my writing journey essay

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My journey of writing – exploring my thoughts, discovering my voice, and reflecting on my experiences.

Throughout the vast tapestry of life, there exist moments of immense clarity, when the melody of purpose resounds within the chambers of one’s soul. For me, one such moment arrived like a gentle gust on a breezy autumn day – an epiphany that set ablaze the embers of my heart and ignited an unquenchable passion for the written word. In this introspective narrative, I invite you to join me as I traverse the labyrinthine corridors of my past, retracing the footsteps that led me to discover the extraordinary joy and fulfillment that comes with the art of writing.

In the memories of my childhood, ink-stained fingertips and dog-eared pages became the guardians of my imagination. At a tender age, I found solace between the lines of countless volumes, embarking on literary adventures that transported me to magical realms and introduced me to heroes and heroines whose triumphs and tragedies resonated deeply within my impressionable mind. Words became my labyrinth, and each sentence, a stepping stone leading to infinite possibilities. With each turn of the page, I discovered the transformative power of the written word – the ability to conjure worlds beyond reality and fashion intricate tapestries of emotion.

As I navigated the uncharted seas of adolescence, the written word evolved from a mere source of wonder to a vessel for self-expression. The allure of poetry, with its rhythmic cadence and lyrical form, beckoned me to illuminate the innermost recesses of my being. In the communion between pen and paper, I discovered a sacred space wherein my thoughts transcended the confines of language, flowing freely like a serene river on a moonlit night. The boundless potential of writing became my sanctuary, a realm where I could forge my identity and give voice to the untold stories that resided within my heart.

My Journey to Discovering My Passion for Writing

Throughout my life, I have embarked on a remarkable expedition towards finding my true calling as a writer. It has been a compelling odyssey filled with self-discovery, creative exploration, and an unwavering pursuit of storytelling.

From a young age, I found solace in the written word. I would often find myself lost in the pages of books, captivated by the vivid imagery and powerful emotions that words could evoke. As I delved deeper into literature, I began to recognize the profound impact that written stories had on people’s lives. They had the ability to transport us to different worlds, ignite our imaginations, and provoke thought. This realization sparked a flame within me, igniting my initial curiosity and setting me on a path of literary exploration.

As I continued my journey, I started to experiment with writing myself. At first, it was just a creative outlet, a way to express myself and capture my thoughts and experiences on paper. But as I honed my skills, I discovered the immense power of storytelling. Through my writing, I could connect with others on a deeper level, sharing my unique perspectives and sparking meaningful conversations. It was in these moments of connection that I truly felt alive, as if I had found my purpose.

Over time, writing became not just a hobby, but an integral part of my identity. It allowed me to explore different genres, styles, and voices, always pushing the boundaries of my creativity. Through the ups and downs, the moments of inspiration and the dreaded writer’s block, I persevered, driven by an insatiable passion to refine my craft and make a meaningful impact through my words.

My journey to discovering my passion for writing has been a winding road, full of twists and turns, surprises and revelations. It has taught me about the power of words and the importance of storytelling in shaping our world. It has shown me that writing is not just a means of communication, but a way to connect with others, to inspire, to challenge, and to leave a lasting legacy. And as I continue on this extraordinary journey, I am excited to see where it will take me and the stories I have yet to tell.

Uncovering my love for storytelling

Exploring the depths of my creativity led me on a quest to uncover my innate love for storytelling. In the depths of my soul, I discovered a burning desire to weave words together to create narratives that captivate and inspire. This newfound passion for storytelling has allowed me to express myself in a unique and profound way.

As I delved into the world of storytelling, I realized that it is so much more than just the act of writing. It is a form of art that combines imagination, emotion, and the power of words. Storytelling has the ability to transport readers to different worlds, evoke deep emotions, and provoke thought. It is a medium through which I can share my perspectives, experiences, and insights with others.

Through storytelling, I have discovered the art of crafting characters that come to life on the page. Each character has their own unique voice, experiences, and desires, allowing them to connect with readers on a personal level. It is through these characters that I can explore different perspectives, challenge societal norms, and delve into the human condition.

