Seven agonizing nights aboard the Icon of the Seas

Listen to this article

Listen to more stories on curio

Updated at 2:44 p.m. ET on April 6, 2024.

This article was featured in the One Story to Read Today newsletter. Sign up for it here .

MY FIRST GLIMPSE of Royal Caribbean’s Icon of the Seas, from the window of an approaching Miami cab, brings on a feeling of vertigo, nausea, amazement, and distress. I shut my eyes in defense, as my brain tells my optic nerve to try again.

The ship makes no sense, vertically or horizontally. It makes no sense on sea, or on land, or in outer space. It looks like a hodgepodge of domes and minarets, tubes and canopies, like Istanbul had it been designed by idiots. Vibrant, oversignifying colors are stacked upon other such colors, decks perched over still more decks; the only comfort is a row of lifeboats ringing its perimeter. There is no imposed order, no cogent thought, and, for those who do not harbor a totalitarian sense of gigantomania, no visual mercy. This is the biggest cruise ship ever built, and I have been tasked with witnessing its inaugural voyage.

Explore the May 2024 Issue

Check out more from this issue and find your next story to read.

“Author embarks on their first cruise-ship voyage” has been a staple of American essay writing for almost three decades, beginning with David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” which was first published in 1996 under the title “Shipping Out.” Since then, many admirable writers have widened and diversified the genre. Usually the essayist commissioned to take to the sea is in their first or second flush of youth and is ready to sharpen their wit against the hull of the offending vessel. I am 51, old and tired, having seen much of the world as a former travel journalist, and mostly what I do in both life and prose is shrug while muttering to my imaginary dachshund, “This too shall pass.” But the Icon of the Seas will not countenance a shrug. The Icon of the Seas is the Linda Loman of cruise ships, exclaiming that attention must be paid. And here I am in late January with my one piece of luggage and useless gray winter jacket and passport, zipping through the Port of Miami en route to the gangway that will separate me from the bulk of North America for more than seven days, ready to pay it in full.

The aforementioned gangway opens up directly onto a thriving mall (I will soon learn it is imperiously called the “Royal Promenade”), presently filled with yapping passengers beneath a ceiling studded with balloons ready to drop. Crew members from every part of the global South, as well as a few Balkans, are shepherding us along while pressing flutes of champagne into our hands. By a humming Starbucks, I drink as many of these as I can and prepare to find my cabin. I show my blue Suite Sky SeaPass Card (more on this later, much more) to a smiling woman from the Philippines, and she tells me to go “aft.” Which is where, now? As someone who has rarely sailed on a vessel grander than the Staten Island Ferry, I am confused. It turns out that the aft is the stern of the ship, or, for those of us who don’t know what a stern or an aft are, its ass. The nose of the ship, responsible for separating the waves before it, is also called a bow, and is marked for passengers as the FWD , or forward. The part of the contemporary sailing vessel where the malls are clustered is called the midship. I trust that you have enjoyed this nautical lesson.

I ascend via elevator to my suite on Deck 11. This is where I encounter my first terrible surprise. My suite windows and balcony do not face the ocean. Instead, they look out onto another shopping mall. This mall is the one that’s called Central Park, perhaps in homage to the Olmsted-designed bit of greenery in the middle of my hometown. Although on land I would be delighted to own a suite with Central Park views, here I am deeply depressed. To sail on a ship and not wake up to a vast blue carpet of ocean? Unthinkable.

Allow me a brief preamble here. The story you are reading was commissioned at a moment when most staterooms on the Icon were sold out. In fact, so enthralled by the prospect of this voyage were hard-core mariners that the ship’s entire inventory of guest rooms (the Icon can accommodate up to 7,600 passengers, but its inaugural journey was reduced to 5,000 or so for a less crowded experience) was almost immediately sold out. Hence, this publication was faced with the shocking prospect of paying nearly $19,000 to procure for this solitary passenger an entire suite—not including drinking expenses—all for the privilege of bringing you this article. But the suite in question doesn’t even have a view of the ocean! I sit down hard on my soft bed. Nineteen thousand dollars for this .

The viewless suite does have its pluses. In addition to all the Malin+Goetz products in my dual bathrooms, I am granted use of a dedicated Suite Deck lounge; access to Coastal Kitchen, a superior restaurant for Suites passengers; complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream (“the fastest Internet at Sea”) “for one device per person for the whole cruise duration”; a pair of bathrobes (one of which comes prestained with what looks like a large expectoration by the greenest lizard on Earth); and use of the Grove Suite Sun, an area on Decks 18 and 19 with food and deck chairs reserved exclusively for Suite passengers. I also get reserved seating for a performance of The Wizard of Oz , an ice-skating tribute to the periodic table, and similar provocations. The very color of my Suite Sky SeaPass Card, an oceanic blue as opposed to the cloying royal purple of the standard non-Suite passenger, will soon provoke envy and admiration. But as high as my status may be, there are those on board who have much higher status still, and I will soon learn to bow before them.

In preparation for sailing, I have “priced in,” as they say on Wall Street, the possibility that I may come from a somewhat different monde than many of the other cruisers. Without falling into stereotypes or preconceptions, I prepare myself for a friendly outspokenness on the part of my fellow seafarers that may not comply with modern DEI standards. I believe in meeting people halfway, and so the day before flying down to Miami, I visited what remains of Little Italy to purchase a popular T-shirt that reads DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL across the breast in the colors of the Italian flag. My wife recommended that I bring one of my many T-shirts featuring Snoopy and the Peanuts gang, as all Americans love the beagle and his friends. But I naively thought that my meatball T-shirt would be more suitable for conversation-starting. “Oh, and who is your ‘daddy’?” some might ask upon seeing it. “And how long have you been his ‘little meatball’?” And so on.

I put on my meatball T-shirt and head for one of the dining rooms to get a late lunch. In the elevator, I stick out my chest for all to read the funny legend upon it, but soon I realize that despite its burnished tricolor letters, no one takes note. More to the point, no one takes note of me. Despite my attempts at bridge building, the very sight of me (small, ethnic, without a cap bearing the name of a football team) elicits no reaction from other passengers. Most often, they will small-talk over me as if I don’t exist. This brings to mind the travails of David Foster Wallace , who felt so ostracized by his fellow passengers that he retreated to his cabin for much of his voyage. And Wallace was raised primarily in the Midwest and was a much larger, more American-looking meatball than I am. If he couldn’t talk to these people, how will I? What if I leave this ship without making any friends at all, despite my T-shirt? I am a social creature, and the prospect of seven days alone and apart is saddening. Wallace’s stateroom, at least, had a view of the ocean, a kind of cheap eternity.

Worse awaits me in the dining room. This is a large, multichandeliered room where I attended my safety training (I was shown how to put on a flotation vest; it is a very simple procedure). But the maître d’ politely refuses me entry in an English that seems to verge on another language. “I’m sorry, this is only for pendejos ,” he seems to be saying. I push back politely and he repeats himself. Pendejos ? Piranhas? There’s some kind of P-word to which I am not attuned. Meanwhile elderly passengers stream right past, powered by their limbs, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. “It is only pendejo dining today, sir.” “But I have a suite!” I say, already starting to catch on to the ship’s class system. He examines my card again. “But you are not a pendejo ,” he confirms. I am wearing a DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL T-shirt, I want to say to him. I am the essence of pendejo .

