Begin with Story: Epiphany Narratives
I’m often asked how to engage older students with the writing process. My answer is simple: begin with story.
We are story-driven beings, and teenagers enjoy writing about themselves—it’s something they know and something they want to explore, as adolescence is all about identity formation. In particular, writing in first person helps teens develop their unique voice, which will ultimately translate into stronger analytical writing.
The trick then is providing an interesting, open-ended prompt, one that requires students to reach into their memory bank and pull out what Virginia Woolf calls a “moment of being,” a memory essential to our sense of self that is made real again “by putting it into words.”
As teachers, we provide models of strong narrative writing, guiding students with tools & examples, yet the raw material emerges from their own lives. Time and again, I’ve seen students who “hate writing” or “aren’t good at English” write a piece that brings us both to tears, at once beautiful, poignant, and real. Sure, there might be grammatical errors, but within an authentic personal narrative, a clear voice emerges—the distinct voice of that specific student.
Throughout the next few blog posts, I’m going to share my favorite narrative writing prompts from my years of teaching High School English in private schools, along with models from both myself and (anonymous) former students. I will also share some of the short stories, essays, and techniques I’ve used to guide students through the narrative writing process. I hope that you find this series helpful!
Epiphany (or Coming of Age) Narrative
In a coming of age story, the protagonist, usually an adolescent, experiences a significant event, a turning point or illuminating moment—an epiphany—that brings an adult understanding of the world. The incident often causes a loss of innocence; the protagonist can no longer live completely sheltered as a child.
Prompt: Write a story about a specific moment in your life when you had an “epiphany” experience.
(Notice the open-ended nature of this prompt, allowing students to make it their own. We would have read & discussed the concept of “epiphany” in preparation.)
Literary Examples we might read beforehand:
“Araby” by James Joyce & “The Garden Party” by Katherine Mansfield.
Narrative Writing Techniques
The piece of writing should create a strong, authentic voice & should:
Show the action of the story, instead of “telling” it, using the following narrative writing techniques:
Presents a specific conflict that can be shaped into a story.
Uses robust, active verbs, and avoids “to be” linking verbs (am, is, are, was, were, be, being, been).
Provides vivid detail, attempting to create a “movie in the reader’s mind.” The goal is to create a mental image and a mood/feeling that invites the reader into your experience.
Taps into all of the senses, not just visual. Consider sounds, smells, tastes, and textures of the scene that you are creating.
Uses dialogue and/or inner dialogue to develop the characters in your scene (including yourself as the protagonist).
Instead of crafting every sentence “I + verb,” consider making different elements of yourself—your eyes, your hands, your heart, etc—the subject of the sentence.
Use a variety of sentence structures and lengths to create a natural, rhythmic flow of language, avoiding a clunky/repetitive effect. (Reading your draft aloud while revising will help with this.)
Consider the overall mood of the story, paying attention to word choice, carefully selecting words that create the desired mood of your piece.
Important Note: If students choose to write about something difficult or serious, I suggest they first reflect on whether they have enough distance from the event that they’re ready to process it through the creative writing process, which can be very cathartic. I also remind them to keep their content appropriate for our purpose/audience.
My Example with Bonus Option: Using “Mint Snowball” by Naomi Shihab Nye as a model, consider creating a “symbolic element” or motif within your narrative, subtly revealing its deeper meaning through a dropdown reflection.
While my piece here isn’t a “coming of age” story, it was certainly a moment of epiphany at the beginning of the pandemic. I wrote this a couple weeks after everything shut down, during the season of Lent, & I later used it as a model for students.
A Combination of Sweet & Sour
We returned from our visit to Mobile, Alabama last month with a large bag of freshly picked fruit from family trees—tiny kumquats from Mama Celeste, pink grapefruit from Aunt Anne, and large golden lemons from Uncle Peter. It seemed so lovely and old fashioned to be given fruit straight from someone’s tree, which is probably why I felt the urge to do something special with it all.
Arriving home late on a Sunday night, laden with Mardi Gras beads, leftover King Cake, dirty laundry, and a huge bag of fruit, I quickly cleaned out a crisper drawer in our fridge and arranged the mound of citrus there, hoping to have time for a few special dessert recipes in the coming month.