Storytelling also allows me to create worlds that exist only in my imagination. These worlds can be fantastical or grounded in reality, but they all serve as a canvas for my creative expression. Through vivid descriptions and rich imagery, I can transport readers to these worlds, allowing them to experience the magic and wonder that I have created.

Furthermore, storytelling has the power to inspire and motivate. By sharing personal experiences and lessons learned, I can offer guidance and support to readers who may be going through similar struggles. Through stories of triumph, resilience, and personal growth, I aspire to make a positive impact on the lives of others.

Overall, uncovering my love for storytelling has been a transformative journey. It has opened up a world of possibilities and allowed me to express my creativity in a way that is both fulfilling and meaningful. Through storytelling, I have found my voice, my passion, and my purpose. It is a constant source of inspiration and a medium through which I can touch the hearts and minds of others.

Exploring different forms of expression

Embarking on the journey of discovering my creative outlet led me to a multitude of diverse forms of expression. Engaging in various modes of communication allowed me to explore different facets of my inner self and unearth hidden talents. Through experimenting with writing, painting, and music, I discovered the power of artistic expression to convey emotions, ideas, and experiences in unique and captivating ways.

Writing became my go-to means of expressing my thoughts, opinions, and personal experiences. The written word allowed me to dive deep into my emotions, crafting a narrative that intertwined my inner world with the outer reality. It offered an outlet for self-reflection, catharsis, and self-discovery. Whether it was penning poems, composing stories, or simply journaling, writing became a medium through which I could capture the essence of my being.

Painting provided me with a visual language to communicate my perceptions and insights. The act of mixing colors, applying brushstrokes, and creating shapes on a canvas allowed me to translate my emotions and thoughts into a tangible form. With every stroke of a brush, I could convey my admiration for nature, depict personal memories, or express my inner turmoil. Painting gave me the freedom to unleash my imagination and explore the limitless possibilities of visual expression.

Music offered a unique avenue for channeling my emotions and connecting with others on a profound level. Whether it was playing an instrument, composing melodies, or immersing myself in the melodies of others, music became a universal language through which I could share my deepest joys and sorrows. The harmonies and rhythms acted as conduits for emotional release and provided solace in times of turmoil. The sheer power of music allowed me to express complex feelings that words often failed to capture.

Exploring these different forms of expression not only enhanced my self-understanding but also awakened a fervent desire to continue seeking and experimenting with new ways of conveying my thoughts and emotions. Each brushstroke, word written, or note played has become an opportunity to delve into the core of my being and communicate with the world around me in meaningful and impactful ways.

Overcoming self-doubt and embracing my voice

As I embarked on my journey of writing, I encountered numerous challenges that tested my confidence and belief in my abilities. Self-doubt became a constant companion, whispering in my ear, questioning my talent and worth as a writer. However, through perseverance, reflection, and the support of others, I was able to overcome these doubts and fully embrace my unique voice.

At the beginning of my writing journey, I often found myself doubting my capabilities. The fear of failure and criticism weighed heavily on my mind, causing me to question whether my words and ideas were worthy of being shared. I constantly compared myself to other writers and wondered if I could ever measure up to their level of skill and success. These doubts threatened to extinguish my passion before it had a chance to flourish.

However, I soon realized that self-doubt is not a sign of weakness, but rather a challenge to be overcome. I began to confront my insecurities head-on, acknowledging that every writer has their own unique journey and that comparison is the thief of joy. I sought solace in the words of renowned authors who had experienced similar doubts and yet achieved greatness despite them. Their stories inspired me to keep pushing forward, to trust in my own voice and vision.

The turning point came when I started to share my work with others and received positive feedback and encouragement. The support of friends, family, and fellow writers became a lifeline, buoying my spirits and reinforcing my belief in myself. They saw value in my words and helped me recognize the strength of my voice. This newfound validation gave me the confidence to continue writing and honing my craft.

I also embarked on a journey of self-discovery, exploring different genres, styles, and themes. I allowed myself to experiment and make mistakes, realizing that growth and improvement come through trial and error. Each piece I wrote became a stepping stone towards finding my unique voice and artistic expression. I learned to embrace vulnerability and authenticity in my writing, understanding that it is through these qualities that connection and resonance are forged.