Eventually, I give up and head to the plebeian buffet on Deck 15, which has an aquatic-styled name I have now forgotten. Before gaining entry to this endless cornucopia of reheated food, one passes a washing station of many sinks and soap dispensers, and perhaps the most intriguing character on the entire ship. He is Mr. Washy Washy—or, according to his name tag, Nielbert of the Philippines—and he is dressed as a taco (on other occasions, I’ll see him dressed as a burger). Mr. Washy Washy performs an eponymous song in spirited, indeed flamboyant English: “Washy, washy, wash your hands, WASHY WASHY!” The dangers of norovirus and COVID on a cruise ship this size (a giant fellow ship was stricken with the former right after my voyage) makes Mr. Washy Washy an essential member of the crew. The problem lies with the food at the end of Washy’s rainbow. The buffet is groaning with what sounds like sophisticated dishes—marinated octopus, boiled egg with anchovy, chorizo, lobster claws—but every animal tastes tragically the same, as if there was only one creature available at the market, a “cruisipus” bred specifically for Royal Caribbean dining. The “vegetables” are no better. I pick up a tomato slice and look right through it. It tastes like cellophane. I sit alone, apart from the couples and parents with gaggles of children, as “We Are Family” echoes across the buffet space.

I may have failed to mention that all this time, the Icon of the Seas has not left port. As the fiery mango of the subtropical setting sun makes Miami’s condo skyline even more apocalyptic, the ship shoves off beneath a perfunctory display of fireworks. After the sun sets, in the far, dark distance, another circus-lit cruise ship ruptures the waves before us. We glance at it with pity, because it is by definition a smaller ship than our own. I am on Deck 15, outside the buffet and overlooking a bunch of pools (the Icon has seven of them), drinking a frilly drink that I got from one of the bars (the Icon has 15 of them), still too shy to speak to anyone, despite Sister Sledge’s assertion that all on the ship are somehow related.

Kim Brooks: On failing the family vacation

The ship’s passage away from Ron DeSantis’s Florida provides no frisson, no sense of developing “sea legs,” as the ship is too large to register the presence of waves unless a mighty wind adds significant chop. It is time for me to register the presence of the 5,000 passengers around me, even if they refuse to register mine. My fellow travelers have prepared for this trip with personally decorated T-shirts celebrating the importance of this voyage. The simplest ones say ICON INAUGURAL ’24 on the back and the family name on the front. Others attest to an over-the-top love of cruise ships: WARNING! MAY START TALKING ABOUT CRUISING . Still others are artisanally designed and celebrate lifetimes spent married while cruising (on ships, of course). A couple possibly in their 90s are wearing shirts whose backs feature a drawing of a cruise liner, two flamingos with ostensibly male and female characteristics, and the legend “ HUSBAND AND WIFE Cruising Partners FOR LIFE WE MAY NOT HAVE IT All Together BUT TOGETHER WE HAVE IT ALL .” (The words not in all caps have been written in cursive.) A real journalist or a more intrepid conversationalist would have gone up to the couple and asked them to explain the longevity of their marriage vis-à-vis their love of cruising. But instead I head to my mall suite, take off my meatball T-shirt, and allow the first tears of the cruise to roll down my cheeks slowly enough that I briefly fall asleep amid the moisture and salt.

I WAKE UP with a hangover. Oh God. Right. I cannot believe all of that happened last night. A name floats into my cobwebbed, nauseated brain: “Ayn Rand.” Jesus Christ.

I breakfast alone at the Coastal Kitchen. The coffee tastes fine and the eggs came out of a bird. The ship rolls slightly this morning; I can feel it in my thighs and my schlong, the parts of me that are most receptive to danger.

I had a dangerous conversation last night. After the sun set and we were at least 50 miles from shore (most modern cruise ships sail at about 23 miles an hour), I lay in bed softly hiccupping, my arms stretched out exactly like Jesus on the cross, the sound of the distant waves missing from my mall-facing suite, replaced by the hum of air-conditioning and children shouting in Spanish through the vents of my two bathrooms. I decided this passivity was unacceptable. As an immigrant, I feel duty-bound to complete the tasks I am paid for, which means reaching out and trying to understand my fellow cruisers. So I put on a normal James Perse T-shirt and headed for one of the bars on the Royal Promenade—the Schooner Bar, it was called, if memory serves correctly.

I sat at the bar for a martini and two Negronis. An old man with thick, hairy forearms drank next to me, very silent and Hemingwaylike, while a dreadlocked piano player tinkled out a series of excellent Elton John covers. To my right, a young white couple—he in floral shorts, she in a light, summery miniskirt with a fearsome diamond ring, neither of them in football regalia—chatted with an elderly couple. Do it , I commanded myself. Open your mouth. Speak! Speak without being spoken to. Initiate. A sentence fragment caught my ear from the young woman, “Cherry Hill.” This is a suburb of Philadelphia in New Jersey, and I had once been there for a reading at a synagogue. “Excuse me,” I said gently to her. “Did you just mention Cherry Hill? It’s a lovely place.”

As it turned out, the couple now lived in Fort Lauderdale (the number of Floridians on the cruise surprised me, given that Southern Florida is itself a kind of cruise ship, albeit one slowly sinking), but soon they were talking with me exclusively—the man potbellied, with a chin like a hard-boiled egg; the woman as svelte as if she were one of the many Ukrainian members of the crew—the elderly couple next to them forgotten. This felt as groundbreaking as the first time I dared to address an American in his native tongue, as a child on a bus in Queens (“On my foot you are standing, Mister”).

“I don’t want to talk politics,” the man said. “But they’re going to eighty-six Biden and put Michelle in.”

I considered the contradictions of his opening conversational gambit, but decided to play along. “People like Michelle,” I said, testing the waters. The husband sneered, but the wife charitably put forward that the former first lady was “more personable” than Joe Biden. “They’re gonna eighty-six Biden,” the husband repeated. “He can’t put a sentence together.”

After I mentioned that I was a writer—though I presented myself as a writer of teleplays instead of novels and articles such as this one—the husband told me his favorite writer was Ayn Rand. “Ayn Rand, she came here with nothing,” the husband said. “I work with a lot of Cubans, so …” I wondered if I should mention what I usually do to ingratiate myself with Republicans or libertarians: the fact that my finances improved after pass-through corporations were taxed differently under Donald Trump. Instead, I ordered another drink and the couple did the same, and I told him that Rand and I were born in the same city, St. Petersburg/Leningrad, and that my family also came here with nothing. Now the bonding and drinking began in earnest, and several more rounds appeared. Until it all fell apart.

Read: Gary Shteyngart on watching Russian television for five days straight

My new friend, whom I will refer to as Ayn, called out to a buddy of his across the bar, and suddenly a young couple, both covered in tattoos, appeared next to us. “He fucking punked me,” Ayn’s frat-boy-like friend called out as he put his arm around Ayn, while his sizable partner sizzled up to Mrs. Rand. Both of them had a look I have never seen on land—their eyes projecting absence and enmity in equal measure. In the ’90s, I drank with Russian soldiers fresh from Chechnya and wandered the streets of wartime Zagreb, but I have never seen such undisguised hostility toward both me and perhaps the universe at large. I was briefly introduced to this psychopathic pair, but neither of them wanted to have anything to do with me, and the tattooed woman would not even reveal her Christian name to me (she pretended to have the same first name as Mrs. Rand). To impress his tattooed friends, Ayn made fun of the fact that as a television writer, I’d worked on the series Succession (which, it would turn out, practically nobody on the ship had watched), instead of the far more palatable, in his eyes, zombie drama of last year. And then my new friends drifted away from me into an angry private conversation—“He punked me!”—as I ordered another drink for myself, scared of the dead-eyed arrivals whose gaze never registered in the dim wattage of the Schooner Bar, whose terrifying voices and hollow laughs grated like unoiled gears against the crooning of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”

But today is a new day for me and my hangover. After breakfast, I explore the ship’s so-called neighborhoods . There’s the AquaDome, where one can find a food hall and an acrobatic sound-and-light aquatic show. Central Park has a premium steak house, a sushi joint, and a used Rolex that can be bought for $8,000 on land here proudly offered at $17,000. There’s the aforementioned Royal Promenade, where I had drunk with the Rands, and where a pair of dueling pianos duel well into the night. There’s Surfside, a kids’ neighborhood full of sugary garbage, which looks out onto the frothy trail that the behemoth leaves behind itself. Thrill Island refers to the collection of tubes that clutter the ass of the ship and offer passengers six waterslides and a surfing simulation. There’s the Hideaway, an adult zone that plays music from a vomit-slathered, Brit-filled Alicante nightclub circa 1996 and proves a big favorite with groups of young Latin American customers. And, most hurtfully, there’s the Suite Neighborhood.

