Writing is a shape-shifting beast. You can be “good” at it in a dozen different forms and still feel like you’re chasing your own tail. For years, I fancied myself the next great novelist — imagining a future where my name graced the bestsellers list, sandwiched between the latest dystopian romance and whatever Stephen King cooked up that week. Alas, soon reality bit me hard, and I came to the crushing realization that my literary ambitions were as realistic as my childhood dream of becoming a starship captain. But before you reach for the tissues, know that all is not lost.
I had other much more realistic dreams, too, like becoming a sportswriter. Unfortunately, the field was more crowded than a Black Friday sale, and after banging my head against that brick wall for a while, I waved the white flag. Then, in a desperate act of reinvention, I dabbled in songwriting. Of course, I’m no Bob Dylan. Instead, I found myself veering into the territory of poetry — short-form, medium-form (if that’s even a thing), or whatever other form could contain my jumbled, half-baked thoughts. While I’m not terrible at writing verses, I wasn’t going to be penning the next Shakespearean sonnet or number one hit song.
But the one form of writing that has stuck with me like a bad habit is the essay. You know, those literary concoctions that let you spill your guts, overanalyze the world, and generally prattle on about whatever you please. According to dictionary.com (because who doesn’t love a good definition to spice things up), an essay is “a short literary composition on a particular theme or subject, usually in prose and generally analytic, speculative, or interpretative.” In other words, it’s a playground for those of us who think our thoughts are too important to keep to ourselves.
Here’s the good news: it’s still very possible to be an essayist today. That’s a relief because let’s face it, not all of us are cut out to be novelists or “authors” in the grand, old-fashioned sense. Sure, getting someone to pay you for your essays is like finding a unicorn at a gas station, but that’s beside the point.
Nowadays, essays come in all shapes and sizes — photo essays, video essays, you name it. They’re all valid forms of expression, though if you ask me, the prose variety still holds a special place. Also, just because it’s delivered as prose doesn’t mean it can’t be poetic, too. Essays can be a mishmash, a grab-bag of whatever your brain decides to spew out on any given day.
One of the greats, the titan of the essay form, was E.B. White. You know him, even if you don’t think you do. He’s the guy who wrote Charlotte’s Web — yes, my personal favorite heart-wrenching tale about a pig and a spider that makes me bawl like a baby every time I read it. But before he broke our hearts with barnyard tales, White was making a name for himself as an essayist, churning out piece after piece for The New Yorker. Let me tell you, this guy could write an essay that made you feel like you were sitting across the table from him, sharing a cup of coffee while he told you how the world really worked.
So, what does it take to be a great essayist? Well, according to White, you need to be shamelessly self-centered. Really, you don’t write essays unless you think your thoughts are God’s gift to the world. White once said, “Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays.” Effrontery is a fancy word for “shameless boldness,” and it’s
a prerequisite for the job. You’ve got to have the guts to believe that your musings on life, the universe, and everything in between are worth someone else’s time.
But White didn’t stop there. He painted a picture of the essayist as “self-liberated,” someone who genuinely believes that everything he or she thinks about is of general interest. “He is a fellow who thoroughly enjoys his work, just as people who take bird walks enjoy theirs,” White wrote. The essayist is on a perpetual “attempt,” each piece of writing an adventure into uncharted territory. It’s this endless curiosity, this childlike delight in the craft, that keeps we essayists going.
White likened the essay to a wardrobe filled with endless possibilities. An essayist can don the garb of a philosopher, a scold, a jester, or a confidant, depending on the mood or subject matter of the day. The genre allows you to be a thousand different people while still being yourself — a perfect fit for someone as naturally self-absorbed as yours truly. Even as a child, I was busy scribbling down my thoughts, inflicting my young, half-baked ideas on anyone unfortunate enough to come across them. In that sense, I was born to write essays.
But don’t get too excited. Being an essayist, White warns, makes you a second-class citizen in the world of letters. Unlike novelists, poets, or playwrights, who might have their sights set on the Nobel Prize, essayists must be content with a “somewhat undisciplined existence.” We ramble, we explore, and we make peace with the fact that our work will never be held in the same regard as those lofty, more disciplined forms of writing. The essayist, White says, must accept this self-imposed role, embracing the freedom that comes with it.
Yet, for all the self-centeredness, the “solipsism” as White would say, there’s a deep-seated need for truth in the essay. Deceit or concealment won’t fly here. White reminds us that the essay, despite its relaxed form, imposes its own disciplines. The essayist’s escape from structure is only partial; there are problems to solve, truths to uncover, and those who wield the pen merely for the joy of it are, as White says, bound to be “found out in no time.”
In the end, White admits himself to be a bit of a solipsist — someone who believes that the self is the only thing that can be known to exist. It’s a fitting description for an essayist, don’t you think? After all, writing essays is an exercise in self-absorption, an attempt to wrap our heads around our own lives while dragging our readers along for the ride. White knew this better than anyone, and he wore it proudly. When all else failed, he found solace in the mantle of Michel de Montaigne, grandfather of the modern essay, knowing that his penchant for self-reflection was far more than just an indulgence; it was his calling.
So, what does it take to be an essayist according to E.B. White? It requires a healthy dose of self-centeredness, a dash of shameless boldness, and an unrelenting commitment to the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. Of course, you can add the willingness to embrace your second-class citizenship in the literary world with a smirk and a shrug. Yeah, at the end of the day, we essayists might not be aiming for literary glory. But we’re having a damn good time getting our thoughts down on paper. Hey, if you’re not having fun, what’s the point of doing it otherwise?
~ Amelia Desertsong