Today, self-doubt still occasionally creeps in, but I have learned to face it head-on with a renewed sense of confidence and self-belief. I have come to understand that writing is a journey of self-discovery, constantly evolving and unfolding. By overcoming self-doubt and embracing my voice, I have opened up a world of creativity and fulfillment, allowing my passion for writing to truly soar.

Finding solace and therapy through writing

Writing has provided me a sanctuary, a form of escape, and a way to process my thoughts and emotions. In the world of words, I have found solace and therapy, allowing me to express myself in ways that no other medium can.

During times of turmoil and uncertainty, when life seems overwhelming, I turn to writing as a means of catharsis. Through the act of putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, I am able to release pent-up feelings and emotions. It is a therapeutic process that allows me to confront and address my innermost thoughts and fears.

Not only does writing offer emotional relief, but it also provides me with a sense of clarity. Often, when I am mired in confusion or facing a difficult decision, the act of writing helps to organize my thoughts and bring order to chaos. Through the exploration of words and ideas, I am able to gain a deeper understanding of myself and the world around me.

Moreover, writing offers me a sense of accomplishment and fulfillment. When I am able to capture a moment, express an idea, or craft a compelling narrative, I experience a sense of pride and satisfaction. It is a form of self-expression that allows me to share my stories and perspectives with others.

In conclusion, writing has become my solace, my therapy, and my means of artistic expression. Through this medium, I am able to find emotional release, gain clarity, and experience a sense of accomplishment. Writing has truly become a vital part of my life, offering me a sense of comfort and fulfillment that I have not found in any other pursuit.

The power of words: how writing can impact others

Writing has the remarkable ability to shape our thoughts, inspire our emotions, and influence our actions. Words hold the power to connect people from different cultures, beliefs, and experiences. They have the potential to break barriers, challenge norms, and create a lasting impact on individuals. Writing allows us to express ourselves, share our stories, and create a sense of understanding and empathy among readers.

Through the art of writing, we can convey our deepest emotions, dreams, and fears. We can paint vivid pictures with words, transporting readers to far-off lands, or capturing a moment of pure joy. It is through the careful arrangement of words that we can convey the depth of human experience, tapping into universal truths that resonate with readers on a profound level.

Writing has the power to spark change, whether it be on a personal or societal level. Activists use written words to shed light on social injustices, giving a voice to those who are marginalized. Personal stories of triumph and resilience can inspire and motivate others to overcome their own obstacles. Writing, in all its forms, has the ability to challenge our perspectives, provoke thoughtful discussions, and ignite a passion for positive change.

Furthermore, writing allows us to preserve our history and culture. Through the written word, we can document our traditions, beliefs, and values for future generations to discover and appreciate. Stories and narratives passed down through generations can communicate the essence of who we are and where we come from, providing a sense of identity and belonging.

In conclusion, the power of words should not be underestimated. Writing has the potential to touch hearts, open minds, and transform lives. It bridges the gap between individuals, cultures, and experiences, creating connections that can last a lifetime. So let us embrace the power of our words and use them to inspire, inform, and ignite change in the world.

Fueling my creativity and personal growth through writing

Embarking on a journey of self-expression and exploration, I discovered that writing has become a powerful catalyst for my creativity and personal growth. As I delve into the realm of words, I find myself constantly captivated by the endless possibilities and the unique power each sentence holds to ignite my imagination.

Writing serves as a channel for my thoughts and emotions, allowing me to delve deep within myself and dive into the realm of self-reflection. In the process, it opens doors to new perspectives and insights, revealing the intricacies of my own identity and enhancing my understanding of the world around me.

Through writing, I have discovered that my thoughts are not confined to the limitations of my own mind. The act of putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) allows me to transcend the boundaries of my own thinking and explore new horizons. Whether through storytelling, poetry, or personal narratives, I can communicate my ideas and experiences in a way that resonates with others and sparks meaningful connections.