I say hurtfully because as a Suite passenger I should be here, though my particular suite is far from the others. Whereas I am stuck amid the riffraff of Deck 11, this section is on the highborn Decks 16 and 17, and in passing, I peek into the spacious, tall-ceilinged staterooms from the hallway, dazzled by the glint of the waves and sun. For $75,000, one multifloor suite even comes with its own slide between floors, so that a family may enjoy this particular terror in private. There is a quiet splendor to the Suite Neighborhood. I see fewer stickers and signs and drawings than in my own neighborhood—for example, MIKE AND DIANA PROUDLY SERVED U.S. MARINE CORPS RETIRED . No one here needs to announce their branch of service or rank; they are simply Suites, and this is where they belong. Once again, despite my hard work and perseverance, I have been disallowed from the true American elite. Once again, I am “Not our class, dear.” I am reminded of watching The Love Boat on my grandmother’s Zenith, which either was given to her or we found in the trash (I get our many malfunctioning Zeniths confused) and whose tube got so hot, I would put little chunks of government cheese on a thin tissue atop it to give our welfare treat a pleasant, Reagan-era gooeyness. I could not understand English well enough then to catch the nuances of that seafaring program, but I knew that there were differences in the status of the passengers, and that sometimes those differences made them sad. Still, this ship, this plenty—every few steps, there are complimentary nachos or milkshakes or gyros on offer—was the fatty fuel of my childhood dreams. If only I had remained a child.

I walk around the outdoor decks looking for company. There is a middle-aged African American couple who always seem to be asleep in each other’s arms, probably exhausted from the late capitalism they regularly encounter on land. There is far more diversity on this ship than I expected. Many couples are a testament to Loving v. Virginia , and there is a large group of folks whose T-shirts read MELANIN AT SEA / IT’S THE MELANIN FOR ME . I smile when I see them, but then some young kids from the group makes Mr. Washy Washy do a cruel, caricatured “Burger Dance” (today he is in his burger getup), and I think, Well, so much for intersectionality .

At the infinity pool on Deck 17, I spot some elderly women who could be ethnic and from my part of the world, and so I jump in. I am proved correct! Many of them seem to be originally from Queens (“Corona was still great when it was all Italian”), though they are now spread across the tristate area. We bond over the way “Ron-kon-koma” sounds when announced in Penn Station.

“Everyone is here for a different reason,” one of them tells me. She and her ex-husband last sailed together four years ago to prove to themselves that their marriage was truly over. Her 15-year-old son lost his virginity to “an Irish young lady” while their ship was moored in Ravenna, Italy. The gaggle of old-timers competes to tell me their favorite cruising stories and tips. “A guy proposed in Central Park a couple of years ago”—many Royal Caribbean ships apparently have this ridiculous communal area—“and she ran away screaming!” “If you’re diamond-class, you get four drinks for free.” “A different kind of passenger sails out of Bayonne.” (This, perhaps, is racially coded.) “Sometimes, if you tip the bartender $5, your next drink will be free.”

“Everyone’s here for a different reason,” the woman whose marriage ended on a cruise tells me again. “Some people are here for bad reasons—the drinkers and the gamblers. Some people are here for medical reasons.” I have seen more than a few oxygen tanks and at least one woman clearly undergoing very serious chemo. Some T-shirts celebrate good news about a cancer diagnosis. This might be someone’s last cruise or week on Earth. For these women, who have spent months, if not years, at sea, cruising is a ritual as well as a life cycle: first love, last love, marriage, divorce, death.

Read: The last place on Earth any tourist should go

I have talked with these women for so long, tonight I promise myself that after a sad solitary dinner I will not try to seek out company at the bars in the mall or the adult-themed Hideaway. I have enough material to fulfill my duties to this publication. As I approach my orphaned suite, I run into the aggro young people who stole Mr. and Mrs. Rand away from me the night before. The tattooed apparitions pass me without a glance. She is singing something violent about “Stuttering Stanley” (a character in a popular horror movie, as I discover with my complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream Internet at Sea) and he’s loudly shouting about “all the money I’ve lost,” presumably at the casino in the bowels of the ship.

So these bent psychos out of a Cormac McCarthy novel are angrily inhabiting my deck. As I mewl myself to sleep, I envision a limited series for HBO or some other streamer, a kind of low-rent White Lotus , where several aggressive couples conspire to throw a shy intellectual interloper overboard. I type the scenario into my phone. As I fall asleep, I think of what the woman who recently divorced her husband and whose son became a man through the good offices of the Irish Republic told me while I was hoisting myself out of the infinity pool. “I’m here because I’m an explorer. I’m here because I’m trying something new.” What if I allowed myself to believe in her fantasy?

“YOU REALLY STARTED AT THE TOP,” they tell me. I’m at the Coastal Kitchen for my eggs and corned-beef hash, and the maître d’ has slotted me in between two couples. Fueled by coffee or perhaps intrigued by my relative youth, they strike up a conversation with me. As always, people are shocked that this is my first cruise. They contrast the Icon favorably with all the preceding liners in the Royal Caribbean fleet, usually commenting on the efficiency of the elevators that hurl us from deck to deck (as in many large corporate buildings, the elevators ask you to choose a floor and then direct you to one of many lifts). The couple to my right, from Palo Alto—he refers to his “porn mustache” and calls his wife “my cougar” because she is two years older—tell me they are “Pandemic Pinnacles.”

This is the day that my eyes will be opened. Pinnacles , it is explained to me over translucent cantaloupe, have sailed with Royal Caribbean for 700 ungodly nights. Pandemic Pinnacles took advantage of the two-for-one accrual rate of Pinnacle points during the pandemic, when sailing on a cruise ship was even more ill-advised, to catapult themselves into Pinnacle status.

Because of the importance of the inaugural voyage of the world’s largest cruise liner, more than 200 Pinnacles are on this ship, a startling number, it seems. Mrs. Palo Alto takes out a golden badge that I have seen affixed over many a breast, which reads CROWN AND ANCHOR SOCIETY along with her name. This is the coveted badge of the Pinnacle. “You should hear all the whining in Guest Services,” her husband tells me. Apparently, the Pinnacles who are not also Suites like us are all trying to use their status to get into Coastal Kitchen, our elite restaurant. Even a Pinnacle needs to be a Suite to access this level of corned-beef hash.

“We’re just baby Pinnacles,” Mrs. Palo Alto tells me, describing a kind of internal class struggle among the Pinnacle elite for ever higher status.

