Types of Papers: Narrative/Descriptive

To write a narrative essay, youll need to tell a story (usually about

something that happened to you) in such a way that the audience
learns a lesson or gains insight.
To write a descriptive essay, youll need to describe a person, object,
or event so vividly that the reader feels like he/she could reach out
and touch it.
Tips for writing effective narrative and descriptive essays:
Tell a story about a moment or event that means a lot to
you--it will make it easier for you to tell the story in an
interesting way!
Get right to the action! Avoid long introductions and
lengthy descriptions--especially at the beginning of your
narrative.
Make sure your story has a point! Describe what you
learned from this experience.
Use all five of your senses to describe the setting,
characters, and the plot of your story. Don't be afraid to tell
the story in your own voice. Nobody wants to read a story
that sounds like a textbook!

How to Write Vivid Descriptions

Having trouble describing a person, object, or event for your narrative or

descriptive essay? Try filling out this chart:
What do you smell?

What do you taste?

What do you see?

What do you he

Remember: Avoid simply telling us what something looks like--tell us how it

tastes, smells, sounds, or feels!
Consider this
Virginia rain smells different from a California drizzle.
A mountain breeze feels different from a sea breeze.
We hear different things in one spot, depending on the time of day.
Using Concrete Details for Narratives
Effective narrative essays allow readers to visualize everything that's happening, in their
minds. One way to make sure that this occurs is to use concrete, rather than abstract, details.

Concrete Language

Abstract Language

makes the story or image seem clearer and more real to

us.

...makes the story or image difficult to visualize.

gives us information that we can easily grasp and perhaps leaves your reader feeling empty, disconnected,
empathize with.
possibly confused.

The word abstract might remind you of modern art. An abstract painting, for example, does
not normally contain recognizable objects. In other words, we can't look at the painting and
immediately say "that's a house" or "that's a bowl of fruit." To the untrained eye, abstract art
looks a bit like a child's finger-painting--just brightly colored splotches on a canvas.
Avoid abstract languageit wont help the reader understand what you're trying to say!
Examples:

Abstract: It was a nice day.

Concrete: The sun was shining and a slight breeze blew across my
face.
Abstract: I liked writing poems, not essays.
Concrete: I liked writing short, rhythmic poems and hated
rambling on about my thoughts in those four-page essays.
Abstract: Mr. Smith was a great teacher.
Concrete: Mr. Smith really knew how to help us turn our thoughts
into good stories and essays.
Small-Town Terror
Student Sample: Narrative
Situated between majestic mountains and rolling hills, Benton is much like any other small
eastern Tennessee settlement. It was an election day, and looking forward to a visit to the ice
cream shop, I accompanied my grandfather as he drove the ten-mile journey to town. Country
life offered little excitement, but that day an air of uneasiness replaced the usual contentment one
felt while passing aged buildings, their drabness contrasted sharply by a few colorful, modern
improvements. Having spent the first ten years of my life here, it was easy to detect any change
in the town's mood.

I pondered the worried expression on the faces of the few people we saw on the streets. It
seemed everyone was in a hurry. There were not the usual groups gathered to exchange local
gossip. Most noticeable was the absence of children.
As my grandfather's dilapidated Ford approached the town's only traffic light, we were greetednot by flashing red, yellow or green--but by uniformed National Guardsmen armed with guns
and appearing much out of place in such placid surroundings. As our vehicle slowed to a stop, I
was aghast as I saw before me a huge machine gun, pointed in our direction. A young guardsman
walked briskly to the car and explained, almost apologetically, "Sorry Sir, but we'll have to
search your car. Just routine procedure."
As the car was being searched, we learned the reason for such drastic precautionary measures. A
man whom we knew and who was a candidate for the sheriff's office had been brutally murdered
in the presence of his wife and daughter. It was rumored that the opposing party was responsible
for the fatal shotgun blast, and other rumors stated that explosives would be brought into town to
bomb the courthouse.
As this unbelievable information was being given, I sat petrified, trying to convince myself that
this was the same town where, only yesterday, old men in dirty overalls lounged around the
courthouse, spitting tobacco and discussing the forthcoming election. Dogs and children had
romped freely on the sidewalks, while women browsed in the stores for hours without buying
anything. Strangely, all this had changed overnight, and the preconceptions I had about our
peaceful country and the glorious right to vote were beginning to sound as a sour note. Marching
through the streets, guards with guns gave the appearance of towns I had seen in the movies.
Towns which did not know freedom, but captivity.
"He'll probably go home," I mused to myself as my grandfather began changing the gears to
move on. Surely no one could be so stupid as to go into that courthouse now! Thinking how
wonderful it would be to get back to the safety of our farmhouse, I was somewhat taken aback
when Grandpa parked near the entrance of the threatened building. The lines in his face seemed
to be carved with determination, and with unfaltering stride he quickly mounted the steps to the
building. A man had died at the hands of those who tried to control a county's right to vote. That
"right" was now even more precious. Grandpa would vote.

Diller's Dilemma
Student Sample: Descriptive

As far as I am concerned, the unpardonable sin is someone dropping by our house before noon
on Saturdays.
Since I go to school and work too, Saturday is the only day of the week on which I can be lazy
and sleep late. Therefore, I am late getting my housework done. By Saturday, my house is
completely in ruins; anyone who is blessed with a six-year-old boy can understand what I am
talking about. As an example, it is not uncommon to walk into the living room and find an old
ragged sheet or quilt stretched across a couple of chairsthis serves as his tent. This is the exact
time some people decide to come by to see us. As the visitors come in, I hurriedly snatch the tent
down, but immediately wish that I hadn't for under it are Chewbacca, Hans Solo, Luke
Skywalker, C3PO. Trying nonchalantly to push these Star Wars creatures aside with my bare
foot, I suddenly stop. My foot has come in contact with some unknown substanceit is oozing
up between my toes. I look down and silently blaspheme the makers of Green Slime. As I gently
remove my foot from this green wad, some of it continues to cling between my toes. Pretending
that it doesn't bother me, I lead our guests into the dining room, hoping it will be more
presentable. Much to my dismay, it does not look any better, for there, on the table, are the
remains of my daughter's midnight snack. The remains include a black banana peeling that looks
like a relic from The Dark Ages; an empty glass with a dried milk ring; two stale blueberry popups; and a pile of orange-red carrot peelings. My daughter is a border-line vegetarian, so the
latter does not surprise me.
Having removed the residue from the table and seated our early birds, I am brought to the second
reasons why I dislike having company on Saturday mornings. Remembering my in-bred
Southern manners, I ask if I can get our guests something to eat or drinkwhen it hits me like a
two-by-fourI have nothing to offer. This is grocery shopping day. I scrounge around the
kitchen and find a piece of molder cheese and a box of stale Ritz Crackers. As I humbly set this
before my guests, I am wondering if they like grape Kool-Aid. I fix a pitcher fullall the while
limping along and hating the slime that set up," like concrete, between my toes. Finally, I sit
down with my friends and try to start a conversation, wondering why they are staring at me.
As their gawk continues, I take a quick inventory. No wonder they are staring at meI would
finish in first place in a Phyllis Diller look-alike contest. A slow red begins creeping up my neck
as I realize that I'm still in my gown and housecoat, hair in disarray, no makeup, and green slime
between my toes. Yet, I have no alternatives but to sit and endure, because my children are still
asleep, and my husband left early to make hospital rounds (or was it to get away from home?).
My company doesn't stay longthey have already seen enough.
Since the morning is already ruined, I think I'll finish up the cheese and crackers, drink another
glass of Kool-Aid, leave the slime between my toes, and go back to bed.