Due Sept. 20
English 101 Narrative Writing
Narrative writing is storytelling. Fiction ? novels and short stories ? is a form of narrative writing. It tells a story, usually in chronological order and usually focusing on true events, though fiction is the art of creating. For English 101 class, narrative writing will focus on a true event, something that actually happened in your lifetime.
For your first essay assignment, write a narrative essay about a best friend. The narrative should focus on a moment in time that exemplifies you and this friend being best friends. For instance, if you believe being best friends means being there for each other in a time of need, give an example of that. Show how your friend was there for you, or visa-versa.
First of all, decide what your subject is going to be. Who or what would you consider your best friend. Define friendship. What makes this friend a best friend. Then find a moment in time to use for the narrative. Focus your essay ? you can’t write about an entire friendship or even about an entire summer with your best friend. Find a moment in time, a day, an afternoon, an hour, and write about that.
There is no word limit for this essay, but it must be complete. Use details, actions, dialogue to develop the moment. Your audience is not there, but you need to place them there. You need to be their eyes and ears, their senses. A good narrative essay will be developed to a point that your audience feels a part of it. Be specific. DEPTH.
Remember, the essay should be word-processed, double spaced, and it must include a rough draft. You will be able to revise it, but if there is no rough draft, you will have to revise it. Remember also to send your draft and your essay as attachments. I need to be able to look at it in Microsoft Word.
Here is another sample essay on this topic you can take a look at:
Fishing the West Branch
The river churned violently before us, its waters swollen by last night’s massive thunderstorm. The rapids were dangerously alive: if either Bart or I slipped into that torrent, we’d be swept downstream without a hope.
There’s no way we’re going to catch any fish here, I thought to myself. No trout in his right mind would waste the energy to venture out into those horrific currents to strike at a fly, even if it was the most scrumptious looking morsel he’d ever seen.
But Bart was determined, calling this section of the Ausable the “best damned trout stream you’ll ever see.” So I agreed to give it a shot, despite the bad weather of the last few days.
Over the years, I had learned to trust Bart’s judgment. I’d known him since he moved to our town and enrolled in my third grade class at school. He was the quiet kid in the back, the kid everyone stared at for the first hour and then forgot about by the end of the day. But the moment I met him, I knew he was going to be a great friend, and we’ve been pretty much together ever since.
“How the hell are we going to catch anything here?” I finally asked him, yelling above the roar of the stream.
“Have faith, my boy,” he said. “Have faith.”
He then told me to follow him along a trail that led upstream. We walked another fifteen minutes, sometimes moving away from the stream and sometimes walking precariously above it on the edge of a cliff. Throughout, all I could hear was the continuous roar of water rushing past us on its way to the river’s mouth, and that kept me in a state of fear.
But then we broke into a small clearing where the river rushed by just a few inches from the top of the bank. The Ausable was maybe 50 feet wide here, and several large rocks spread across it had created pools of less turbulent water downstream.
“Give this spot a shot,” Bart said. “Cast your line upstream from those pools and let it drift downstream. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
He then started walking further upstream. I asked him where he was going, and he called back saying he had his special spot, too before he disappeared into the woods again.
I took a few minutes to remove my backpack and set my tackle box and creel for storing any fish I might be lucky enough to catch. Then, standing as close to the bank as I dared, I made my first cast, flicking my elbow back and forth until the line was out far enough and I allowed the fly to land atop the surging stream.
The fly moved quickly into one of the pools, and almost immediately, I felt a strike, a powerful from beneath the surface. A second later, a large brookie broke the surface and quickly disappeared, the fly attached firmly.
The battle took only a matter of minutes, but when I scooped the brookie out of the river, I was aghast at its size: easily a five-pounder. Definitely a trophy fish, and on my first attempt. I yelled to Bart but heard nothing from him upstream. The river, I assumed, was just too loud for him to hear me.
I followed the same technique two more times and pulled in this guy’s bigger brother and sister. All three fish were prime specimens, beauties with their bright, colorful markings and their sheer power in battling my efforts.
I wanted to fish more, but I feared taking more than the limit, so I packed up with plans to meet up with Bart upstream. Before I was able to make my way up the trail, however, he reappeared, a huge smile on his face.
“Well?” he asked. “Any luck?”
“Damn, Bart, three monsters. It was great. How’d you know about this place?”
“Angler’s secret,” he said, opening his creel box to show me the trophy catches he made.
It was a great day, fishing the West Branch with Bart that day. I’ve been back a couple of times and had some luck as well, but never did I find those trophy catches that Bart had led me to.
It was a special moment, indeed.