And now I understand what the maître d’ was saying to me on the first day of my cruise. He wasn’t saying “ pendejo .” He was saying “Pinnacle.” The dining room was for Pinnacles only, all those older people rolling in like the tide on their motorized scooters.

And now I understand something else: This whole thing is a cult. And like most cults, it can’t help but mirror the endless American fight for status. Like Keith Raniere’s NXIVM, where different-colored sashes were given out to connote rank among Raniere’s branded acolytes, this is an endless competition among Pinnacles, Suites, Diamond-Plusers, and facing-the-mall, no-balcony purple SeaPass Card peasants, not to mention the many distinctions within each category. The more you cruise, the higher your status. No wonder a section of the Royal Promenade is devoted to getting passengers to book their next cruise during the one they should be enjoying now. No wonder desperate Royal Caribbean offers (“FINAL HOURS”) crowded my email account weeks before I set sail. No wonder the ship’s jewelry store, the Royal Bling, is selling a $100,000 golden chalice that will entitle its owner to drink free on Royal Caribbean cruises for life. (One passenger was already gaming out whether her 28-year-old son was young enough to “just about earn out” on the chalice or if that ship had sailed.) No wonder this ship was sold out months before departure , and we had to pay $19,000 for a horrid suite away from the Suite Neighborhood. No wonder the most mythical hero of Royal Caribbean lore is someone named Super Mario, who has cruised so often, he now has his own working desk on many ships. This whole experience is part cult, part nautical pyramid scheme.

From the June 2014 issue: Ship of wonks

“The toilets are amazing,” the Palo Altos are telling me. “One flush and you’re done.” “They don’t understand how energy-efficient these ships are,” the husband of the other couple is telling me. “They got the LNG”—liquefied natural gas, which is supposed to make the Icon a boon to the environment (a concept widely disputed and sometimes ridiculed by environmentalists).

But I’m thinking along a different line of attack as I spear my last pallid slice of melon. For my streaming limited series, a Pinnacle would have to get killed by either an outright peasant or a Suite without an ocean view. I tell my breakfast companions my idea.

“Oh, for sure a Pinnacle would have to be killed,” Mr. Palo Alto, the Pandemic Pinnacle, says, touching his porn mustache thoughtfully as his wife nods.

“THAT’S RIGHT, IT’S your time, buddy!” Hubert, my fun-loving Panamanian cabin attendant, shouts as I step out of my suite in a robe. “Take it easy, buddy!”

I have come up with a new dressing strategy. Instead of trying to impress with my choice of T-shirts, I have decided to start wearing a robe, as one does at a resort property on land, with a proper spa and hammam. The response among my fellow cruisers has been ecstatic. “Look at you in the robe!” Mr. Rand cries out as we pass each other by the Thrill Island aqua park. “You’re living the cruise life! You know, you really drank me under the table that night.” I laugh as we part ways, but my soul cries out, Please spend more time with me, Mr. and Mrs. Rand; I so need the company .

In my white robe, I am a stately presence, a refugee from a better limited series, a one-man crossover episode. (Only Suites are granted these robes to begin with.) Today, I will try many of the activities these ships have on offer to provide their clientele with a sense of never-ceasing motion. Because I am already at Thrill Island, I decide to climb the staircase to what looks like a mast on an old-fashioned ship (terrified, because I am afraid of heights) to try a ride called “Storm Chasers,” which is part of the “Category 6” water park, named in honor of one of the storms that may someday do away with the Port of Miami entirely. Storm Chasers consists of falling from the “mast” down a long, twisting neon tube filled with water, like being the camera inside your own colonoscopy, as you hold on to the handles of a mat, hoping not to die. The tube then flops you down headfirst into a trough of water, a Royal Caribbean baptism. It both knocks my breath out and makes me sad.

In keeping with the aquatic theme, I attend a show at the AquaDome. To the sound of “Live and Let Die,” a man in a harness gyrates to and fro in the sultry air. I saw something very similar in the back rooms of the famed Berghain club in early-aughts Berlin. Soon another harnessed man is gyrating next to the first. Ja , I think to myself, I know how this ends. Now will come the fisting , natürlich . But the show soon devolves into the usual Marvel-film-grade nonsense, with too much light and sound signifying nichts . If any fisting is happening, it is probably in the Suite Neighborhood, inside a cabin marked with an upside-down pineapple, which I understand means a couple are ready to swing, and I will see none of it.

I go to the ice show, which is a kind of homage—if that’s possible—to the periodic table, done with the style and pomp and masterful precision that would please the likes of Kim Jong Un, if only he could afford Royal Caribbean talent. At one point, the dancers skate to the theme song of Succession . “See that!” I want to say to my fellow Suites—at “cultural” events, we have a special section reserved for us away from the commoners—“ Succession ! It’s even better than the zombie show! Open your minds!”

Finally, I visit a comedy revue in an enormous and too brightly lit version of an “intimate,” per Royal Caribbean literature, “Manhattan comedy club.” Many of the jokes are about the cruising life. “I’ve lived on ships for 20 years,” one of the middle-aged comedians says. “I can only see so many Filipino homosexuals dressed as a taco.” He pauses while the audience laughs. “I am so fired tonight,” he says. He segues into a Trump impression and then Biden falling asleep at the microphone, which gets the most laughs. “Anyone here from Fort Leonard Wood?” another comedian asks. Half the crowd seems to cheer. As I fall asleep that night, I realize another connection I have failed to make, and one that may explain some of the diversity on this vessel—many of its passengers have served in the military.

As a coddled passenger with a suite, I feel like I am starting to understand what it means to have a rank and be constantly reminded of it. There are many espresso makers , I think as I look across the expanse of my officer-grade quarters before closing my eyes, but this one is mine .

A shocking sight greets me beyond the pools of Deck 17 as I saunter over to the Coastal Kitchen for my morning intake of slightly sour Americanos. A tiny city beneath a series of perfectly pressed green mountains. Land! We have docked for a brief respite in Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitts and Nevis. I wolf down my egg scramble to be one of the first passengers off the ship. Once past the gangway, I barely refrain from kissing the ground. I rush into the sights and sounds of this scruffy island city, sampling incredible conch curry and buckets of non-Starbucks coffee. How wonderful it is to be where God intended humans to be: on land. After all, I am neither a fish nor a mall rat. This is my natural environment. Basseterre may not be Havana, but there are signs of human ingenuity and desire everywhere you look. The Black Table Grill Has been Relocated to Soho Village, Market Street, Directly Behind of, Gary’s Fruits and Flower Shop. Signed. THE PORK MAN reads a sign stuck to a wall. Now, that is how you write a sign. A real sign, not the come-ons for overpriced Rolexes that blink across the screens of the Royal Promenade.

“Hey, tie your shoestring!” a pair of laughing ladies shout to me across the street.

“Thank you!” I shout back. Shoestring! “Thank you very much.”

A man in Independence Square Park comes by and asks if I want to play with his monkey. I haven’t heard that pickup line since the Penn Station of the 1980s. But then he pulls a real monkey out of a bag. The monkey is wearing a diaper and looks insane. Wonderful , I think, just wonderful! There is so much life here. I email my editor asking if I can remain on St. Kitts and allow the Icon to sail off into the horizon without me. I have even priced a flight home at less than $300, and I have enough material from the first four days on the cruise to write the entire story. “It would be funny …” my editor replies. “Now get on the boat.”

As I slink back to the ship after my brief jailbreak, the locals stand under umbrellas to gaze at and photograph the boat that towers over their small capital city. The limousines of the prime minister and his lackeys are parked beside the gangway. St. Kitts, I’ve been told, is one of the few islands that would allow a ship of this size to dock.