Moreover, writing has become a means of personal growth, as it encourages me to continually challenge myself and seek improvement. Each sentence I write is an opportunity to refine my craft, to experiment with different styles and techniques, and to push the boundaries of my own creativity. In this process of constant learning and growth, writing becomes not only a source of self-expression but also a vehicle for self-discovery.

As I continue to explore the possibilities of writing, I am constantly amazed by its transformative power. It fuels my creativity, allowing me to express myself in unique and profound ways. It nurtures my personal growth, pushing me to challenge my own limitations and evolve into a better version of myself. Through writing, I have found a passion that not only enriches my life but also connects me to others in a profound and meaningful way.

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My Journey As a Writer

Essay 1 revision.

Feedback to Learner

You have given some good details about your reading/writing life. Your English is very good, but you have some minor errors. Your essay gains power and focus as it goes on. The beginning is a bit disorganized, but by the end you have the wind in your sails.

To revise this essay for the portfolio at the end of the semester you will want to think about developing your paragraphs. Then you will want to correct any grammar errors. Good job.

For the revision, I decided to look at the Professor Hays comments. I added relevant information and took out unnecessary words. I looked through each and every yellow comments to respond to each comments. I corrected fragments and run-ons.

The Journey of my writing life

I honestly don’t remember what I first wrote or the first book I read but what I do remember is that I hated reading while growing up. I wasn’t a big fan of reading and my mom always forced me to read. She always promised me anything if I decide to read to her. I was a shy little girl who did not talk that much. I can recall that as I entered into my teenage years I started to read more.  High school was when I really got into reading so I read a lot of books and wrote a lot. My English teacher in high school made me enjoy reading. She made us choose the book we interested us a students. Also I have learned that I only enjoy reading books that I am not force to read. I like picking out my own books to read instead of assigned books to read because they get boring. I was very passionate about what I read and would always discuss it with people.

Writing has always created a safe space for me because it lets out my thoughts. I write to be free. I write to be heard. I write to have a voice. It takes a lot of time for me to be focused when writing. When I have a paper to write, I sometimes get anxious. I think way too much about the paper. I have pictures and outlines in my head about the structure of the paper. If I cannot think about any ideas to write, I get stressed out. And when I get stressed out, I get mad. A lot of people knows that when I pick up a pen or when I start to write, you better not dare talk to me. I remember the day I was writing a paper, thoughts were flowing in and it felt good. Then my friend decided to come in my room and start yelling. As soon as I heard her voice, all the rush I had to write my paper was completely gone. I don’t like typing when I first start out to write. My mood determines the way I write. When I am stressed out, I tend to have a hard time at writing. My reading life kind of correspond with my writing life. Without reading, I can’t write. Reading a book helps me become better in writing because I take notice of the grammar used and how I can apply it to my own writing.

My weakness in writing is my lack of confidence to believe that I can write. My writing is improving and I have definitely come a long way. Since English is not my first language, I get discouraged by how my writing skills are. The first essay I ever wrote was hard for me to write. I didn’t k ow the first step of how to put a paper together. I would start writing and get frustrated that my ideas are not coming together. I knew what I wanted to say but my thoughts weren’t translating into the paper. To help develop my confidence, I always say to myself that I can I write. Before I start writing anything, I think about the content for a while. Then I write my ideas in bullet points and not look at it until the next day. After this, I start taking out ideas that make sense to me in my outlines. When I first got this assignment, I had to plan out what to write. I wrote new paragraphs everyday so that I could think of new ideas. Any form of writing for me takes a lot of time and effort. My writing style is that I like to write at home in my room or any place where there is complete silence.

My writing practice will help me succeed in the academic community because I will be less stressed about writing and taking every process step by step. In Anne Lamott’s “Shitty First Draft,” she explains the importance of writing of being ok with what you write first. She said “Very few writers really know what they are doing until they’ve done it” (Lamott). This is honestly true because I go through this process every time. Trusting myself in the process that what am writing will come together in the end. If my friend is struggling with writing, I will tell them to trust the process. Don’t sweat it too much and take it step by step. Write one or two paragraph a day and go back to rereading. Rereading also helps me improve my writing. I always go back to edit or take out ideas.

