Embedded Narrative: Bridging Story & Analysis
This might be one of my favorite paper assignments. The Embedded Narrative serves as a bridge from story to analysis, helping students creatively master a skill necessary for strong analytical writing: the ability to seamlessly embed quotations.
The idea is to take the language—small descriptive phrases & dependent clauses—from a classic story & to embed it naturally into your personal narrative, striving to blend the voice of the story with your own. Just like with quotations used in literary analysis, words within the quote can be slightly altered for clarification or grammatical purposes, signified by a bracket around the changed/added word (see explanation here). But unlike quotations used in literary analysis, italics will signify a quotation within the Embedded Narrative, instead of the traditional punctuation marks. This keeps the narrative streamlined and easy to read, especially when there is dialogue in the story.*
Ultimately, I have found that this playful assignment not only encourages voice development in student writing, but it also trains young minds to consider creative and fluid methods of integrating quotations, preventing the clunky "plopped” quotes that often plague papers of novice writers (and drive English teachers crazy)! Hopefully, you too will find the Embedded Narrative to be the ideal bridge between story to analysis.
(*Important Note: When students later transition back to analytical writing, I will review how to properly use quotation marks within analysis and research papers. Appropriate punctuation should always signify quotes in formal essays, especially to prevent plagiarism.)
The Embedded Narrative
Embed: (v) to incorporate or contain as an essential part or characteristic
Prompt: Follow the already established guidelines of strong narrative writing, with this added challenge: take the language from a classic text (short stories work best) and seamlessly integrate it into your own narrative, incorporating it naturally into the language of your personal story.
Begin with the language of the short story. Read it over slowly & carefully, highlighting small phrases that stand out to you as either: interesting, lovely, unique, or descriptive.
Next, consider what story from your life you will select to narrate:
Select a focused moment that can be narrated in detail.
Select a moment that connects with the short story through theme, language (mood/tone/style), and/or setting.
This moment should take place over a short amount of time, present a specific conflict, and can be shaped into a story.
As you craft your narrative, strive to embed the original language from the story:
Use italics (instead of quotation marks), brackets, & ellipses to correctly embed quotations (see model as example).
Use short descriptive phrases & dependent clauses; avoid using complete sentences, unless they are shorter than 10 words.
Avoid embedding quotations back to back; instead try to scatter them throughout.
My Model Story: Okay, so I know I said in the previous post that ordinary moments often create the best stories. This is still true. But then sometimes we experience extraordinary moments, and of course, we want to write about them. This is one of those moments in my life, and when I sat down to write a model embedded narrative for students, I realized the dramatic “something out of a novel” language from Katherine Mansfield’s “A Cup of Tea” would work perfectly for my embedded quotes, allowing me to playfully recreate the drama I once felt as 19 year-old thinking her dream European backpacking trip might abruptly come to an end.
My daughter now plans to use my old hiking backpack when I take her to France this summer.
Luckiest Person in Paris
The arch illuminates the skyline, towering in both size and significance. [L]ike something out of a novel, it watches over the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the busiest and most famous street in Paris, and I—I am in the center of it all.
After snapping a couple pictures with my 35mm, I sling the strap over my head so the camera hangs securely at my hip, safe from rumored pickpockets that roam the area. I glance over at my backpacking buddy and watch her balance on tiptoes as she takes another picture.
“Laura,” I raise my voice above the traffic swirling around us, “I think the light’s about to change.” She nods and collects the huge pack wedged between her feet, heaves it upon her back, and fastens the waist strap snuggly. After waiting for the crosswalk signal, we abandon the narrow median and approach the bustling avenue lined with fashionable cafes and designer shops.
By the time we arrive at Place de la Concorde with its Egyptian obelisk standing sentinel at the center, rain [is] falling … spinning down like ashes, with our hostel still miles away. My feet heavy and a bitter taste in the air, I reposition my pack and continue around the public square where the guillotine once beheaded Marie Antionette. The streetlights [burn] as if regretting something. It’s the second day of our two-week European backpacking trip. We leave for Italy in the morning, and I’m hoping for a good night’s sleep.
I hear Laura gasp.
Flinging off her pack, she frantically begins searching under her light jacket. There are moments, horrible moments in life, when suddenly, unexpectedly, everything changes.
“It’s gone,” she almost whispers.
“What’s gone?” I ask, nervous to hear her response.
For a second, she simply stands there, her hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open. “My travel bag,” she finally answers, “The one I wear close to my body and keep all of the important things in so that they’re separated and safe. It has everything: my passport, my Eurorail pass, the key to my pack. My Cash. My debit card. Everything.”
She slumps to the ground, looks at her pack and then at me, eyes filling with tears, “I can’t do anything now. I’ve ruined our trip.”
Without saying a word, yet determined to prove ... that wonderful things [could still] happen in life, I throw off my pack, unzip it, and start digging around for my running shoes. Laura and I had been training for a half marathon that summer in Europe, running laps around a tree-lined trail that encircled a picturesque Oxford rugby field. All of those afternoons running. Was it all in preparation for this moment? And suddenly it seemed … such an adventure. Leaving my pack with the now crying Laura, I tighten my laces and take off—the hero of my own story—sprinting full speed back up the Champs-Élysées.
When I reach the top of the road, I wait impatiently at the crosswalk until the signal changes, then race to the familiar median. My heart beat[s] like a heavy bell as my eyes scan the ground. Nothing.
Dejected, yet refusing to give up, I quickly locate the police station tucked down a small alley. An officer in iconic Parisian uniform greets me.
“No, nothing has been turned in,” he responds with a grimace after hearing my story, “and it’s very unlikely. There are gypsy thieves all over the Champs-Élysées!”
I raise an eyebrow at this comment, but then a ringing landline interrupts us. Waving me off, as if there is nothing left to discuss, the officer answers the phone, speaking in French. There [is] a pause. And then I hear it.
“Laura Ruth,” he enunciates.
I hadn’t told him her middle name.
Eyes excited, the officer motions for me to stay as he takes notes and then hangs up the phone. “How extraordinary!” He half-laughs as he speaks, clearly humored by the turn of events. “An old couple found the bag and are bringing it here. At this moment. I think you might be the luckiest person I’ve ever met!”
Overcome with a feeling of triumph and relief, I can’t help but laugh too.
Ironically, my camera bag was later stolen at the Louvre, along with all of my undeveloped rolls of film, so I don’t have any pictures from this day. I reached out to Laura after writing this piece, and she promptly pulled out her photo album and sent me these old 35 mm snapshots.