“We hear about all the waterslides,” a sweet young server in one of the cafés told me. “We wish we could go on the ship, but we have to work.”

“I want to stay on your island,” I replied. “I love it here.”

But she didn’t understand how I could possibly mean that.

“WASHY, WASHY, so you don’t get stinky, stinky!” kids are singing outside the AquaDome, while their adult minders look on in disapproval, perhaps worried that Mr. Washy Washy is grooming them into a life of gayness. I heard a southern couple skip the buffet entirely out of fear of Mr. Washy Washy.

Meanwhile, I have found a new watering hole for myself, the Swim & Tonic, the biggest swim-up bar on any cruise ship in the world. Drinking next to full-size, nearly naked Americans takes away one’s own self-consciousness. The men have curvaceous mom bodies. The women are equally un-shy about their sprawling physiques.

Today I’ve befriended a bald man with many children who tells me that all of the little trinkets that Royal Caribbean has left us in our staterooms and suites are worth a fortune on eBay. “Eighty dollars for the water bottle, 60 for the lanyard,” the man says. “This is a cult.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. There is, however, a clientele for whom this cruise makes perfect sense. For a large middle-class family (he works in “supply chains”), seven days in a lower-tier cabin—which starts at $1,800 a person—allow the parents to drop off their children in Surfside, where I imagine many young Filipina crew members will take care of them, while the parents are free to get drunk at a swim-up bar and maybe even get intimate in their cabin. Cruise ships have become, for a certain kind of hardworking family, a form of subsidized child care.

There is another man I would like to befriend at the Swim & Tonic, a tall, bald fellow who is perpetually inebriated and who wears a necklace studded with little rubber duckies in sunglasses, which, I am told, is a sort of secret handshake for cruise aficionados. Tomorrow, I will spend more time with him, but first the ship docks at St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Charlotte Amalie, the capital, is more charming in name than in presence, but I still all but jump off the ship to score a juicy oxtail and plantains at the well-known Petite Pump Room, overlooking the harbor. From one of the highest points in the small city, the Icon of the Seas appears bigger than the surrounding hills.

I usually tan very evenly, but something about the discombobulation of life at sea makes me forget the regular application of sunscreen. As I walk down the streets of Charlotte Amalie in my fluorescent Icon of the Seas cap, an old Rastafarian stares me down. “Redneck,” he hisses.

“No,” I want to tell him, as I bring a hand up to my red neck, “that’s not who I am at all. On my island, Mannahatta, as Whitman would have it, I am an interesting person living within an engaging artistic milieu. I do not wish to use the Caribbean as a dumping ground for the cruise-ship industry. I love the work of Derek Walcott. You don’t understand. I am not a redneck. And if I am, they did this to me.” They meaning Royal Caribbean? Its passengers? The Rands?

“They did this to me!”

Back on the Icon, some older matrons are muttering about a run-in with passengers from the Celebrity cruise ship docked next to us, the Celebrity Apex. Although Celebrity Cruises is also owned by Royal Caribbean, I am made to understand that there is a deep fratricidal beef between passengers of the two lines. “We met a woman from the Apex,” one matron says, “and she says it was a small ship and there was nothing to do. Her face was as tight as a 19-year-old’s, she had so much surgery.” With those words, and beneath a cloudy sky, humidity shrouding our weathered faces and red necks, we set sail once again, hopefully in the direction of home.

THERE ARE BARELY 48 HOURS LEFT to the cruise, and the Icon of the Seas’ passengers are salty. They know how to work the elevators. They know the Washy Washy song by heart. They understand that the chicken gyro at “Feta Mediterranean,” in the AquaDome Market, is the least problematic form of chicken on the ship.

The passengers have shed their INAUGURAL CRUISE T-shirts and are now starting to evince political opinions. There are caps pledging to make America great again and T-shirts that celebrate words sometimes attributed to Patrick Henry: “The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people; it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government.” With their preponderance of FAMILY FLAG FAITH FRIENDS FIREARMS T-shirts, the tables by the crepe station sometimes resemble the Capitol Rotunda on January 6. The Real Anthony Fauci , by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., appears to be a popular form of literature, especially among young men with very complicated versions of the American flag on their T-shirts. Other opinions blend the personal and the political. “Someone needs to kill Washy guy, right?” a well-dressed man in the elevator tells me, his gray eyes radiating nothing. “Just beat him to death. Am I right?” I overhear the male member of a young couple whisper, “There goes that freak” as I saunter by in my white spa robe, and I decide to retire it for the rest of the cruise.

I visit the Royal Bling to see up close the $100,000 golden chalice that entitles you to free drinks on Royal Caribbean forever. The pleasant Serbian saleslady explains that the chalice is actually gold-plated and covered in white zirconia instead of diamonds, as it would otherwise cost $1 million. “If you already have everything,” she explains, “this is one more thing you can get.”

I believe that anyone who works for Royal Caribbean should be entitled to immediate American citizenship. They already speak English better than most of the passengers and, per the Serbian lady’s sales pitch above, better understand what America is as well. Crew members like my Panamanian cabin attendant seem to work 24 hours a day. A waiter from New Delhi tells me that his contract is six months and three weeks long. After a cruise ends, he says, “in a few hours, we start again for the next cruise.” At the end of the half a year at sea, he is allowed a two-to-three-month stay at home with his family. As of 2019, the median income for crew members was somewhere in the vicinity of $20,000, according to a major business publication. Royal Caribbean would not share the current median salary for its crew members, but I am certain that it amounts to a fraction of the cost of a Royal Bling gold-plated, zirconia-studded chalice.

And because most of the Icon’s hyper-sanitized spaces are just a frittata away from being a Delta lounge, one forgets that there are actual sailors on this ship, charged with the herculean task of docking it in port. “Having driven 100,000-ton aircraft carriers throughout my career,” retired Admiral James G. Stavridis, the former NATO Supreme Allied Commander Europe, writes to me, “I’m not sure I would even know where to begin with trying to control a sea monster like this one nearly three times the size.” (I first met Stavridis while touring Army bases in Germany more than a decade ago.)

Today, I decide to head to the hot tub near Swim & Tonic, where some of the ship’s drunkest reprobates seem to gather (the other tubs are filled with families and couples). The talk here, like everywhere else on the ship, concerns football, a sport about which I know nothing. It is apparent that four teams have recently competed in some kind of finals for the year, and that two of them will now face off in the championship. Often when people on the Icon speak, I will try to repeat the last thing they said with a laugh or a nod of disbelief. “Yes, 20-yard line! Ha!” “Oh my God, of course, scrimmage.”

Soon we are joined in the hot tub by the late-middle-age drunk guy with the duck necklace. He is wearing a bucket hat with the legend HAWKEYES , which, I soon gather, is yet another football team. “All right, who turned me in?” Duck Necklace says as he plops into the tub beside us. “I get a call in the morning,” he says. “It’s security. Can you come down to the dining room by 10 a.m.? You need to stay away from the members of this religious family.” Apparently, the gregarious Duck Necklace had photobombed the wrong people. There are several families who present as evangelical Christians or practicing Muslims on the ship. One man, evidently, was not happy that Duck Necklace had made contact with his relatives. “It’s because of religious stuff; he was offended. I put my arm around 20 people a day.”

Everyone laughs. “They asked me three times if I needed medication,” he says of the security people who apparently interrogated him in full view of others having breakfast.