I like writing in various context because it challenges me to become a better writer. Even when I text, I text in full sentences. I think that writing a lot now will prepare me for future writings because I know that I will be doing a lot of writing as a Psychology major. My favorite tools to write with is a pencil because I feel more connected with my brain and my thought process. I don’t like when I start out writing to type on a computer. I like getting my ideas out on paper before typing. My writing practice will nurture my writing because it let me express and trust myself that I can write a good paper.

Home — Essay Samples — Life — Writing Experience — My Writing Experience: A Journey of Growth and Self-Expression

My Writing Experience: a Journey of Growth and Self-expression

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Published: Sep 1, 2023

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Table of contents

Early encounters with writing: a foundation for expression, challenges and growth: navigating the writing process, the evolution of expression: writing as a personal sanctuary, writing as a lifelong companion: looking forward, in conclusion.

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My Writing Journey Throughout The Semester Essay Examples

Type of paper: Essay

Topic: Students , Belief , Writing , Thinking , Training , Organization , Exercise , Teaching

Words: 1250

Published: 03/21/2020

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Looking back throughout the semester, I can confidently say that my writing has improved, and I am now a better writer than I was at the beginning of the semester. There are three areas where I feel that I have shown tremendous improvement, and this includes writing a thesis statement, giving my paragraphs depth and detail and assessing the relevant materials to use in my work. However, although I have improved in these three areas, I still need more work on organizing my essays and transiting from one idea to another. This semester has been crucial in improving my writing, especially in the areas of writing a good thesis statement, giving my essays depth and detail and assessing the reference materials to use in my writing. A thesis statement gives the readers an idea of what the essay entails. However, my previous essays did not have a thesis statement, and this made my readers feel lost. The good thing is that this is past me now, and I now know how to write good thesis statements. About three to four months ago, almost all the fellow students who have reviewed my essays had something negative to say about my thesis statements. In some essays, I placed the thesis statement at the wrong spot, and in other essays, the thesis statement lacked altogether. For example, one of the students said this about my thesis statement, “I don’t really know what the intentions in the essay are.” Another student concurred and had this to say about the essay, “The thesis written for this essay does not really explain the author’s overall intention.” After going through this course, my thesis statements have improved much, and so are the comments that I get from those who review my essays. For example, in one of my recent essays, one of the students had this to say, “The thesis statement is very well put and clearly states all the points you would like to discuss further in the essay.” In another essay, the student had this to say, “Thesis statement was easy to find and it does clarify the others intentions.” All these comments attest to the fact that I can write good thesis statements now. Apart from the use of the thesis statement, the use of illustrations, examples, and details is a critical part of essay writing because all these items give the essay substance. The first two essays that I wrote were lacking in detail. For example, inside the first essay, the tutor wrote, “explain a bit.” Again, the tutor had this to say about one of the essays, “now you just need to focus more on execution and details.” After these comments had come up, I worked on adding more depth and detail to my essays, and in the preceding essays, I could use details that are more precise. This is evident because one of my fellow students who reviewed one of the essays that I wrote had this to say, “The essay has overall depth and detail with its illustration for the examples and many quotes to help explain the examples in lengthy paragraphs.” Another reviewer had this to say about one of my essays, “I think the essay had a lot of good depth and detail. Also the quotes were integrated very well and helped you get your point across very well.” Again, these comments are a testament of my improvement in terms of giving details (and giving precise details for that matter) and depth in my essays. Research plays a critical role in the development of a good piece of writing. Throughout the semester, this is one area I have focused on, and I now feel confident that I can do thorough research before commencing my writing and bring different perspectives to the piece that I am writing. As of today, I can now assess the importance of a reference material relative to the paper that I am writing, and make a decision about whether to use that piece of writing or not. I also use different reference materials in order to bring points of opinion raised about the issue that I am tackling. Not all this would have been possible without taking this course. Good organization of an essay is one of the key things that tutors look out for in an essay. However, at the beginning of the semester, my essays were not well organized and for this reason, I would repeat some ideas within the same paragraph and write disjointed paragraphs. Consequently, my essays lacked flow. For example, this is what the tutor had to say about the first essay, “I want you to focus on choppiness in your sentences. I think once your sentences start to flow better, the rest will come out naturally.” Another student had this to say about my essay, “The way the essay is organized doesn’t really explain how the Milgram experiment works.” Position sentences lacked in my initial essays and the claims were mixed up together with illustrations. My essays are better now because I know where to place position sentences and, I know how to place claims in paragraphs and how to support those claims. However, I need to keep on improving on the organization of my essays because some of the papers that I write lack clarity. In one of my essays, the tutor commented that my essay was vague, and in another essays, the tutor pointed out the fact that I did not give clear explanations on some of the paragraphs. This is something that I am still working on and can still improve on with more practice. Apart from good organization, an essay also needs also needs proper transition from one idea to the next. Transiting from one idea to another to another has always been a challenge for me. For example, in one of the essays, the tutor recommended that I should have a transition before using quotes. In another essay, the tutor pointed out the fact that I did not have a good transition between the preceding sentence and the next one. Although I am still working on my transition, I do not feel confident that I have done enough. Sometimes I lack good words to introduce an idea that would separate it from the previous one. It is my opinion that although I have improved in this area, I still need more practice in order to be confident that my essays have a good transition. For this reason, I need to learn more vocabulary, and do more research on the best means to transit from one idea to another or from one paragraph to another without losing the reader’s attention. In conclusion, my writing has improved greatly, especially in the areas of writing a thesis statement, giving my essays depth and details and researching about the subject I am tackling. However, although I have improved in these three areas, I still feel that I need to improve on the organization of my essays and in transiting from one point of view to another. I am confident that I can still improve in these areas with more practice, and I am willing to put to work the things that I learned from this course in order to continue improving my writing.

