Update : The Essay

This semester at Pacific was my essay semester—I was required to "develop a polished work in literary analysis that demonstrates clarity of thought and expression of English prose" of 15-20 pages in length. The subject I chose was subtext in fiction; the instructor I worked with was David Long.

First, let me say, that this has been a memorable semester for me in many ways.When returning to my creative work, after a short hiatus of the essay, I suddenly began to see very clearly areas in my stories that needed improvement. I think this is the inevitable culmination of: 1.) all the info gathered from 1^st and 2^nd semester beginning to sink in 2.) working with an excellent instructor/writer 3.) clearly writing about the how and why a literary construct works forced me to look at my own writing with the same standards. 4.) being allowed time to look deeply into why I love literature & why I write.

The advantage of choosing the broad essay topic of subtext—I had a lot of room to explore. Having only five months (and only 20 pages) to work on that broad topic, well, that's the disadvantage. Still, I'm glad I stuck with it. Right off, I had problems with clarity and focus. David's advice to split the essay into subsections was a huge help. I nailed down a thesis statement, divided the essay into different subcategories, and then began working on revisions (which ranged from simple line editing to completely new drafts of sections). I spent so many hours working on the essay—reading, taking notes, writing, rereading, editing, revising. I have to admit, it was a lot harder than I thought it would be. But unbelievably worth it.

The single piece of knowledge gained? (It's not going to sound revolutionary, but it was to me.) To write well demands clarity and focus— and if your a mysterious writer, even more so—and if your writing an essay about subtext—even more so.

To sum up: it's been a deliriously gratifying semester.

Okay, here's a taste . . .

The poison ivy grew green and lush in the field behind our cabin. I was ten years old and bare-legged, sprinting through the sprawl of vines and tall grass, headed for water. It caught me, the ivy. Tiny red bumps started around my ankles and quickly spread up my thighs to my stomach and chest, growing into large welts and soon high fevers, chills and difficulty breathing. A severe allergic reaction, the doctor said. In bed, under damp towels, arms coated with the pink clay of Calamine, I summered alongside The Trumpet of the Swan, The One in the Middle is the Green Kangaroo, The Chronicles of Narnia and tattered copies of my mom's old Nancy Drews. The sheets below me felt like sandpaper; red light seeped in from the shades as if the whole room were poisoned and infected.

Years later, during my freshman year of high school, I read Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis. Instantly, I recalled my poison ivy summer, and became fascinated and mystified by how Kafka was able to evoke Gregor's feelings of isolation. Like many readers, I was intrigued with the concept of a man inexplicably turning into an insect, but came to realize the elements I was drawn to were far more subtle.

Charles Baxter defines subtext as “what propels readers beyond the plot of a novel or short story into the realm of what haunts the imagination: the implied, the half-visible and the unspoken” (3). When a writer communicates the thoughts or motivations of characters through implication, rather then explicit statement, she is using subtext. By exploring how writers use subtext within setting, detail, voice, comparison, dialog, and omission, I will illustrate how words whisper, hint, linger and tug at meaning just below the surface.