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Narrative Essay on Love

A few years later, I would be equally embarrassed about not having a boyfriend. It seems my own desires—and desirability—have always sort of mortified me. Sometimes I think I started writing about love precisely because there is nothing else I have spent so much time wanting—and so much time regretting. Friends, I am feeling the darkness. I first noticed it in the summer, the day the deaths of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling hit social media. After I got out of the shower, I stayed on my bed for hours, wrapped in a towel, scrolling endlessly on my phone, feeling paralyzed, powerless.

I felt a vague, persistent sadness. Oh, the world does not work the way my parents told me it did. I recognize my privilege. I got this wrong because though I have witnessed hate especially growing up in the South but also here in Vancouver in regular if more subtle ways I have rarely been the target of that hate.

I have allowed hate to be an abstraction in my life. When I teach memoir writing we spend a lot of time talking about truth and Truth. Memoir, unlike some other forms of nonfiction, allows for a bit of negotiation between verifiable facts truth and larger, more abstract notions of How the World Works and What it Can Mean to Be Human Truth.

Because memoir is based almost entirely on memory, things can sometimes be True without being verifiable. And maybe this is why I find myself increasingly resistant to notions of Truth in Love. I do not pose this as a rhetorical question.

But when I investigate these ideas they all break down pretty quickly. This year I spent the holiday eating mahi-mahi and drinking beer with twelve of my closest friends and I had this abundant, totally joyful feeling of love though I acknowledge this is an easy feeling to summon while slightly sunburnt and totally tipsy and very far from rainy Vancouver. See what I mean? I spent a couple hours deep cleaning my home on Tuesday. It started with my desk, which needed dusting and de-cluttering so I could sit down and open my computer and build a simple, easy-to-find author bio website.

But then I noticed dust on my dresser and the bookshelf. And dog hair under the desk. I got out the broom. Clean slate, I told myself.

New year, clean room, clean mind. Also, it turns out, there were tiny spots on the bathroom mirror from wiping the steam off. And the bathroom floor needed a sweep. But when I went in the kitchen to get a rag, I saw ghosts of spills on the front of the dishwasher. Fingerprints on the refrigerator. In fact, I think the website was the problem or perhaps the solution, if you ask the dog.

Making the website meant acknowledging that I was really doing this being-a-writer thing, and in a very public way. This suggestion made sense: I mean, people get book deals after their stories run in Modern Love.

But I resisted for lots of reasons: And I am terrified. And then I started cleaning. And Googling myself several times a day to see if my new website would pop up in time for publication. Taken July 29, the night I wrote about in the column. The other day I was talking to some friends about those times in life when you get separated from yourself and then, a bit later, you find yourself again and things suddenly come into focus.

I wanted to write a book but had no idea how to go about it. I was investing in my life in Vancouver—only without the person I came with. I eventually figured out that I needed to do two things to be happy: And my life started to come into focus.

I cannot imagine who thought arranging the room this way was a good idea. I like yoga because, like all writers, I spend a lot of time in my head and yoga forces me to remember that I have a body. While doing yoga, for example, I never wonder if I might break my ankles.

But I like it much less when the spritely instructor asks us to come into a deep lunge, raise our arms high in the air, and make eye contact with someone across the room. I harbor certain useful illusions about myself as an open person. I write about my life for public consumption.

I am lazy about closing the bedroom curtains. Now I lay me down to sleep …. My sister is getting married! And I am so happy for her. I think this is the right thing for her right now. I think her boyfriend is the right guy or, to be technical, because I staunchly oppose the soul mate myth, I think he is a right guy; I think he is great and they are great together.

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Tips on narrative essay writing: As is evident from this sample essay, narrative essays on love are very intriguing, both to the reader and the writer. Anyone can write a narrative essay on love, provided he or she is creative enough.

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Narrative Essay Sample: “My First Love” Love is in the air, love is everywhere! First feelings are always special, new, unexplored, coupled with childish innocence and a pure vision of the world.

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May 02,  · Narrative Essay About Love Narrative Essay - Words Narrative Essay The transition of a high school student to a college undergraduate is a life-changing experience that most youths go through. The course that led to this transformative event began on the first day I entered high school. Attending a technical school for four years was the. Narrative Essay On Love Relationship. Narrative Essay A Brief Guide to Writing Narrative Essays Narrative writing tells a story. In essays the narrative writing could also be considered reflection or an exploration of the author's values told as a story. The author may remember his or her past, or a memorable person or event from that past, or even observe the present.

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Free Personal Narrative essay example love and relationships. Themes and Narratives Essay. Theme and Narrative Elements ENG Introduction to Literature (AFGA) Instructor: Stacey Novak Written By: Christie McCauley August 20, 2 Theme and Narrative Elements The main theme of the story is to give insight on giving selfless gifts much as the wise men did for Jesus.