1. Tell us about your writing journey. The personal essay asks the writer to be both a subject and an observer. How do you bridge that divide?
In my experience, every essay is personal, but the narrative essay is my natural form. Its structure mirrors the way we think—moving between what is happening and what it means. That movement allows the writer to inhabit both roles at once: the one living the moment and the one reflecting on it.
For me, every piece of writing begins with a sensory experience that returns again and again until I finally pay attention. It might be something small—the rhythm of my footsteps lining up with the hum of a leaf blower, or the sharp, insistent call of an osprey overhead. When those rhythms begin to echo each other, language starts to form around them.
That’s the moment the observer enters. I begin to listen more closely, to choose words that match the cadence I’m hearing, and to ask the question that opens the door to the essay: Why this? Why now?
The answer is rarely immediate. The subject lives it first. The observer arrives a beat later—and the essay exists in that space between the two.
2. Do you do extensive research before writing an essay, or is it closer to a memoir in how an event unfolded and your personal connection to it?
Yes—but perhaps not in the traditional sense.
Most of my essays begin in lived experience, which is its own kind of research—observing, remembering, and noticing what insists on returning. That internal “data set” is where the work starts. From there, I’ll turn outward when I need to—usually to confirm a detail, understand context, or make sure I’m honoring the truth of what I’m writing about.
Occasionally, the research becomes part of the discovery. In my flash piece Giving Credit, published by Grande Dame Literary for Women’s Day, I found a small disk among my mother’s belongings. At first, it seemed incidental. But a deeper look revealed it was not just a credit disk—it was a rare and meaningful marker of financial independence at a time when women had very little access to it.
That moment shifted the essay. What began as a personal reflection opened into something larger—about inheritance, history, and the quiet ways a generation makes a path for the next. It felt, in a way, like stepping onto a yellow brick road I hadn’t realized was already beneath my feet.
So yes, I do research—but it’s in service of the story, not the other way around. The facts matter. But it’s the connection between those facts and lived experience—the quiet roar behind them—that gives the essay its meaning.
3. Is there a distinction, for you, between an essay that comes from curiosity and one that comes from a life experience?
This is a tough distinction for me to make. How does one separate curiosity from life experience?
In my experience, they’re intertwined. Writers are, by nature, present—always noticing, always absorbing. And that presence carries its own kind of constant curiosity.
So even when an essay begins in lived experience, it’s curiosity that shapes it—asking what it means, why it lingers, and where it might lead. The two don’t compete; they’re the same impulse seen from different angles.
4. Are you satisfied out of the gate with your essay, or is there a revision process? If so, what does it entail?
Oh, if only you could see my collection of first drafts.
When a thought begins to circle a through line, I have to capture it immediately. That usually means rapid-fire typing—with icy fingertips and more typos than I’d care to admit. (And if you share a home office, I highly recommend turning off the keyboard clicks. Your partner will thank you.)
From there, the real work begins. That first draft goes through several revisions before I fully understand where it’s leading me. I start with what I think of as a “parts of speech” review—strengthening the verbs first, then refining adjectives and vocabulary. After that, I listen more closely, moving through the sentences and paragraphs to find the sound of the piece.
I read it aloud. (Sometimes aloud in my head—again, in deference to those same housemates.)
Then I step away. I close the screen, make a cup of tea, and let the essay sit. When I return, I pay attention to what has lingered with me. If a phrase or idea has been quietly working at me in the background, I go there first.
From that point, it’s about rhythm and shape. If the cadence feels off, I adjust it. If the structure wobbles, I rework it.
And sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—an essay arrives at a place where it feels both fresh and inevitable. The language holds. The piece begins to sing. It feels familiar and surprising at the same time.
That’s when I know I’ve got it right.
5. What drew you toward writing essays instead of memoirs? Does the essay allow a different type of flow for your thought process than a memoir might?
Narrative essays offer a specific kind of focus—one scene, one moment, one thread to follow. Memoir, by contrast, tends to be broader, more expansive, often tracing a longer arc across time.
For me, the shape and length of the essay suit the way I think. I’m drawn to the contained moment—the opportunity to slow it down, to enter it fully, and to understand what it holds. That kind of attention allows the writer to use sensory detail to place the reader inside the experience, rather than simply recount it.
Much of this comes from my background in literacy. I’ve always cared deeply about language that can be spoken as well as read—language that asks the reader to slow down, to hear it, to feel it. In the workshops I led over the years, that was always the goal: to write in a way that invites the reader into the moment, not past it.
The essay, for me, is the ideal form for that work. It allows for both immediacy and reflection within a smaller frame.
And while there is often a memoir-like quality in narrative writing—we do, after all, write from what we know—the difference is in the intention. Memoir looks to trace a life. The essay looks to understand a moment.
6. Is there a subject that does not adhere to being written as an essay, and what do you do when that occurs? Do you abandon the piece, come back to it later, or ruminate about a change?
Some subjects resist the form—at least at first.
Grief comes immediately to mind. It doesn’t always fit neatly into an essay’s structure. And yet, when I look back at my own work, I can see the ways I’ve written my way through it—sometimes arriving at pieces that feel closer to poetry than prose.
That said, I’m not drawn to writing that lingers in angst or leans too heavily into despair. Trauma, loss, and the broader realities of the world are always present, but they are not where I choose to spend most of my creative energy. I’m more interested in how we move through those experiences—what we notice, what we carry, and what we make of it.
Practically speaking, I do both: I step away from some pieces and return to others. If an essay continues to ask something of me—if it lingers—I’ll stay with it. If it doesn’t, I let it go.
Writing takes time, and it fills my days. Over time, I’ve come to see that part of the work is knowing where to place that time and attention. In that sense, it’s the mark of a mature writer to understand when to linger—and when to let go.
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GDL POSTS BY HELAINE FIEDLER
