Writing is a shape-shifting beast. You can be “good” at it in a dozen different forms and still feel like you’re chasing your own tail. For years, I fancied myself the next great novelist — imagining a future where my name graced the bestsellers list, sandwiched between the latest dystopian romance and whatever Stephen King cooked up that week. Alas, soon reality bit me hard, and I came to the crushing realization that my literary ambitions were as realistic as my childhood dream of becoming a starship captain. But before you reach for the tissues, know that all is not lost.

I had other much more realistic dreams, too, like becoming a sportswriter. Unfortunately, the field was more crowded than a Black Friday sale, and after banging my head against that brick wall for a while, I waved the white flag. Then, in a desperate act of reinvention, I dabbled in songwriting. Of course, I’m no Bob Dylan. Instead, I found myself veering into the territory of poetry — short-form, medium-form (if that’s even a thing), or whatever other form could contain my jumbled, half-baked thoughts. While I’m not terrible at writing verses, I wasn’t going to be penning the next Shakespearean sonnet or number one hit song.

But the one form of writing that has stuck with me like a bad habit is the essay. You know, those literary concoctions that let you spill your guts, overanalyze the world, and generally prattle on about whatever you please. According to dictionary.com (because I love a good definition to spice things up), an essay is “a short literary composition on a particular theme or subject, usually in prose and generally analytic, speculative, or interpretative.” In other words, it’s a playground for those of us who think our thoughts are too important to keep to ourselves.

Here’s the good news: it’s still very possible to be an essayist today. That’s a relief because let’s face it, not all of us are cut out to be novelists or “authors” in the grand, old-fashioned sense. Sure, getting someone to pay you for your essays is like finding a unicorn at a gas station, but that’s beside the point.

Nowadays, essays come in all shapes and sizes — photo essays, video essays, you name it. They’re all valid forms of expression, though if you ask me, the prose variety still holds a special place. Also, just because it’s delivered as prose doesn’t mean it can’t be poetic, too. Essays can be a mishmash, a grab-bag of whatever your brain decides to spew out on any given day.

One of the greats, the titan of the essay form, was E.B. White. You know him, even if you don’t think you do. He’s the guy who wrote Charlotte’s Web — yes, my personal favorite heart-wrenching tale about a pig and a spider that makes me bawl like a baby every time I finish reading it. But before he broke our hearts with barnyard tales, White was making a name for himself as an essayist, churning out piece after piece for The New Yorker. Let me tell you, this guy could write an essay that made you feel like you were sitting across the table from him, sharing a cup of coffee while he told you how the world really worked.

So, what does it take to be a great essayist? Well, according to White, you need to be shamelessly self-centered. Really, you don’t write essays unless you think your thoughts are God’s gift to the world. White once said, “Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays.” Effrontery is a fancy word for “shameless boldness,” and it’s 

a prerequisite for the job. You’ve got to have the guts to believe that your musings on life, the universe, and everything in between are worth someone else’s time.

But White didn’t stop there. He painted a picture of the essayist as “self-liberated,” someone who genuinely believes that everything he or she thinks about is of general interest. “He is a fellow who thoroughly enjoys his work, just as people who take bird walks enjoy theirs,” White wrote. The essayist is on a perpetual “attempt,” each piece of writing an adventure into uncharted territory. It’s this endless curiosity, this childlike delight in the craft, that keeps we essayists going.

White likened the essay to a wardrobe filled with endless possibilities. An essayist can don the garb of a philosopher, a scold, a jester, or a confidant, depending on the mood or subject matter of the day. The genre allows you to be a thousand different people while still being yourself — a perfect fit for someone as naturally self-absorbed as yours truly. Even as a child, I was busy scribbling down my thoughts, inflicting my young, half-baked ideas on anyone unfortunate enough to come across them. In that sense, I was born to write essays.

But don’t get too excited. Being an essayist, White warns, makes you a second-class citizen in the world of letters. Unlike novelists, poets, or playwrights, who might have their sights set on the Nobel Prize, essayists must be content with a “somewhat undisciplined existence.” We ramble, we explore, and we make peace with the fact that our work will never be held in the same regard as those lofty, more disciplined forms of writing. The essayist, White says, must accept this self-imposed role, embracing the freedom that comes with it.