Another hot-tub denizen suggests that he should have asked for fentanyl. After a few more drinks, Duck Necklace begins to muse about what it would be like to fall off the ship. “I’m 62 and I’m ready to go,” he says. “I just don’t want a shark to eat me. I’m a huge God guy. I’m a Bible guy. There’s some Mayan theory squaring science stuff with religion. There is so much more to life on Earth.” We all nod into our Red Stripes.

“I never get off the ship when we dock,” he says. He tells us he lost $6,000 in the casino the other day. Later, I look him up, and it appears that on land, he’s a financial adviser in a crisp gray suit, probably a pillar of his North Chicago community.

THE OCEAN IS TEEMING with fascinating life, but on the surface it has little to teach us. The waves come and go. The horizon remains ever far away.

I am constantly told by my fellow passengers that “everybody here has a story.” Yes, I want to reply, but everybody everywhere has a story. You, the reader of this essay, have a story, and yet you’re not inclined to jump on a cruise ship and, like Duck Necklace, tell your story to others at great pitch and volume. Maybe what they’re saying is that everybody on this ship wants to have a bigger, more coherent, more interesting story than the one they’ve been given. Maybe that’s why there’s so much signage on the doors around me attesting to marriages spent on the sea. Maybe that’s why the Royal Caribbean newsletter slipped under my door tells me that “this isn’t a vacation day spent—it’s bragging rights earned.” Maybe that’s why I’m so lonely.

Today is a big day for Icon passengers. Today the ship docks at Royal Caribbean’s own Bahamian island, the Perfect Day at CocoCay. (This appears to be the actual name of the island.) A comedian at the nightclub opined on what his perfect day at CocoCay would look like—receiving oral sex while learning that his ex-wife had been killed in a car crash (big laughter). But the reality of the island is far less humorous than that.

One of the ethnic tristate ladies in the infinity pool told me that she loved CocoCay because it had exactly the same things that could be found on the ship itself. This proves to be correct. It is like the Icon, but with sand. The same tired burgers, the same colorful tubes conveying children and water from Point A to B. The same swim-up bar at its Hideaway ($140 for admittance, no children allowed; Royal Caribbean must be printing money off its clientele). “There was almost a fight at The Wizard of Oz ,” I overhear an elderly woman tell her companion on a chaise lounge. Apparently one of the passengers began recording Royal Caribbean’s intellectual property and “three guys came after him.”

I walk down a pathway to the center of the island, where a sign reads DO NOT ENTER: YOU HAVE REACHED THE BOUNDARY OF ADVENTURE . I hear an animal scampering in the bushes. A Royal Caribbean worker in an enormous golf cart soon chases me down and takes me back to the Hideaway, where I run into Mrs. Rand in a bikini. She becomes livid telling me about an altercation she had the other day with a woman over a towel and a deck chair. We Suites have special towel privileges; we do not have to hand over our SeaPass Card to score a towel. But the Rands are not Suites. “People are so entitled here,” Mrs. Rand says. “It’s like the airport with all its classes.” “You see,” I want to say, “this is where your husband’s love of Ayn Rand runs into the cruelties and arbitrary indignities of unbridled capitalism.” Instead we make plans to meet for a final drink in the Schooner Bar tonight (the Rands will stand me up).

Back on the ship, I try to do laps, but the pool (the largest on any cruise ship, naturally) is fully trashed with the detritus of American life: candy wrappers, a slowly dissolving tortilla chip, napkins. I take an extra-long shower in my suite, then walk around the perimeter of the ship on a kind of exercise track, past all the alluring lifeboats in their yellow-and-white livery. Maybe there is a dystopian angle to the HBO series that I will surely end up pitching, one with shades of WALL-E or Snowpiercer . In a collapsed world, a Royal Caribbean–like cruise liner sails from port to port, collecting new shipmates and supplies in exchange for the precious energy it has on board. (The actual Icon features a new technology that converts passengers’ poop into enough energy to power the waterslides . In the series, this shitty technology would be greatly expanded.) A very young woman (18? 19?), smart and lonely, who has only known life on the ship, walks along the same track as I do now, contemplating jumping off into the surf left by its wake. I picture reusing Duck Necklace’s words in the opening shot of the pilot. The girl is walking around the track, her eyes on the horizon; maybe she’s highborn—a Suite—and we hear the voice-over: “I’m 19 and I’m ready to go. I just don’t want a shark to eat me.”

Before the cruise is finished, I talk to Mr. Washy Washy, or Nielbert of the Philippines. He is a sweet, gentle man, and I thank him for the earworm of a song he has given me and for keeping us safe from the dreaded norovirus. “This is very important to me, getting people to wash their hands,” he tells me in his burger getup. He has dreams, as an artist and a performer, but they are limited in scope. One day he wants to dress up as a piece of bacon for the morning shift.

THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE TITANIC (the Icon of the Seas is five times as large as that doomed vessel) at least offered its passengers an exciting ending to their cruise, but when I wake up on the eighth day, all I see are the gray ghosts that populate Miami’s condo skyline. Throughout my voyage, my writer friends wrote in to commiserate with me. Sloane Crosley, who once covered a three-day spa mini-cruise for Vogue , tells me she felt “so very alone … I found it very untethering.” Gideon Lewis-Kraus writes in an Instagram comment: “When Gary is done I think it’s time this genre was taken out back and shot.” And he is right. To badly paraphrase Adorno: After this, no more cruise stories. It is unfair to put a thinking person on a cruise ship. Writers typically have difficult childhoods, and it is cruel to remind them of the inherent loneliness that drove them to writing in the first place. It is also unseemly to write about the kind of people who go on cruises. Our country does not provide the education and upbringing that allow its citizens an interior life. For the creative class to point fingers at the large, breasty gentlemen adrift in tortilla-chip-laden pools of water is to gather a sour harvest of low-hanging fruit.

A day or two before I got off the ship, I decided to make use of my balcony, which I had avoided because I thought the view would only depress me further. What I found shocked me. My suite did not look out on Central Park after all. This entire time, I had been living in the ship’s Disneyland, Surfside, the neighborhood full of screaming toddlers consuming milkshakes and candy. And as I leaned out over my balcony, I beheld a slight vista of the sea and surf that I thought I had been missing. It had been there all along. The sea was frothy and infinite and blue-green beneath the span of a seagull’s wing. And though it had been trod hard by the world’s largest cruise ship, it remained.

This article appears in the May 2024 print edition with the headline “A Meatball at Sea.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

Watch our videos

252,000 subscribers

Join the conversation

134,000 followers

Pin our posts

25,000 followers

Get our newsletter

85,640 subscribers

• Hearing-Aids
• Healthy Aging
• Losing Weight
• Medical Issues
• Reducing Stress
• Brain Health
• Solo Travel
• Travel Tips
• Small Business
• Part-time Jobs
• Encore Careers
• Managing Money
• End of Life Planning
• Retirement Tips
• Senior Living
• Journal Writing
• Entertainment
• Inspiration
• Empowerment
• Getting Older
• Reinvention
• Giving Back
• Dating Advice
• Online Dating
• Adult Children
• Grandchildren
• Estrangement
• Arts and Crafts
• Piano Lessons
• Photography

Do You Write to Improve Your Health?

The ravens love my neighbors. Every week, their trash bin overflows with evidence of their huge family, spilling the remnants of their life out and onto the street. The lid is always open, supported by at least a foot of waste that didn’t fit any other way. On a windy day, much of this overflow ends up at my house, yard, flower beds, or lawn. The ravens perch on the rim of the garbage bin, pulling out choice pieces of trash to the ground so they can look closely at what might be inside. Spreading garbage all over the street.