And then life got busy again, filled full with good things—practices, activities, gatherings, commitments, outings—yet leaving little time for baking. So when our lives suddenly slowed down last week, and the world collectively decided to stay home, I turned to the (now very ripe) fruit in our crisper drawer, especially the lemons.
When done right, a lemon dessert is one of my absolute favorites, a delectable combination of sweet and sour that lingers on the tongue. I searched recipes online and came across a lemon custard tart with buttery shortbread crust, and after showing it to the girls to get their approval, we deemed it the perfect recipe for our special Mobile lemons.
It’s interesting to me that, during this unprecedented season of self isolation, I’ve turned to those comforts which often get shoved to the corners of life simply because they are too time consuming: such as slowly reading a beautiful and thought-provoking book (in contrast to listening to the audiobook at 1.25x speed), drawing with my girls during nature study, writing this essay, and baking. All things I want to do more—read, draw, write, bake—but that too often, in my near-worship of productivity, are deemed something for which I “don’t have time.”
So a couple nights ago, we turned to our overstocked pantry and pulled out all of the ingredients to make the lemon tart. I taught the girls how to zest a rind, how to measure and cube cold butter, and how to pulse the food processor. Together, with freshly washed hands, we nimbly pressed the shortbread into a glass pie dish until it formed a crust, then poured the sweet lemony custard filling into it. Carefully, so as not to tip the dish and cause the filling to overflow, I placed our masterpiece in the center of the oven and set the timer. At that point, the only remaining task, once the tart had baked and cooled, was to sprinkle it with confectioner’s sugar.
I returned to the pantry and rummaged around, but I couldn’t find the powdered sugar. The girls joined my search. My oldest dragged a bar stool up to the pantry, climbed upon it, and scoured the top shelf where I sometimes store baking supplies that are rarely used. We hadn’t seen the confectioner’s sugar since Christmas, since making royal icing for gingerbread. None of us could remember, but it seemed we had used it all.
“Oh, it will still be good without the powdered sugar on top,” I said, more to myself than to the girls, but I noticed their faces drop at the comment.
About a mile from our house there is a chain-store pharmacy that’s typically stocked with essentials. I had already ordered my food pickup at our small-town’s major grocery store (and was required to wait almost two days to get it), but maybe, I thought, I could just run into the pharmacy to see if they have powdered sugar. I grabbed my keys and headed to the car, completely unprepared for what was about to occur.
***
Warning notices, reminiscent of no trespass signs, hung plastered across the entrance, but I could hardly skim them before the automatic doors slid open, allowing the artificial light and cold, stale air to hit my face. I looked around for a moment before walking in—a single customer wandered with an empty shopping basket, and the pharmacy clerk glared at me suspiciously from the checkout counter.
“I only need to grab one thing,” I said in apology.
“Can I help you find it?” he responded a little too loudly, and when my simple “no, thank you” didn’t seem to suffice, he repeated his question in a more forceful tone. For a moment I thought he would follow after me.
“Ummm … no, thank you, I know where to look for it. I’ll just be a second.”
Even though I was well aware that they were open for thirty more minutes, I felt rushed and unwelcome, like I needed to offer an excuse for my visit. Like I was breaking the law. I hurried down an aisle and quickly found the precious confectioner's sugar. Snatching up the box, I scanned the half-empty shelves to see if there were a few other items I could get. We still had to wait another day for our grocery pick up, so I grabbed cereal bars, chips, goldfish, Biscoff cookies—you know, the essentials.
The clerk slowly sanitized the counter as I approached, its surface still wet and smelling of chemicals. “I thought you only needed one thing,” he raised an accusatory eyebrow, as if catching me in a lie.
“Well, since I was already here and don’t want to leave the house again, I thought I’d grab a few snacks for my kids,” I attempted a grin.
He wasn’t amused. With medical-grade rubber gloves, he reluctantly scanned my five items and bagged them. I felt my face flush with the realization that he didn’t want to touch what I had touched. “Not all of us can stay home, you know,” he mumbled sourly.
“Thank you for working,” I tried to offer an olive branch. “I’m grateful, and I know others are too.”
Throwing a sanitation wipe in my direction, he instructed me to clean off the keypad before and after I typed in my pin number. As my fingers moved, they felt clumsy and dirty, and I felt certain he was thinking that too.
“I’ll be sure to scrub my hands as soon as I get home,” I responded while grabbing my bags. And then I rushed back out the sliding door.
