Like many second-semester Haverford seniors, I was searching last January for an easy course to fill out my schedule. I decided to shop an English class at Bryn Mawr Monday night, and the teacher told us the final project would require knitting something artsy together as a climax. A final project that wasn't a paper of clearly delimitated length: How was I supposed to know how difficult that would be? I decided to duck out before things even got started.

Across the hall, I noticed another classroom full of dozens of students, occupying every foot of space. I sneaked in and found room on the floor. A girl next to me whispered the class was called "Creative Nonfiction".

That I, as a senior, would go to a class about which I knew nothing—a class whose professor I hadn't already scoped out—was predictive of things to come.

I was that freshman who, instead of going out to party the night before classes, stayed in my dorm to highlight the courses I'd need to take that semester. I worried: If I didn't squeeze American Politics in this time, would the law schools I had my eye on still accept me?

It was this obsession with planning that helped me in my summer journalism internships. I'd done well at two newspapers, in Elmira, N.Y. and Buffalo; my supervisors there said they were pleased with my stuff. But I knew that my writing, while competent, was formulaic and uninspired.

When I did feel inspired, I'd run into barriers. Editors kept saying that there wasn't enough space for a profile of two hard-working nonprofit employees; or a piece on suburban teenagers converting poor inner-city residents to Christianity – that wasn't what one editor had in mind when he'd sent me out to cover a summer festival.

But as I entered my last semester at H/BM, I still hoped to work in writing or editing after graduation. So I stayed to hear what Professor Rachel Simon had to say about her creative nonfiction course. We would be writing personal pieces using the tools of fiction. I'd loved In Cold Blood, Truman Capote's nonfiction novel. I wasn't ready for a novel, but personal pieces? I loved to talk about myself. Plus, how hard could it be? I'd done pro journalism before, had perfect grammar, and read personal essays every week in The New York Times. I'd found my breezy course.

For the first six weeks, Rachel Simon, who'd written a great nonfiction book, Riding the Bus With My Sister, about a sibling with developmental problems; and The Magic Touch, a short story collection, told us we would turn in either a draft or a final piece every week. We'd meet for 20-minute conferences to discuss our pieces; if the theme worked, if the piece was clear, we came to see how the self was presented as a character. Though she recorded grades for these exercises, we wouldn't know them—it was more important to understand her written comments than obsessing over a number.

I dove right into the first assignment, about a past relationship. I wrote about a unique topic; I used vivid examples; I made sure my grammar was perfect. With a smug smile on my face, I sent the piece in, and the next day went for my conference, ready to hear my praises sung.

She sung a few. But the piece, Prof. Simon said, needed work. Why, she asked, include an example that didn't relate to my piece's theme? Why not include more background? And what, after all, is your theme?

Reading over her written comments, I realized that I'd never received so much feedback on my writing before. I'd taken some difficult courses, but any problems a professor had with a history paper only warranted a five-word scribble. And for my five double-spaced pages, I now had two single-spaced pages of notes!

This was no Mickey Mouse course.

I began spending hours a day on assignments—something that I'd never had to do when, say, writing a research paper about New Deal agricultural policy. All I needed for that was the facts; but in a story about why I'm so concerned with others' feelings, it takes more than just saying that I am. I'd have to develop Steve – me – as a character, and explain how this peculiar trait—this need of mine—might have arisen.

In the shower, I'd realize how I could incorporate a scene into a piece; while running, I would obsess over how to end a story. Ideas about writing—and about my own personality—began to flow. My writing improved, and as I shaped my prose, aspects of me came out that I knew, but had never clearly articulated before.

About halfway through the semester, we met during a conference to discuss an essay I'd written about an acting camp. I asked Professor Simon if she thought I'd developed the theme of my piece enough. I knew the piece, about how my experience in camp had made me want to play a different character in "real life," was interesting. But I wanted to know if it had a message that I couldn't fully see, yet.

“I don't know. That's up to you,” she said.

Hey, now. No need to be coy.

“Do you think your theme comes across?” she asked.“What do you think your theme is?”

I thought about one of the flashback scenes in the piece, and I realized I hadn't even mentioned what it actually meant to me. I blurted out my revelation, and started scribbling notes... My perfect piece needed revisions.

I'd only had two corrections in all my journalism internships. But with an eight-page essay I'd spent weeks writing and revising, I realized that I'd missed a key part of the theme I wanted readers to learn. I wondered what would have happened had I asked a newspaper editor if my story's“theme” was clear enough: He'd probably have called the lab to have them re-check my drug test results.

I realized that day that if there's one lesson I've learned in Creative Nonfiction, it's that there's always more to be done than getting the facts right. Anyone, with a bit of diligence, can do that. But it would take real effort to strive for a better essay—one that could make it into a publication, or even one day grow into a memoir.

I still hope to work at a publication some day, but I'm even more excited about the potential for telling my own stories—not just writing about the stories of others. And just as I have in Creative Nonfiction examined my stories and themes, I'm starting to examine the choices I make in my life—thinking about how to connect those, like the flashbacks in my stories, to a larger life lesson.

It was, I told the professor, a positive development for a second-semester senior who'd just been looking for an easy course.

— Steve Hagenbuch '07