Last night while leading a writing class, I spoke something aloud I often think but never say, “It’s like the Turn card in Hold ‘Em.”
Let me explain.
Because the paths to becoming a writer are so varied, you might find yourself with more than a few bylines and a book without having picked up all the appropriate language and terminology along the way. Maybe this is essential in certain fields like medicine but becomes a little more loose-y goose-y in the arts. Maybe.
Now, I do have an MFA, but we didn’t spend a whole lot of time going over that kind of thing. And some terms as I was learning them I had the distinct feeling that I was already forgetting them. In one class, we studied Virginia Tufte’s “Artful Sentences: Syntax and Style.” I wanted to weep being forced to read that book, but by the end of it, I did have an appreciation for what Tufte was trying to teach us.
I used to — and sometimes still do — feel insecure about all the things I don’t know. But what I do know, is that I did manage to learn — and continue to learn — what I need to know to do the kind of writing I want to do. Even writing this right now has me feeling uncomfortable and exposed, as if it will be some major shock that I don’t know everything. That there is still so much left to learn about my craft.
For better or for worse, this means that my teaching isn’t often bogged down with writing jargon and I rely on a lot of metaphors when explaining what a writer should be attempting in their work. And while my insecurities tell me this leaves some folks doubting my qualifications because jargon can often be seen as shorthand for expertise, I try to keep in mind that I’ve learned just as much from writing professors and instructors with exceptional schooling as I have writers who were largely self-taught — and even more from reverse-engineering books and essays I’ve read.
And sometimes people find jargon really intimidating if they aren’t as well-versed in it and a metaphor can be easier for them to absorb. In the class I mentioned at the beginning of this essay, I told the writers to think of the beginning of an essay like you’re heading off on a road trip and your reader is your passenger. Have you provided everything they need to want to go on this trip with you? You got the right tunes? The car snacks they like? They know where y’all going? Aka have you established the world, yourself as a character and what the situation is?
A few days later, a friend sent me a newsletter by Brandon Taylor and I learned what I was talking about is actually called “narrative context.” Good to know.
Regardless of what my insecurities want to me believe, I do know the reason people say they take writing classes with me is because I create a comfortable environment for asking questions and sharing your work and I’m pretty good at rattling off writers doing what you’re doing that you can read for inspiration and guidance.
So last night in class, I was talking to the writers about the paragraph I like call “the knot,” where all the threads of your essay come together. Sometimes this happens at the end of an essay, “conclusion” style, but often it comes a few paragraphs before the end — or at least it should to allow a writer enough runway to demonstrate how all this new knowledge changed them or the course of their life (and this can be shown in a big moment or a small moment, a loud one or a quiet one).
And I was explaining — depending on what kind of essay you’re writing — that means that the knot paragraph tends to coincide with the point in the essay where something happens or you have some kind of realization and you cannot proceed as you were prior to this point. I told them to think of it as the Turn card in Hold ‘Em. On Zoom, I watched multiple pairs of eyes light up with recognition.
I think about the Turn card often when writing or reading an essay, There it is, the Turn. But for whatever reason, I’ve never described it like that when teaching. But I think the metaphor can actually be extended out even further.
It’s been a long time since I’ve played Texas Hold ‘Em but I used to be decent at it — I won a frat house’s tournament in college and left right after winning all their cash to meet up with my boyfriend. I broke their hearts and their wallets that night.
But the basic gist is everyone gets two cards. And then three community cards I laid out, that’s the Flop. Then you have the Turn and the final community card is the River card.
So let’s translate this into an essay.
The Flop is the set of circumstances you’ve found yourself in. I’m going to use Natalie Lima’s Brevity essay, “Snowbound,” as my example because it’s short and very good.
So Natalie is writing about going away for college. Like that’s not an experience specific to her. Lots of kids go away for college. Lots of kids have gone to college in a different region of the country. So what sets Natalie apart from every other kid in her college freshman class that was attending that school out-of-state?
Those are the two cards in Natalie’s hand — in this essay those cards represent the class and body differences that set her apart.
Then there’s the Turn. That’s section 4 of Natalie’s essay where she’s contrasting what her high school expectations of college were versus what her reality has been. Up until this point, this just navigating the circumstances dealt to her in the Flop and bringing to it what she’s got in her hand. The Turn is when she realizes that this is not what she thought it was going to be and either she needs to change her circumstances or her expectations.
The River is the final card before everyone shows their hand. In Natalie’s essay, this her experiencing what she’s only read about: snow.
Now, not every essay will follow this structure and you should try to force your essay to do so, but if you’re looking for an essay go-to essay format, maybe try Texas Hold ‘Em or whatever the actual term is that I will likely learn in some random way minutes after hitting send on this newsletter.