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![]() White tells of his return to an idyllic lake in Maine where he had often vacationed with his father when he was a child. The essay’s central action spans eight years and was written three years after the main action had ended. A reflective, first-person narrative, “Goodbye to All That” is thirteen pages long and is broken into four sections. I say “not-so-young” because Didion was twenty-eight when she left New York and returned to her native California, but Didion notes in her essay that New York-bursting with vitality, opportunity, and an endless supply of “new faces”-is “a city for only the very young.” Originally published in 1967, “Goodbye to All That” gained wide recognition in her 1968 essay collection Slouching Toward Bethlehem and has since inspired generations of writers who have loved and left New York. In “Goodbye to All That,” Didion tells the story of how she fell in love with New York City as a twenty-year-old woman, and how as a not-so-young woman she suddenly and dramatically fell out of favor with the city. In order to truly understand how writers artfully control time with these techniques I decided to examine and compare two personal essays: Joan Didion’s “Goodbye to All That” and E.B. Seemed simple enough to me and I was certain I knew what at least half of these listed techniques were, but I wondered if a writer could really use those techniques time and again without bogging essays down with dates, or crafting artificial narrative with tailored auxiliary clauses. These he called time stamps tenses and tense changes temporal conjunctions, adverbs, and adverbial phrases syntactic constructions and meta-text. Not to worry, Glover intimated in a letter to me, because there are just a few basic techniques through which writers control time flow. But when it came to personal essays, the type of creative nonfiction I was working on, I found that the well of craft books had run dry. And there was even literature on narrative time control for fiction writers and memoirists. Prepared now with the name for the literary technique I needed to study, I rallied to begin my research, but surprisingly I found nothing on the topic of time control as it pertained to creative nonfiction. While this would have been a useful trick to learn, narrative time control requires no superhuman abilities and is far more necessary as a writer. “Time control,” he answered, summoning to my mind images of Time Lords and a TV show I’d watched as a child in the late 80s where a teenage girl-half human, half alien-could stop time by touching her right and left index fingers together. I described for him the trouble I had coherently moving my essays forward through time, but said I didn’t know what to call this technique. Douglas Glover, my new faculty advisor, said that to tackle the critical thesis I should focus on an area of my own writing that was deficient and rigorously examine the successful deployment of that technique in the writing of others. During the third semester at VCFA students write a critical thesis on literary works, themes, or craft. Three weeks after that morning I started my third semester, none the wiser on how to crack my chronology problem. What was I doing wrong? Chronology in my essays seemed obvious to me-I’d been there after all-but how was I failing to convey the basic sequence of events to readers? So I sat on my patio with coffee cooling beside me and the ocean fog still thick over the fields, and I felt like I too was under a fog. “Maybe you should cut the first three pages?” Or, with inky red arrows pointing to a specific paragraph, “I feel like the essay starts here.” Others would ask: How old are you in the essay? At what time (of the year, month, or day) does this essay occur? How many years passed between the time of the experience and the time of writing about it? In the work I’d received back from my advisor that morning he’d asked the same types of questions. Time and again in letters from my advisors and comments from peers in writing workshops my essays had elicited the same questions and prompted the same critiques. ![]() I’d just finished my second semester in a master’s degree program in creative nonfiction at Vermont College of Fine Arts, and I’d imagined that when I reached the midway point of my degree program I would feel elated. ![]() on June third wrapped in a drab green blanket-late spring mornings in Maine are still too chilly for short sleeves-while steam rose from a neglected mug of coffee and twirled away through the air. ![]() I remember sitting outside on my patio around 8 a.m. ![]() |