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Here’s an anthology of the 22 best prize-winning essays from our ‘My Writing Journey’ Competition over the past decade. The anthology offers 100 pages of timeless writing advice and heartfelt personal stories from talented writers from around the world.

Edited by our graduate copy-editing student Emma Hager, cover design by Andrea Vanek, and type-setting by Koos Turenhout, this e-book makes a perfect gift. Whether it’s for you, or for your writer friends, download your free copy today.

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This free writing competition is open to writers from around the world.

Write us a 600-word piece on the theme:  The best writing tip I’ve ever received.

We’ll publish the best piece in our newsletter and on our blog, plus the winner receives $200 (R2 000 or £100).

Send your entries to Nichola Meyer at [email protected].

Closing date: 31 December 2023

Rules and Guidelines for Entries

• Send in your entry in the body of the email, not as an attachment.
• Use the subject line ‘My Writing Journey Competition’ in your email.
• Entries must be no more than 600 words and must be the author’s original work.
• Use Times New Roman size 12 or Arial size 11.

Read more past winning entries in our e-anthology ‘ 22 Best Essays to Inspire New Writers’ – free to download. CLICK THE IMAGE BELOW to grab your copy .

Read the individual essays from past winners for the ‘My Writing Journey’ Competition below:

The Best Writing Tip I Ever Received Was Not to Write by Russell Mickler – winner June 2023

 ‘The Best Writing Advice: Cut Like a Razor’ by Amelia Ray – winner December 2022

‘The Best Writing Advice: How I Learned to Write Garbage’ by Sarah Kelleher – winner May 2021

‘The Best Writing Advice: For More Dynamic Prose, Replace ‘To Be’ and ‘To Have’ by Andrew Park – winner January 2021

‘The Best Writing Advice: Find Your Voice’ by Sandy Kline – winner September 2020

‘ The Best Writing Advice: Ditch the Filters’ by John Tipper – winner May 2020

‘The Best Writing Advice: Do The Work’ by Nohlee Cloete – winner January 2020

‘The Best Writing Advice: The Power of Revision’ by Rosie Sorenson – joint winner September

‘The Best Writing Tip: Write as if Everyone You Know Is Dead’ by Mike Casto – joint winner September 2019

‘The Best Writing Advice: Mix Up Those Sentence Lengths’ by Ginny Stone – winner May 2019

‘The Best Writing Tip: Say What You Mean’ by Danielle Ramaekers – winner January 2019