Did you know that ravens are brilliant creatures? They’re known for their problem-solving skills, ability to use tools of many kinds, and highly high social intelligence. Sometimes, I wonder what those ravens are thinking. Do they have a system for predicting which items are more likely to contain food? They’re pretty good at unwrapping and opening, and I wonder where their limit is. Part of me wants to fill my trashcan with carefully wrapped gifts for them, all with food inside, to see just what they’re capable of accomplishing. 

It used to bother me, all this garbage all over the place. Now, I find humor in its place. And material. I think about it, possibly too much, as you can probably see, and I write about it. About everything else that I find interesting, unusual, extraordinary, or frustrating. It’s a different way of being and thinking, and it takes the edge off everything, even before I write about it. It’s a fantastic release for letting go of stress. If you want it to be.

Have You Ever Considered Writing?

If you’re on the fence or haven’t even approached the gate, here are a few reasons you may want to consider writing for personal growth and long-term health.

• Writing can be an emotional outlet, helping reduce stress by allowing you to process and express feelings. This can lead to a sense of relief and improved mood.
• Reflective writing, such as journaling , can help manage depression and anxiety by providing a space for self-reflection and emotional processing.
• Writing can help you work through problems systematically, improving decision-making skills and cognitive functioning.
• Writing things down helps reinforce memory and learning. It can make it easier to recall information and understand complex concepts.
• Creative writing stimulates the brain, fostering creativity and imagination, which can improve overall cognitive health .
• Stress reduction from writing can lower blood pressure and heart rate, contributing to cardiovascular health.
• By reducing stress and anxiety, writing can help improve sleep quality , essential for overall physical health.
• Reducing stress through writing can positively impact the immune system, making the body more resilient against illnesses.
• Writing about thoughts and feelings increases self-awareness , which can lead to better emotional regulation and healthier relationships.
• Writing down goals and tracking progress can help achieve personal aspirations, leading to a sense of accomplishment and enhanced self-esteem.
• Writing can improve communication skills, making it easier to express thoughts and feelings effectively in social interactions.

There are many ways to write, and all of them are beneficial.

Journaling: Regularly writing about daily experiences and emotions.

Gratitude Journaling: Focusing on things you’re grateful for enhances positivity.

Creative Writing: Engaging in fiction, poetry, or other creative forms of writing.

Reflective Writing: Writing about personal experiences to gain insights and self-awareness.

Expressive Writing: Writing freely about thoughts and feelings without worrying about grammar or structure.

How to Make the Most of Writing

Here are some tips to help you maximize the benefits of writing.

Create a Comfortable Space

Choose a quiet, comfortable place where you feel relaxed and focused. Use a journal or digital device that you are comfortable with. Some people prefer the tactile feel of pen and paper, while others like typing. I like both, depending on my mood.

Start with Prompts if You Want

Use prompts to help you get started, especially if you need help with what to write about. Prompts can be questions about your day, feelings, or specific topics like gratitude or goals.

Examples: “What am I grateful for today?”, “What is one challenge I faced, and how did I handle it?” “Describe a happy memory.”

Gratitude Journaling

Spend a few minutes each day writing about things you are grateful for. This can shift your focus from negative to positive aspects of life. Be specific about what you are thankful for and why. This deepens the practice and makes it more meaningful.

Reflect on Emotions

Write about your feelings. Acknowledge both positive and negative emotions without judgment. Use writing to process complex emotions and understand why you feel a certain way.

Engage in Creative Writing

Write fiction, poetry, or creative non-fiction. Creative writing allows you to express yourself uniquely, fostering a sense of accomplishment and joy.

Be Honest and Authentic

Write honestly about your thoughts, feelings, and experiences. Authentic writing is more effective for emotional release and self-discovery.

Use Reflective Writing

Reflect on past experiences to learn from them. Write about lessons learned, personal growth, and future aspirations. This can provide a sense of direction and purpose.

Incorporate Mindfulness

Focus on the present moment while writing. Pay attention to your thoughts, feelings, and surroundings.

Don’t Pressure Yourself

Don’t pressure yourself to write perfectly or have profound insights every time. The goal is the process, not the product. Allow yourself to skip days if needed. Writing should be a helpful tool, not a source of stress. Don’t feel compelled to create a schedule. Write when you feel like it.

I had no idea when I took my dog out for a walk this morning that garbage day would give me an idea for a post here, but I love that it did. Writing is magical in that way. It makes you more observant and lets you deal with the negative in a healthier way. Not every time, mind you. But those moments are surprisingly frequent and completely worthwhile.

Let’s Have a Conversation:

Have you ever tried using writing as a way to manage stress or process emotions? What was your experience like? Which of the benefits of writing mentioned in the article resonates most with you and why? Do you think everyone has a book in them?

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed .

My daughters gave me Storyworth. So for one whole year I wrote and short story about growing up. Storyworth prints it at the end of the year. . I’ve missed writing so I am writing a book about the little airline that no one seems to remember but I was a stewardess for. Need to figure out how to publish it!

How about a solution to raven trash all over your yard? Buy your neighbors a very large trash can so they have one extra can to hold the overflow. And, what a great idea, gifts of food for the ravens. You might even test their reasoning skills by putting food in a box with a blue bow and one empty one with a red one.

Ha, thanks! Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way in our neighborhood as the bins, already enormous, are provided by the collection company. Our neighbors would pay more, every week, for a second one. Color coding would be an interesting experiment! If I ever am at a loss for something to do, I may consider it.

So -ive been journaling for close to 40 years. Just about daily life. Ups, downs, health and kids. Its such a part of me its like daily medicine – thats free!

That’s fantastic Nancy! Do you ever go back and read what you’ve written so long ago?

Hi Tammy, yes I do! Some of the special days ( weddings or vacations etc) nice to relive. Other things I can look up ER. Trips or medical stuff & it’s like a personal reference book. do you journal?

This is something I would like to do I’m thinking of doing a gratitude journal even if I only write a sentence when faced with a blank piece of paper my mind goes blank like a mental block perhaps it like anything new you have to start some where one word in front of the other like steps one at a time

You might appreciate a little journal I found online, called A Line A Day. That’s all you write, just one line a day. It gets easier over time. And looking back on your writing is so very interesting!

I found that during and after my sessions with my therapist that writing was a huge release for me. I even wrote a short memoir detailing my experiences with trauma from a teenage pregnancy followed by an abortion and having been raped along with sexual assaults. I joined a blog for writers and have written several articles on various subject matter along with some poetry. Being a part of a community of fellow writers gives me inspiration and insights for my own writing. I have been having an issue with writers block more recently. I don’t know why but I am giving myself grace and space to sit down with it whenever I feel ready again. It can’t ever be forced. You have to just let it flow!!

You go Julie! I read your post and it has given me hope that I too can give myself grace to help myself through writing. If I miss a day, there is always tomorrow

It’s a great way to work through your thoughts and feelings. And you’re right, it should never be forced!

Tags Journal Writing

Tammi Kaeberlein

Dr. Tammi Kaeberlein is a scientist, working in the field of aging biology. She’s also the owner and author of Wander Healthy, a travel and lifestyle blog that provides practical tips, inspiration, and motivation to move more, so that you can adventure as far and as long as you want to.

You Might Also Like

The Physical, Mental and Emotional Benefits of Keeping a Diary

The New Benefits of Journaling: 7 Ways Diaries and Journals Have Grown Up and Gone Digital

print this page Print this page

10 Ways to Detect AI Writing Without Technology

As more of my students have submitted AI-generated work, I’ve gotten better at recognizing it.

