#9-Writing the Essay is Not Actually the Devil: A dramatic narrative
by Aristotelis Orginos
This article is part of 509 South’s continuing coverage of “10 Things NYU Freshmen Need to Know.”
If you hear anything about NYU classes, you’ll definitely hear about a particular one called “Writing the Essay.” For those currently matriculating at NYU, the three words in that order send chilling waves of fear down their spines. They will pull you in by the shoulder, peer into your soul with craven eyes, and, with a shaking voice, whisper: “I survived. I survived.”
“Just leave me. Leave me alone. Yes, I survived. But I lost my soul to that class.”
Most freshmen take the class their first semester. Stern kids are given the choice to opt out for some bullshit other class. Tisch kids can combine it with some other bullshit. I don’t know. I’m in Steinhardt. I don’t give a shit about other schools. Sorry.
Anyway.
Allow me to recount for you my journey to Writing the Essay. I had the misfortune of landing an 8:00 AM Writing the Essay section because fuck me, right? My schedule said that the class was in Bobst. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. I waded through the cold New York City streets. It was raining and it was oppressively cold.
As I approached the red library, a gargoyle descended from the top of the building. It asked, in a booming voice: “Where are you going?” I told him: “Writing the Essay, sir.”
“This is not your door,” said the gargoyle, gesturing to the revolving door currently in motion as a hipster pushed it with his elbow so as not to disturb his vial of Starbucks coffee. Instead, the gargoyle cast a spell, opening a dark portal. With trepidation, I entered the portal and was transported to a land of misery. Armed only with my backpack, I grasped at the dusty ground as a flood of demons approached me, gnashing their teeth and brandishing sharpened claws. And then there was a distant light, shining bright over the ethereal plane.
A vampiric emperor rose above the demons, the titan that he was. He peered at me with all white eyes. “Are you here for Writing the Essay?” he asked. Nervously, I managed to tell him “yes.”
“Good,” he said. “We have already prepared your blood sacrifice. We require only your signature on a demonic contract to complete your Satanic rites.”
“Three pages due tomorrow, dickbag.”
Just kidding, this never happened.
I walked into Bobst and was greeted by a group of exhausted students around a long table and a cheery teacher (yes, there are classrooms in Bobst and they’re pretty hard to find among the bookshelves).
Yes, Writing the Essay is pretty hard. Yes, there is homework due every single class period. Yes, you will want to say “fuck it.” But never again will your writing abilities increase by a crazy amount in such a short amount of time. Writing the Essay is the seminal class of NYU for a reason—it’s a class made by a great Expository Writing Program, and it teaches you a lot. Like, a lot a lot.
If you didn’t come to college to do some work, the door is over there.