‘The Best Writing Tip: Kill Your Adverbs’ by Nikky Lee – winner September 2018

‘ ‘The Best Writing Tip I’ve Ever Received’ by Anna Stroud – winner June 2018

‘My Movie Moment’ by Tracy Solea – winner January 2018

‘ ‘Weird, Minus One House-Point’ by Carmen Marcus – winner September 2017

‘ My Big Fat Regret ‘ by Leonie Fourie and ‘ My Writing Journey ‘ by Glenn McGoldrick – joint winners May 2017

‘ My Journey as a Writer’ by Heinrich van der Walt and

 ‘ Neuroses and Nirvana ‘ by David Whitaker – joint winners January 2017

 ‘Full Circle’ by Natalie Swain – winner September 2016

‘The Hundredth Day’ by Do Hyun Kang – Winner July 2016

‘The Writing Lobe’ by Eileen Kennedy – Winner March 2016

‘Meeting the Potato Farmer on the Road to Publication’ by Gabriella Brand – Winner Dec 2015

‘Haymaker’ by Clinton Matos – Winner September 2015

‘African Dream’ by Olakunle Oladiran – Winner May 2015

‘Magic’ by Thorne Busakwe – Winner January 2015

‘My Writing Journey’ by Nkaela Mocumi – Winner September 2014

‘It Started with a Bang’ by Marianne Saddington – Winner June 2014

Read the March 2014 winning entry here .

Read the December 2013 winning entry here.

Read the September 2013 joint winning entry here.

Read the May 2013 winning entry here.

Read the February 2013 winning entry here.

Read the December 2012 winning entry here.

Read the September 2012 winning entry here. 

Read the June 2012 winning entry here.

Read the February 2012 winning entry here.

Read the November 2011 winning entry here.

Read the September 2011 winning entry here.

Read the June 2011 winning entry here.

Read the April 2011 winning entry here.

Read the February 2011 winning entry here.

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Home Essay Samples Life About Myself

My Journey as a University Student

Table of contents, introduction, academic aspirations, adapting to university life, engagement in studies, extracurricular activities, building relationships, personal growth and challenges, contributions to the community, goals and aspirations.

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Essays About Journeys: Top 5 Examples and 7 Easy Prompts

Essays about journeys require recounting the events of your travel. Discover our guide with examples and prompts to help you write your essay.

No two journeys are the same, and various factors will always be at play. It’s the reason many documents their expedition through different mediums. Writing about journeys is similar to telling a real-life story that influenced your character or perspective. 

Writing essays about journeys helps to develop your writing and observation skills as you recall and pick the highlights of your travel. Sharing your experiences can entice readers to take on a journey themselves. So, aim to inspire with this exciting essay topic.

5 Essay Examples

1. the best journey in my life by suzanne pittman, 2. road trips: everything you need for a comfortable journey by car by anonymous on gradesfixer.com, 3. the first day of my journey to adulthood by anonymous on papersowl.com, 4. life is a journey essay by anonymous on paperwritings.com, 5. long essay on train journey by prasanna, 1. reasons to go on a journey, 2. trip vs. journey, 3. how to enjoy long journeys, 4. my most memorable journey, 5. what makes a journey meaningful, 6. my dream journey, 7. a hero’s journey.

“I had to save a lot of money because I wanted very much to go on this journey with my friends. We planned our trip to take us around Europe. We were going to stop in various parts of Europe with family members and friends.”

The essay mimics Pittman’s travel itinerary during her journey in Europe. She includes all the trip details from the first to the last day and makes the readers feel as if they’re traveling with them. Pittman also offers some travel tips to help anyone who wants to visit Europe on a budget. These tips include staying with friends and relatives and taking comfortable train rides despite long distances.

“With proper planning, everything else seems effortless. You need to consider all factors when planning in order for you to enjoy a successful, stress-free adventure.”

The author believes that the primary purpose of traveling is to relax and have fun. They use the essay to teach how to plan car trips properly. Travelers must learn to budget and estimate expenses, including accommodation, gas, activities, and food. Picking a transportation means is also crucial as one needs to consider factors such as capacity, range, and utility. 

