By Micah Gjeltema
“Art and Irene Reinbold were generous people. I know this because the two of them took care of me when I needed a place to lay low after I quit college, when my hair was still long and I cared more.”
~“Dark Barn” by Michael Dinkel (River Teeth 22.1, Fall 2020)
It is difficult to find an angle of approach when writing about a personal experience, a deeply held belief, an individual revelation. As River Teeth editor Jill Christman likes to say, “Life doesn’t come with plot.” When telling a true story, the “worldbuilding” is predetermined—the world of the essay is you, the writer, and all that you know. The context is as vast as experience, and the scope of the real resists containment. How can it possibly be shaped? What is most essential?
Temples are not pulled straight from the ground—to build, we need scaffolding, a smaller frame that grows alongside a structure, giving us the leverage to drop heavy stones into place and the reach to stack them higher. The scaffolding encloses the structure’s footprint, defining its scope and preventing natural but unintended sprawl.
Read only the first paragraph of “Dark Barn” by Michael Dinkel, published in River Teeth 22(1). Before he gives us his essay, Dinkel introduces us to this smaller supporting structure, a miniature model, a blueprint. Dinkel opens with a paragraph that reveals the essay to come:
“Art and Irene Reinbold were generous people. I know this because the two of them took care of me when I needed a place to lay low after I quit college, when my hair was still long and I cared more. They let me stay with them on their small, rocky dairy farm in the hills east of our town, in one of the upstairs rooms left vacant by their grown children. I spent important time there, helping them around the place when I could, wandering that wild country, and learning where I fit with the people and place I came from. I had that advantage then, the backing of capable people. I’m writing about the two of them today because I have misplaced some of the things they gave me and I’m tired of looking for them in the sky.”
The next paragraph begins with a more conventional opener: “That October had been unseasonably warm.”
Take that first paragraph again, isolate the key plot elements—important actors, setting, the change that occurs to transform the “self” in the action to the “self” that is narrating:
“Art and Irene Reinbold were generous people. I know this because the two of them took care of me when I needed a place to lay low after I quit college, when my hair was still long and I cared more. They let me stay with them on their small, rocky dairy farm in the hills east of our town, in one of the upstairs rooms left vacant by their grown children. I spent important time there, helping them around the place when I could, wandering that wild country, and learning where I fit with the people and place I came from. I had that advantage then, the backing of capable people. I’m writing about the two of them today because I have misplaced some of the things they gave me and I’m tired of looking for them in the sky.”
Here we have the setting, the context for the speaker’s change, his conclusion, and a justification for the “why here, why now” of the essay. Consider what has been omitted; since we’ve seemingly been given the whole story, where is the tension, what are the “whys”?
Why was the time important? Why did he care more then? Why did he need to lay low? Why didn’t he fit before, why does he fit better after? Why has he misplaced these lessons?
These seeds planted, Dinkel gives us the second paragraph and a more traditional opening line: “That October had been unseasonably warm.”
Note that even though we have a map of the plot, start to finish, we still don’t know what the story is—nevertheless we know just what to look for and where we should invest our attention. Now, if you have access to “Dark Barn” on ProjectMUSE, read the essay in full. We can grasp the full meaning on the first read instead of the second, because the opening makes the first read of the narrative a second reading of the plot.
In the opening paragraph, Dinkel outlines the plot, teaching his audience how to read the essay without “spoiling” the narrative. He offers signposts, telling us where we’re going and what we’ll find without revealing what it means; with the length and breadth disclosed, we can read for depth.
Exercise:
1.Consider an essay idea you’ve been hesitant to approach, something you know well but struggle to shape. Sketch a brief outline and then identify key details: important actors, setting, the change that occurs to transform the “self” in the action to the “self” that is narrating.
2. Using these outline elements, write a one-paragraph “full spoilers” synopsis of the best-case projection of the essay to which you aspire (aspiring is important). Imagine your favorite writer is summarizing your essay in a gushing review.
3. Highlight those isolated details, as we did to Dinkel’s opening. How do they sit within the paragraph? What shape seems to be implied?
4. Copy your synopsis. Now reshape the new copy. How much of “the point” can you omit while still leaving its full impression? How concisely can you express the arc of the essay using only its bones? Has this changed your expectation of what you perceived to be the essay’s essential arc, scope, or meaning? If necessary copy the original synopsis and try again until you have a paragraph that feels structurally concrete, confident and concise in its expression of the essay’s scope and structure while softly suggesting the gravity of the emotional core. Conclude the paragraph with a “why here, why now” sentence, as Dinkel does.
5. Using this blueprint and the vantage from the scaffolding you’ve erected, write a draft of the essay. Stick to the footprint you’ve defined—no scope creep!
6. Once you’ve shaped the essay into a stronger draft, revisit this first scaffolding paragraph. Is it essential to the final product? Might the essay be stronger with this false beginning omitted, or does it offer an effective orientation to shape the reader’s experience? Make your call and finalize the essay with one more revision.
Micah Gjeltema is a librarian, reader, and occasional writer.
Photo courtesy of Rob Martin via Unsplash