AI-generated papers have become regular but unwelcome guests in the undergraduate college courses I teach. I first noticed an AI paper submitted last summer, and in the months since I’ve come to expect to see several per assignment, at least in 100-level classes.

I’m far from the only teacher dealing with this. Turnitin recently announced that in the year since it debuted its AI detection tool, about 3 percent of papers it reviewed were at least 80 percent AI-generated.

Just as AI has improved and grown more sophisticated over the past 9 months, so have teachers. AI often has a distinct writing style with several tells that have become more and more apparent to me the more frequently I encounter any.

Before we get to these strategies, however, it’s important to remember that suspected AI use isn’t immediate grounds for disciplinary action. These cases should be used as conversation starters with students and even – forgive the cliché – as a teachable moment to explain the problems with using AI-generated work. 

To that end, I’ve written previously about how I handled these suspected AI cases , the troubling limitations and discriminatory tendencies of existing AI detectors , and about what happens when educators incorrectly accuse students of using AI . 

With those caveats firmly in place, here are the signs I look for to detect AI use from my students. 

1. How to Detect AI Writing: The Submission is Too Long 

When an assignment asks students for one paragraph and a student turns in more than a page, my spidey sense goes off. 

Tech & Learning Newsletter

Tools and ideas to transform education. Sign up below.

Almost every class does have one overachieving student who will do this without AI, but that student usually sends 14 emails the first week and submits every assignment early, and most importantly, while too long, their assignment is often truly well written. A student who suddenly overproduces raises a red flag.

2. The Answer Misses The Mark While Also Being Too Long

Being long in and of itself isn’t enough to identify AI use, but it's often overlong assignments that have additional strange features that can make it suspicious. 

For instance, the assignment might be four times the required length yet doesn’t include the required citations or cover page. Or it goes on and on about something related to the topic but doesn’t quite get at the specifics of the actual question asked. 

3. AI Writing is Emotionless Even When Describing Emotions 

If ChatGPT was a musician it would be Kenny G or Muzak. As it stands now, AI writing is the equivalent of verbal smooth jazz or grey noise. ChatGPT, for instance, has this very peppy positive vibe that somehow doesn’t convey actual emotion. 

One assignment I have asks students to reflect on important memories or favorite hobbies. You immediately sense the hollowness of ChatGPT's response to this kind of prompt. For example, I just told ChatGPT I loved skateboarding as a kid and asked it for an essay describing that. Here’s how ChatGPT started: 

As a kid, there was nothing more exhilarating than the feeling of cruising on my skateboard. The rhythmic sound of wheels against pavement, the wind rushing through my hair, and the freedom to explore the world on four wheels – skateboarding was not just a hobby; it was a source of unbridled joy.

You get the point. It’s like an extended elevator jazz sax solo but with words.  

4. Cliché Overuse

Part of the reason AI writing is so emotionless is that its cliché use is, well, on steroids.

Take the skateboarding example in the previous entry. Even in the short sample, we see lines such as “the wind rushing through my hair, and the freedom to explore the world on four wheels.” Students, regardless of their writing abilities, always have more original thoughts and ways of seeing the world than that. If a student actually wrote something like that, we’d encourage them to be more authentic and truly descriptive.

Of course, with more prompt adjustments, ChatGPT and other AI’s tools can do better, but the students using AI for assignments rarely put in this extra time.

5. The Assignment Is Submitted Early

I don’t want to cast aspersions on those true overachievers who get their suitcases packed a week before vacation starts, finish winter holiday shopping in July, and have already started saving for retirement, but an early submission may be the first signal that I’m about to read some robot writing.

For example, several students this semester submitted an assignment the moment it became available. That is unusual, and in all of these cases, their writing also exhibited other stylistic points consistent with AI writing.

Warning: Use this tip with caution as it is also true that many of my best students have submitted assignments early over the years.

6. The Setting Is Out of Time

AI image generators frequently have little tells that signal the AI model that created it doesn’t understand what the world actually looks like — think extra fingers on human hands or buildings that don’t really follow the laws of physics.

When AI is asked to write fiction or describe something from a student’s life, similar mistakes often occur. Recently, a short story assignment in one of my classes resulted in several stories that took place in a nebulous time frame that jumped between modern times and the past with no clear purpose.

If done intentionally this could actually be pretty cool and give the stories a kind of magical realism vibe, but in these instances, it was just wonky and out-of-left-field, and felt kind of alien and strange. Or, you know, like a robot had written it.

7. Excessive Use of Lists and Bullet Points  

Here are some reasons that I suspect students are using AI if their papers have many lists or bullet points: 

1. ChatGPT and other AI generators frequently present information in list form even though human authors generally know that’s not an effective way to write an essay. 

2. Most human writers will not inherently write this way, especially new writers who often struggle with organizing information.

3. While lists can be a good way to organize information, presenting more complex ideas in this manner can be .…

4 … annoying. 

5. Do you see what I mean? 

6. (Yes, I know, it's ironic that I'm complaining about this here given that this story is also a list.)

8. It’s Mistake-Free 

I’ve criticized ChatGPT’s writing here yet in fairness it does produce very clean prose that is, on average, more error-free than what is submitted by many of my students. Even experienced writers miss commas, have long and awkward sentences, and make little mistakes – which is why we have editors. ChatGPT’s writing isn’t too “perfect” but it’s too clean.  

9. The Writing Doesn’t Match The Student’s Other Work  

Writing instructors know this inherently and have long been on the lookout for changes in voice that could be an indicator that a student is plagiarizing work. 

AI writing doesn't really change that. When a student submits new work that is wildly different from previous work, or when their discussion board comments are riddled with errors not found in their formal assignments, it's time to take a closer look. 

10. Something Is Just . . . Off 

The boundaries between these different AI writing tells blur together and sometimes it's a combination of a few things that gets me to suspect a piece of writing. Other times it’s harder to tell what is off about the writing, and I just get the sense that a human didn’t do the work in front of me. 

I’ve learned to trust these gut instincts to a point. When confronted with these more subtle cases, I will often ask a fellow instructor or my department chair to take a quick look (I eliminate identifying student information when necessary). Getting a second opinion helps ensure I’ve not gone down a paranoid “my students are all robots and nothing I read is real” rabbit hole. Once a colleague agrees something is likely up, I’m comfortable going forward with my AI hypothesis based on suspicion alone, in part, because as mentioned previously, I use suspected cases of AI as conversation starters rather than to make accusations. 

Again, it is difficult to prove students are using AI and accusing them of doing so is problematic. Even ChatGPT knows that. When I asked it why it is bad to accuse students of using AI to write papers, the chatbot answered: “Accusing students of using AI without proper evidence or understanding can be problematic for several reasons.” 

Then it launched into a list. 

• Best Free AI Detection Sites
• My Student Was Submitting AI Papers. Here's What I Did
• She Wrote A Book About AI in Education. Here’s How AI Helped

Erik Ofgang is a Tech & Learning contributor. A journalist,  author  and educator, his work has appeared in The New York Times, the Washington Post, the Smithsonian, The Atlantic, and Associated Press. He currently teaches at Western Connecticut State University’s MFA program. While a staff writer at Connecticut Magazine he won a Society of Professional Journalism Award for his education reporting. He is interested in how humans learn and how technology can make that more effective. 

What Is Blooket And How Does It Work? What's New?

Best Apps and Sites for Augmented Reality

The Importance of AI Acceptance in Education

Most Popular