Narrative Essay

A narrative essay recounts a personal experience—not just any personal experience, but usually one that taught the author an important life lesson. Narrative essays are a staple of high school writing, and they're often also found in university writing.

While narrative essays are typically about the author's own experiences, they can also be written about a third party.

The structure for a narrative essay is usually straightforward—typically the essay is presented in a series of chronological paragraphs. In the introduction, the thesis might be implied, although its reaffirmation in the conclusion may be more explicit, especially if the writer wants to stress the life lesson they learned through the experience described.

One common structure for a narrative essay.

Techniques

Use a casual voice. Unlike many other essay styles, the narrative essay is personal. Write about yourself, use the word "I", and be more flexible with grammar.
Tell the story first. Try telling the story first. This will become the body. After that's done, read it, and see what you want to emphasize in the introduction and conclusion.
Read it aloud. Your story should sound like something you personally would write or say. Read it out loud to yourself and see if it does, and what parts are unnatural.
Consider the audience. If you're a high school student writing to other high school students, write like it. There should be something in your essay—either the style or content—that you wouldn't have written five years ago.

Example 1: Nonsense Poems in the Big Woods of My Childhood

Nonsense Poems in the Big Woods of My Childhood

Emily Hanna
Excelsior University
April 16, 2014

“The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea [in] a beautiful pea-green boat” (Lear, 1870). My grandmother’s voice intones through the haze of one of my earliest childhood memories. I was four years old, lying on the earth-tone coverlet of my grandparent’s bed in the loft bedroom of their asymmetrical 1970s hippy house. It was naptime. The sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the kitchen and made its way up the hallway. I was drifting off, but the familiar words penetrated the early stages of slumber. My grandmother has a beautiful voice, and every word of Edward Lear’s nineteenth-century nonsense poem was spoken in just the right pitch and rhythm. “They took some honey, and plenty of money, [wrapped] up in a five-pound note,” her voice continued soothingly. I was losing the battle with sleep, but I knew how the narrative ended. The next week on my day at Gram’s house, the book was Teddy Bear Picnic, which she would sometimes sing, or Leaves from a Child’s Garden of Verses. I was not particular; I loved them all. Many of the peaceful moments of my early childhood had the same features: my mom or my grandma, a book, and a warm, safe place. In the present, I return to books, not only for mental expansion, but also for the familiarity and stability of summer naptimes and homeschool afternoons.

“Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs” (Wilder, 1932). The voice in this memory is different, younger for one thing. My mother was only twenty-five, but she had two youngsters and a toddler around her on the couch. I was five, and these were the early days of my education, which I spent at home with my two brothers. Every day after lunch, Mum read to us from a chapter book. A favorite of ours was the Little House on the Prairie series, and our copy of the first book, Little House in the Big Woods, sported a missing cover, cracked spine, and bent pages. I can recall with distinct clarity the motion of my mother turning down the page to mark our place in the familiar tale. My later school years do not have this idyllic quality. I have become an exacting perfectionist who agonizes over every word read and written, but the habits from my childhood of listening—focus, attention to detail, enthusiasm, and organization—continue to bring me peace.

“How do you spell frog,” my seven-year-old self demanded of my mother, who was kneading a loaf of bread at the kitchen counter. For a child who loved books, I struggled to read independently, and it affected my early ability to write. Yet, I clearly wanted to write and followed my indefatigable mother around asking for her help.

“Sound it out,” she encouraged. “F-raw-g.” I looked at her skeptically, not feeling the sound-it-out game. I was more interested in my story about a boy and his pet frog. “Or look it up.”

“I don’t know how,” I insisted impatiently.

“Then make your best guess.”

Eventually, the book was finished and illustrated, despite a few unconventionally-spelled words. Within a year or two, I learned to read and jumped from a first-grade reading level to a high-school reading level in the course of a few months. Being conventional is overrated. At seven, I never suspected I was behind, and because my parents did not pressure me, I caught back up without ever knowing. Learning to read was another quiet, happy experience. Now, other things do not come easily, and the outside environment is not as kind. I suffer more on these occasions, but in time, I catch up when I am ready.

“And hand in hand [on] the edge of the sand, [they] danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon. They danced by the light of the moon” (Lear, 1870). I was gone from the present as my grandmother closed the shiny hardcover copy of The Owl and the Pussy-Cat and placed it back on the low bookshelf beside the bed. The present is not always as sunny as that day in 1996, but my grandmother’s voice and the words it repeated always keep me steady.

Word count: 731

References

Lear, E. (1870). The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. Our Young Folks.

Wilder, L. I. (1932). Little House in the Big Woods. Harper.