***
Later that night as we sifted confectioner’s sugar over the surface of our lemon tart, I couldn’t help thinking of the clerk, of how he made me feel and how afraid he seemed, afraid of me. I don’t think I’ve ever before been treated that way, as if I posed a threat.
Only a few weeks prior we had cheered and danced with strangers among the crowds watching beautiful Mardi Gras floats weave their way through the lined streets of Mobile, Alabama. We collected colorful beads and Moon Pies that costumed characters tossed to us from the floats, not thinking for a second about a hidden danger lurking in our touch.
I sliced three thick wedges of lemon tart—one for each of us—and thought about how necessary the powdered sugar was to the recipe, how it softens the pungent acidity of the lemons while also making the dessert quite attractive. It wouldn’t have been the same without it. But then, we all know that confectioner’s sugar is too sweet on its own. That is what’s so unique about lemon tart: the combination of the sweet with the sour.
Student Example #1: After reading Virgina’s Woolf’s essay on “Moments of Being,” which offers her version of an epiphany moment, this student wrote a stunning piece about standing under a waterfall (what Wordsworth would have identified as a “sublime” experience).
A Moment of Being
The unease of sitting in an unfamiliar rental car keeps me strangely alert in the early morning. My eyes peer through the glossy tinted windows, while my brother remains deeply engrossed in his phone. In the front seat, my parents whisper quietly about mundane topics, my ears catching bits and pieces but mostly tuning out my own mother tongue. National park after national park had accustomed me to surreal sights—I try to take it all in distinctly but inevitably blend memories together. The simplest yet most unexpected moments stand out remarkably though.
Veering to the edge of the mountainside road, we witness a new feat of nature as awe flutters through me. After stepping out of the car, I gaze at the cascading waterfall that sweeps gracefully under the bridge we stand upon, rising onto my toes in attempt to see the peak. The roar of the water drowns out my family’s voices, and I am alone. Fresh, cold droplets splash onto my face one by one, each a conscious reminder of where I stand relative to the earth. The concrete beneath my feet feels temporary and intensely artificial, my balance no longer stable. Suspended above the rapids, I am floating. My fingers curl around the rusty metal railings, but intuition reminds me that it is still possible to fall. With shaking hands, my phone takes blurry, awkward pictures yet could not capture the growing tension within me.
Something snaps inside—my head turns back and forth looking for my family. They no longer stand beside me. Frantically, I spin around to see that they have crossed the road for a closer view of the waterfall. An internal urge pushes me to rejoin them, but my feet freeze in place, cars speeding by in droves. I do not want to cross—in fact, I cannot. Together, the wheels and the water create a heightened sense of sound and movement that immobilizes me. Only my tears dare to move, gently streaming down my face.
My reaction reflects neither sadness nor admiration. A profound fear rises out of my body—of what, I cannot truly describe—creating a visceral and utterly overwhelming reaction. Whether this moment manifested through a panic attack or simply a strange out-of-body experience, my memory fails to discern, but its impact clearly imprinted upon me.
Wiping my tears hastily, I run across the road, reuniting with the rest of my family, finally escaping from my brief but seemingly endless paralysis.
“Why would you leave me?!” I question, interrogating my parents with an accusatory tone.
“What are you talking about, jigar?” my mother asks, their incredulous faces a sign that my experience did not align with what truly occurred. In the eyes of my parents, the accusation of abandonment represents an obvious exaggeration; after all, they only moved a few feet away. Frustrated with my family’s response, I sigh loudly, the anxiety still infiltrating my sense of sanity.
With my back turned to the waterfall, my attention shifts toward my parents’ and brother’s random activities—from mulling around to aimless chatter. Posing for far too many pictures, I dissociate from my surroundings and look at the camera our father held, staring into the infinitesimally small black dot which takes in our memories. The smile it captures is small and weak, unrepresentative of my true self. After all, being besieged by an epiphany of sorts makes one lose understanding of their place within the world. Beside me, the rest of my family stands in strong contrast, blissfully unaware of what thoughts swarmed my mind. Processing one’s emotions is only more difficult when you live in disconnect.
On the quiet walk back across the road, the fear gradually subsides until my mind returns to a state of normalcy. The water sounds peaceful rather than forced, and cars pass by only on occasion. The surroundings essentially remain the same as before, but with greater awareness of my family beside me, this time my thoughts do not slip from reality.
