It needs to be slightly shorter, but I really just want to know if it's too cheesy.
The confessional was extremely odd. Sandwiched between the baubles of Elsewhere's collaborative museum, it looked straight out of a Catholic Church. It was my first trip to Elsewhere, where random objects and structures were used by artists from all over the world. It was a "living" museum, so visitors were encouraged to mess with the items. Elsewhere fascinated me, but I wasn't sure how to act around the artsy, alternative folks that hung around. I was out of my element, and I worried that I would seem pretentious or snobby since I was so unlike them. I walked toward the confessional, easily the strangest thing in the room. The curtain revealed a small bench under a dim bulb. In front of the bench was a worn journal, filled with the scrawls of many writers. I sat down and followed the written directions to "disappear behind the curtain." In the journal were secrets, desires, confessions. Every person before me had held the pen that I grasped and had written down the essence of themselves in a few lines. Some entries were as simple as "I wish I could buy my own house," and others revealed more, like "the love of my life isn't really the love of my life at all." Reading through the pages, I grew uncomfortable. The idea of writing down a bit of my essence seemed daunting and terrifying. If it had been a math problem or reading analysis question, I would've known had to handle the situation. This was a kind of intellectual challenge in which I had little experience: expressing my true self to strangers. I put down the pen and sat back in the little chair. Before giving up, I closed my eyes and left my insecurities behind to just breathe. I suddenly became aware of the moth-eaten scent of the curtains. I felt the wooden seat sway under its thousandth occupant. I saw the dim light press against the backs of my eyelids, and I heard the faint laughter drifting from another room. For a moment I became a part of that confessional, a part of every previous confessor. I forgot my fears, opened my eyes, and looked at the journal, feeling my pulse quicken with heightened clarity. My hand found the pen and I wrote "I am not afraid" on a crinkled page near the back of the journal.
It was my first trip to Elsewhere, a museum where random objects and structures...
mess with the items. (Perhaps too casual, unless that was your intent.)
...but I wasn't sure how to act... (try to avoid contractions. Change wasn't sure to was unsure.)
Every person before me had held the pen that I grasped and had written down the essence of themselves in a few lines. (Maybe it's just me, but when I first read it, I had to stop and re-read it because it seemed like you were the one writing about the essence of the others. I would change this to "Every person before me had held the pen that I now grasped, and they had written down the essence of themselves in a few lines.")
Some entries were as simple as "I wish I could buy my own house," and others revealed more, like "the love of my life isn't really the love of my life at all." (I would change "and" to "while")
I would've known had to handle the situation (again, the contraction. Also, "had" needs to be "how")
I heard the faint laughter... (Omit "the")
For a moment I became... (Comma after "moment")
My hand found the pen and I wrote... (Comma after "pen." consider adding an adverb before the word "wrote," like fearlessly or boldly.)
Very good essay overall. Interesting story told very well. Just fix the grammatical errors, and it should be golden.
Please help me out, and read over my essay as well. It is only a rough draft, but I could use the criticism.
but I wasn't sure how to act around the artsy, alternative folks that hung around.
Very good writing here... oh, it's you Maggie, hello. I am not surprised about the good writing. You are a real writer, for sure. I recommend books by Ursula LeGuin, especially Steering the Craft.
was so unlike them.(I think a new paragraph should start after this)
Thank you Kevin! That means a lot, considering I want to be a writer someday. I brought this essay to my counselor and we both (well she, really) decided it was too emotional for stanford intellectual essay, so I'm going to scrap it and write about my interpretation of the short film "Destino" by Dali and Disney (if you haven't seen it, you should check it out pronto). I love you and Mark's opinions on my writing, so please keep a lookout for when I post it! Hopefully I'll have it done sometime this weekend.
Thanks!
Mags