Example 2: The Legend of the North Pond Hermit

The Legend of the North Pond Hermit

Carlos Rivera (Adapted)
Excelsior University
August 5, 2022

For years, citizens around the area of Rome, Maine, have only jokingly blamed the ‘North Pond Hermit’, whenever possessions mysteriously vanished around their camps. They attributed the losses to a mythical man who no one had ever seen nor heard. However, after avoiding authorities for over a quarter of a century, the elusive man of local legend has finally been apprehended, much to the surprise of residents. While some are angry with the hermit for the crimes he committed over the years, others venerate him as a folk hero. Although his story is shrouded in mystery, authorities are gradually learning more about him by speaking with those who knew him years ago and talking to the fabled hermit himself.

The North Pond Hermit, Christopher Knight, is originally from Albion, Maine. According to people who knew him years ago, he spent his school years not doing anything noteworthy. Those who knew him earlier in life claimed he was a very smart, yet unremarkable individual. In high school, he did not have many friends but did not have any adversaries either (Associated Press, 2013). No source claimed to notice any odd behavior that could signify a harmful mental condition. Some believe the death of a cousin may have spurred his desire to be isolated from society. Others claim that, after the death of his father and the tragedy of Chernobyl, he decided to leave (Curtis, 2013). Even Knight himself seemed to not know the exact reason he left. There were no significant signs that Knight would one day march off into the wilderness alone, just two years after he graduated high school in 1986 (Curtis 2013). To old classmates and authorities, Knight is a conundrum.

Although Knight’s camp was called “makeshift” by multiple sources, it was quite sophisticated. According to journalist Craig Crosby (2013), “He built a hut on a slope in the woods.” His tent was facing in a direction at which he could best utilize the sunlight at all hours of the day in order to keep as warm as possible. He concealed his camp by covering any bright and shiny objects with dark colored tarps and bags, as well as moss. He also never lit a fire, as to further hide his whereabouts. The methods he used to veil his camp resemble military tactics, although he was never in the military. Despite the primitive look of his camp, Knight strategically masked his location to maintain his way of life (Crosby, 2013).

During the years he spent in the wild, Knight filled his time with hobbies and important tasks for his survival. Crosby (2013) writes that “he spent his days reading books and meditating.” He also watched plants grow. However, more important to Knight’s story was the startling amount of crime he committed over the time he lived in the wilderness. Knight claims to have stolen from around 300 campsites. He burglarized these campsites over 1,000 times in order to obtain the supplies and food he needed to survive (Curtis, 2013). Journalist Glenn Adams (2013) writes, “‘He used us like his local Walmart,’ said Harvey Chesley, the [Pine Tree] camp's facilities manager.” Some people who lived in the area claimed that they knew about Knight’s crimes for years and even left out food for him. However, after many years, Knight’s crimes have reached an end.

The Pine Tree Camp, a camp for people with special needs, was burglarized multiple

times, until finally camp leaders asked authorities to investigate. Sergeant Terry Hughes had the idea to set up a camera and a trip wire alarm system that would notify him at home if someone came into the Pine Tree Camp dining facility to steal food at night after it was closed. Late at night, after the alarm system was assembled that day, Knight hit the trip wire. Hughes heard the signal and then saw Knight on camera. He quickly arrived at the camp and apprehended Knight (Crosby, 2013). Knight was found, not disheveled and dirty, as television and films often portray men who live alone in the wild, but he had a close-cut beard and short hair. He was also still wearing 1980s-style “aviator” glasses (Crosby, 2013). Hughes was the first person Knight spoke with since the 1990s, when he walked past somebody on a path and greeted him.

Since Knight’s apprehension, he has been adjusting to life in jail. He was also interviewed about his actions and motives. Hughes reported that Knight acknowledged his actions were wrong and even appeared to show “shame and remorse” (Crosby, 2013). Despite confessing to over 1,000 robberies, Knight will only be tried for the burglary for which he was caught. “The 47-year-old hermit now awaits his future at the Kennebec County Jail, where he is being held in lieu of $5,000 cash bail on charges of burglary and theft” (Crosby, 2013). Meanwhile, according to writer Bill Chappell (2013), while in jail, Knight received an offer to pay his bail from a nonresident, as well as a marriage proposal from another individual—both of which he refused.

The public continues to have mixed feelings about the case. Although the people Knight stole from are furious that he was able to elude punishment for all of the crime he has committed over the years, old friends of his are raising money to help support him when he leaves jail (Associated Press, 2013). Knight is even being revered as a hero of sorts, by others. Stan Keach, a bluegrass artist from Belgrade, Maine, has written a song about Knight, called “We Don’t Know the North Pond Hermit” (Burnham, 2013). In the song, Keach sings of Knight’s life alone in the wild.

Nobody has a clear idea of why so many years ago a young man decided to separate himself from society. The facts surrounding the events are hazy, and the story itself has the characteristics of folklore. As time progresses, more of Knight’s story will be revealed. In the meantime, people will continue to speculate about who the North Pond Hermit really is, as he tries to answer that question himself.