Entering the car again, a newfound sense of fatigue weighs upon me. While drifting into an uncomfortable sleep, my head tilts back and forth as we shift onto the road for another long drive through Yellowstone. On the path to something new, I realize that whatever comes next may be equally as unexpected yet cannot deny that the idea exhilarates me, for that which overwhelms me also shapes my evolving sense of self.
Student Example #2: This piece is wonderful to read aloud, as it’s rich in voice & personality! It also shows that “epiphany” moments aren’t all heavy or difficult; some are even slightly funny, as is this moment. Yet notice how at the end, this humorous piece takes a turn towards deeper meaning.
(This is the stuff of great college application essays, by the way, but more on that later!)
Cracking Coconuts
What is that? I stared with intent as I stood amidst a swarm of tropical palm trees. My feet sank into the sand, slightly prickly with the thin flora roots that traced the ground. A few yards away a group of kids, roughly my age, played in the trees. They ran around, laughed, threw things at each other, but all in all, were having fun. Most of them I still remember, although it has now been five years since.
I looked back down at the object wedged into the base of a tree. Oh, That’s a coconut! I’ve never actually seen one before! For the first time in thirteen years, I saw an actual coconut, in person. Granted this was not my first experience with coconuts (coconut cookies, coconut milk, coconut flavored this and that), yet the rough, fuzzy orb that I happened upon completely mesmerized me.
“GUYS, I FOUND A COCONUT!”
That instantly grabbed the attention of the young adolescents in the vicinity. They dropped what they were doing and sprung over the shrubbery that separated us. I picked up the coconut with both hands and tossed it in the air a few times. As I shook it, I felt the liquid inside slosh around as I hoped it would. The thick, fibrous husk wrapped the outside of it firmly, and as I clawed at it with my small hands, my friends waited with anticipation.
After several minutes passed of me stubbornly attempting to rip the husk off, the group of friends searched for their own coconut to crack open. My knees began to throb from prolonged standing, so I fell to a seated position in a clearing of sand. This hurts my fingers too much, I need something stronger. Oblivious to the trove of natural spearheads hidden among the shrubbery, I saunter towards the shoreline to find a sharp and narrow rock. I soon found said tool and began to hammer away at the coconut.
Bit by bit, chunks of fiber peeled off, revealing the much harder second layer of armor underneath. After a sweaty half hour of slamming two hard objects together like a gorilla, all that remained was the coconut’s shell, which looked like an organic bowling ball, in addition to the mountain of husk that spawned next to me.
I stared at the coconut for a while, contemplating how I should break into the more challenging inner shell, but then looked around for my friends (who had found more coconuts). Fully engrossed with the one already sitting in my lap and strategically armed with the sharpest rock I could find, the toddler-esque hammering continued.
At least an hour passed, without genuine time-keeping methods I didn’t actually know, before my friends started leaving the inland greenery and returned to the pale, sandy shoreline. Not wanting to be separated from the group, I followed them back towards the sea and its refreshing breeze, but not before smacking the coconut on a nearby tree half a dozen times. No, it didn’t work.
In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to break it open and sip the raw, untampered juice that would spill from it and possibly even sample a bit of the flesh; trying new things was not my forte. However, slowly our group migrated back to our sailboat anchored off-shore, and my attempts grew more and more desperate.
With a childlike frustration, I struck every point on the shell with as much force as I could without so much as making a dent. It may have been due to the overwhelming durability of the coconut, or instead, my undeniable weakness as a young and passive teen, but I was unable to break it open.
An understanding came to me in that instance that this coconut would remain sealed indefinitely. My logic selfish and profoundly elementary, I set the coconut adrift into the sea, a growing blob in the distance. Our skipper approached from the sailboat where we temporarily resided, and as he collected us from the Abaco beaches, I stared at the object of shame as it drifted into unknown territories.
I do not know why it brought so much shame. A primal, burning sensation abruptly rose to the top of my chest and nearly brought tears to my eyes. But I steeled myself anyway and cast aside any lingering regret. How silly to feel such great sorrow for something so inconsequential, yet perhaps it was the blatant failure that instead drew forth the real emotions. Either way, only moments later, I returned to my friends and promptly forgot about the coconut for the rest of the trip.