Yet, for all the self-centeredness, the “solipsism” as White would say, there’s a deep-seated need for truth in the essay. Deceit or concealment won’t fly here. White reminds us that the essay, despite its relaxed form, imposes its own disciplines. The essayist’s escape from structure is only partial; there are problems to solve, truths to uncover, and those who wield the pen merely for the joy of it are, as White says, bound to be “found out in no time.”

In the end, White admits himself to be a bit of a solipsist — someone who believes that the self is the only thing that can be known to exist. It’s a fitting description for an essayist, don’t you think? After all, writing essays is an exercise in self-absorption, an attempt to wrap our heads around our own lives while dragging our readers along for the ride. White knew this better than anyone, and he wore it proudly. When all else failed, he found solace in the mantle of Michel de Montaigne, grandfather of the modern essay, knowing that his penchant for self-reflection was far more than just an indulgence; it was his calling.

So, what does it take to be an essayist according to E.B. White? It requires a healthy dose of self-centeredness, a dash of shameless boldness, and an unrelenting commitment to the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. Of course, you can add the willingness to embrace your second-class citizenship in the literary world with a smirk and a shrug. Yeah, at the end of the day, we essayists might not be aiming for literary glory. But we’re having a damn good time getting our thoughts down on paper. Hey, if you’re not having fun, what’s the point of doing it otherwise?

~ Amelia Desertsong

Colophon

Just because I’m such a fangirl of EB White, I had to include some of the quotes that inspired this essay to be written in the first place.

How an essayist must be self-liberated: 

“The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest. He is a fellow who thoroughly enjoys his work, just as people who take bird walks enjoy theirs. Each new excursion of the essayist, each new “attempt,” differs from the last and takes him into new country. This delights him. Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays.” – EB White

How many flavors of essay are there?

“There are as many kinds of essays as there are human attitudes or poses, as many essay flavors as there are Howard Johnson ice creams. The essayist arises in the morning and, if he has work to do, selects his garb from an unusually extensive wardrobe: he can pull on any sort of shirt, be any sort of person, according to his mood or his subject matter — philosopher, scold, jester, raconteur, confidant, pundit, devil’s advocate, enthusiast. I like the essay, have always liked it, and even as a child was at work, attempting to inflict my young thoughts and experiences on others by putting them on paper.” – EB White

How the essayist is a second-class citizen of the literary world:

“I am not fooled about the place of the essay in twentieth-century American letters — it stands a short distance down the line. The essayist, unlike the novelist, the poet, and the playwright, must be content in his self-imposed role of second-class citizen. A writer who has his sights trained on the Nobel Prize or other earthly triumphs had best write a novel, a poem, or a play, and leave the essayist to ramble about, content with living a free life and enjoying the satisfactions of a somewhat undisciplined existence.” – EB White

About discipline and commitment to truth with the essay

“There is one thing that the essayist cannot do, though — he cannot indulge himself in deceit or in concealment, for he will be found out in no time. Desmond MacCarthy, in his introductory remarks to the 1928 E. P. Dutton & Company edition of Montaigne, observes that Montaigne “had the gift of natural candour. . . .” It is the basic ingredient. And even the essayist’s escape from discipline is only a partial escape: the essay, although a relaxed form, imposes its own disciplines, raises is own problems, and these disciplines and problems soon become apparent and (we all hope) act as a deterrent to anyone wielding a pen merely because he entertains random thoughts or is in a happy or wandering mood.” – EB white

Concerning the solipsism — the view or theory that the self is all that can be known to exist — of the essayist:

“I think some people find the essay the last resort of the egotist, a much too self-conscious and self-serving form for their taste; they feel that it is presumptuous of a writer to assume that his little excursions or his small observations will interest the reader. There is some justice in their complaint. I have always been aware that I am by nature self-absorbed and egoistical; to write of myself to the extent I have done indicates a too great attention to my own life, not enough to the lives of others. I have worn many shirts, and not all of them have been a good fit. But when I am discouraged or downcast I need only fling open the door of my closet, and there, hidden behind everything else, hangs the mantle of Michel de Montaigne, smelling slightly of camphor.” – EB White