Word count: 1,028

References

Adams, G. (2013, April 10). Christopher Knight, Maine's ‘North Pond Hermit,’ accused in more than 1,000 burglaries. Huffington Post.

Associated Press. (2013, April 30). Classmates remember North Pond Hermit as quiet, nerdy. Maine Sun Journal.

Burnham, E. (2013, April 17). Real-life folk hero the North Pond Hermit inspires folk songs. Bangor Daily News.

Chappell, B. (2013, April 16). Maine court sets $25,000 bail for ‘North Pond Hermit’. National Public Radio.

Crosby, C. (2013, April 9). After 27 years of burglaries, ‘North Pond Hermit’ is arrested. Portland Press Herald.

Curtis, A. (2013, April 11). ‘North Pond Hermit’ — A son, a brother, and a classmate, but few knew him well. Bangor Daily News.

Example 3: The Conscience of a Hacker

==Phrack Inc.==
Volume One, Issue 7, Phile 3 of 10

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The following was written shortly after my arrest...

\/\The Conscience of a Hacker/\/
by
+++The Mentor+++

Written on January 8, 1986

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Another one got caught today, it's all over the papers. "Teenager Arrested in Computer Crime Scandal", "Hacker Arrested after Bank Tampering"...

Damn kids. They're all alike.

But did you, in your three-piece psychology and 1950's technobrain, ever take a look behind the eyes of the hacker? Did you ever wonder what made him tick, what forces shaped him, what may have molded him?

I am a hacker, enter my world...

Mine is a world that begins with school... I'm smarter than most of the other kids, this crap they teach us bores me...

Damn underachiever. They're all alike.

I'm in junior high or high school. I've listened to teachers explain for the fifteenth time how to reduce a fraction. I understand it. "No, Ms. Smith, I didn't show my work. I did it in my head..."

Damn kid. Probably copied it. They're all alike.

I made a discovery today. I found a computer. Wait a second, this is cool. It does what I want it to. If it makes a mistake, it's because I screwed it up. Not because it doesn't like me...

Or feels threatened by me...

Or thinks I'm a smart ass...

Or doesn't like teaching and shouldn't be here...

Damn kid. All he does is play games. They're all alike.

And then it happened... a door opened to a world... rushing through the phone line like heroin through an addict's veins, an electronic pulse is sent out, a refuge from the day-to-day incompetencies is sought... a board is found.

"This is it... this is where I belong..."

I know everyone here... even if I've never met them, never talked to them, may never hear from them again... I know you all...

Damn kid. Tying up the phone line again. They're all alike...

You bet your ass we're all alike... we've been spoon-fed baby food at school when we hungered for steak... the bits of meat that you did let slip through were pre-chewed and tasteless. We've been dominated by sadists, or ignored by the apathetic. The few that had something to teach found us willing pupils, but those few are like drops of water in the desert.

This is our world now... the world of the electron and the switch, the beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by profiteering gluttons, and you call us criminals. We explore... and you call us criminals. We seek after knowledge... and you call us criminals. We exist without skin color, without nationality, without religious bias... and you call us criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage wars, you murder, cheat, and lie to us and try to make us believe it's for our own good, yet we're the criminals.

Yes, I am a criminal. My crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look like. My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will never forgive me for.

I am a hacker, and this is my manifesto. You may stop this individual, but you can't stop us all... after all, we're all alike.

+++The Mentor+++

Example 4: A Freedman Writes His Former Master

A Freedman Writes His Former Master

Jourdan Anderson

Dayton, Ohio, August 7, 1865.

To my old Master, Colonel P. H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee.

Sir:

I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin's to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get $25 a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy (the folks call her Mrs. Anderson), and the children, Milly, Jane, and Grundy, go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, “Them colored people were slaves” down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At $25 a month for me, and $2 a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to $11,680. Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor’s visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls. You know how it was with poor Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve and die, if it come to that, than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.

From your old servant,

Jourdon Anderson

P.S.— Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

Word count: 812

More Narrative Essays

These are presumably still under copyright, so they aren't hosted on this website.

Amy Tan – Fish Cheeks (1987)
Sherman Alexie – Superman and Me (1998)

References

Anderson, J. (1865). A Freedman Writes His Former Master.
Narrative Essay. (2023). Excelsior Online Writing Lab, Excelsior University. Retrieved 2024. CC BY-SA 4.0. Some of the above content was copy/pasted from here.
Narrative Essays. (2024). Purdue Online Writing Lab. Retrieved 2025.
Sexton J. and Soles D. (2019). The Narrative Essay. B.C. Open Textbook Collection. CC BY 4.0. Some of the above content was copy/pasted from here.
The Mentor. (1986). The Conscience of a Hacker. Phrack Magazine, 1(7). Copyleft.

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