Here is an essay about driving:
People shouldn’t drive when they are in the grip of strong emotions. They are much more likely to have accidents and injure themselves and others. For instance, I almost killed myself when I drove angry and wrecked my father’s motorcycle.
I was arguing with my mom, who was being unreasonable. She was always too controlling. I left the house and drove my dad’s motorcycle. I was going a little too fast on a wet curve, lost traction, and fell. The bike was totalled. My dad was pissed.
I learned an important lesson that day: that it is dangerous to drive angry. I get very nervous when the driver of a car I am in is upset for whatever reason. Strong emotions can distract a driver and put everyone’s life at risk.
How did I do? We learned about showing, didn't we? Let's revise, and show the episode with the motorcycle accident:
People shouldn’t drive when they are in the grip of strong emotions. They are much more likely to have accidents and injure themselves and others. For instance, I almost killed myself when I drove angry and wrecked my father’s motorcycle.
I was seventeen years old, furious with my mom. I stormed out of the house, muttering my fury, put on my helmet. I was to meet my father across town: I was taking his motorcycle; he would soon follow in his car.
I loved riding, and had learned on this small, laid-back V-twin cruiser, a 500cc Yamaha Virago. It started effortlessly, of course, and I revved it satisfyingly out of the driveway, yelling over the engine the things I should have said to her.
A mile later, my mind was still on my mother and her controlling ways. On Cove Road, I accelerated around one tree-lined bend and started to lean into the next. The dappled shadows hid the water until I was on it, and I realized with a sudden sinking chill that I was too fast for the curve. I touched both brakes experimentally.
Bad idea. The front wheel immediately lost traction. The handlebars beat wildly back and forth through a long hydroplaning moment, time telescoped, and in what seemed like slow motion I drifted forward, no longer angry, not even fearful: fascinated.
While the bars bounced back again to the left, the front wheel caught, and the bike slammed itself onto its right side, launching me into a superman skid thirty feet along the pavement. I rolled into a dirt embankment, leapt up brushing my the soil out of the scrapes in my hands, and raced back to the bike.
I set it up, tried the starter. Nothing. My torn hands and knees, my tattered jacket and pants? nothing. The bike never ran again. I was fine, though shaking. I pushed the bike off to the shoulder and waited, with growing dread, for my dad to show up.
I learned an important lesson that day: that it is dangerous to drive angry. I get very nervous when the driver of a car I am in is upset for whatever reason. Strong emotions can distract a driver and put everyone’s life at risk.
Better, right? But we're still both showing and telling, aren't we? Is there a way to show that idea that is in the introduction and conclusion? Sure. We'll frame the motorcycle story, which happens in the past, with another, which happens more recently. The framing device will show the way the past has affected the present.
Samantha accelerated up the hill, rapidly closing the distance between us and the car in front of us. My foot involuntarily reached for the brake pedal that I wished were on the passenger side of the car. She’d been fired, and she was telling me about her day. “Sam,” I said, “could you slow down?” The car in front of us made it through a yellow light; I don’t think Sam saw that it was red by the time we sped through.
“I know how to drive,” she snapped.
“I know, but...”
“You don’t listen to me!”
As the argument got louder, my stomach knotted. I remembered the last time I had driven angry, seventeen years old, furious with my mom. I stormed out of the house, muttering my fury, put on my helmet. I was to meet my father across town: I was taking his motorcycle; he would soon follow in his car.
I loved riding, and had learned on this small, laid-back V-twin cruiser, a 500cc Yamaha Virago. It started effortlessly, of course, and I revved it satisfyingly out of the driveway, yelling over the engine the things I should have said to her.
A mile later, my mind was still on my mother and her controlling ways. On Cove Road, I accelerated around one tree-lined bend and started to lean into the next. The dappled shadows hid the water until I was on it, and I realized with a sudden sinking chill that I was too fast for the curve. I touched both brakes experimentally.
Bad idea. The front wheel immediately lost traction. The handlebars beat wildly back and forth through a long hydroplaning moment, time telescoped, and in what seemed like slow motion I drifted forward, no longer angry, not even fearful: fascinated.
While the bars bounced back again to the left, the front wheel caught, and the bike slammed itself onto its right side, launching me into a superman skid thirty feet along the pavement. I rolled into a dirt embankment, leapt up brushing my the soil out of the scrapes in my hands, and raced back to the bike.
I set it up, tried the starter. Nothing. My torn hands and knees, my tattered jacket and pants? nothing. The bike never ran again. I was fine, though shaking. I pushed the bike off to the shoulder and waited, with growing dread, for my dad to show up.
In the car, I took a deep breath. “Sweetheart,” I said, as we stopped too hard at a light. “I don’t feel safe. Let’s talk about this when we get home.” I got out of the car, closed the door gently, and walked home.
Do you get the idea? What effect did the motorcycle accident have on me? Do you see how it affects the decisions I make? Now look at the preachiness of our original draft… which essay uses a more effective rhetorical strategy?