“Although things didn’t go how I planned I’m still in college bettering myself and furthering my education. Anything is possible with a good support system and positive mindset.”

The essay narrates how the author’s journey into adulthood becomes a mini-vacation in Georgia after their top university rejects their enrollment. This rejection offers the opportunity to understand many great life lessons. Despite having five other universities to choose from, the writer realizes they only provide free tuition for the first semester. Ultimately, the author receives a full scholarship to a university closer to home.

“All people have the same journey to take – their life. As well as in the other journeys, there may be some inconveniences, disappointments and joys, and a lot depends on how we plan this particular journey and what attitude we develop towards it.”

In this essay, the writer shares that the best way to go on a life journey is with the most joy and minor damage you can endure. It’s constant work to continuously improve one’s life while developing positive qualities and thinking. But in doing so, you’ll have a solid foundation to achieve what you want out of life. However, the author still reminds the readers that they should always be ready to face unexpected events and deal with them in the best way possible.

“These days, people prefer traveling via airplanes because it is time-saving. But going by plane gets boring and monotonous. Train journeys are a relief from the monotony.”

For Prasanna, whether it’s a short or extended tour, a train journey offers an exciting travel experience. She talks about the local and regional trains in India, which are often overcrowded but still used by many as they are the cheapest, safest, and fastest mode of transport in the country. She also mentions that you’ll never get hungry when riding their local trains because of the vendors who sell Indian delicacies. 

7 Prompts for Essays About Journeys 

Everyone has different motives for traveling. Some go on a journey to appreciate beautiful sceneries, while some move to attend family or work-related gatherings. Some do so to run away from problems. For this prompt, research the common reasons to travel. You can also interview people on why they go on a journey and add any personal experiences. 

It’s a trip when a person travels from one point to another without any transfers. Meanwhile, a journey is a more extended voyage that includes transfers and several trips. Compare and contrast trips and journeys to make your readers understand their similarities and differences. You can also have the advantages and disadvantages of each in your paper.

If writing an essay sounds like a lot of work, simplify it. Write a simple 5 paragraph essay instead.

The idea of having a long journey and discovering new things is exciting. However, the excitement can disappear when you’re far away from home. This is especially true for longer and farther travels. This prompt will help readers have a safer, more affordable, and more enjoyable trip by discussing the best long-distance travel tips. You can present an imaginary itinerary with estimated costs to make the essay more digestible.

Write about an unforgettable journey you’ve had through this prompt. Include the purpose of your travel, how you planned it, and if your timetable was followed. Share what you’ll improve on next time to make your journey even better; you can also talk about your companions and the activities that make the adventure worthwhile.

Journeys become meaningful when they enrich lives. It can be because of the destination, the people you are with, or the travel’s goal. Use this prompt to suggest how journeys improve us as humans. You can section your piece based on an individual’s objectives. For example, someone who wants to recharge and get away from the city will find meaning in going to a location far from technology.

Although traveling can be tiring, 43% of travelers appreciate the experience they gain. Think of journeys you desire to be in and add your reasons. Then, you can share your plan on how to make it happen. For instance, you want to tour Southeast Asia and visit countries like the Philippines, Vietnam, and Thailand. To make this dream journey come true, you’ll save for an entire year and work around a tight budget.

It’s normal to see the main character in a movie or novel go through a character arc before they become a true hero. Use this prompt to explain a hero’s journey and why the character must go through it. To give you an idea, Peter Parker was a shy and introverted kid who lived an everyday life before becoming Spider-Man. This makes him relatable to the audience and lets them understand his decisions in the following scenes.

For more examples, check out our guide to movies that follow the hero’s journey .

You can also talk about real-life heroes, such as doctors and firefighters. Interview someone with that profession and ask them why they decided to have their current career.

Maria Caballero is a freelance writer who has been writing since high school. She believes that to be a writer doesn't only refer to excellent syntax and semantics but also knowing how to weave words together to communicate to any reader effectively.

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My journey As a Student Essay

Essay on topic my journey as a student.

Introduction Lines

As a student, my journey so far has been full of challenges, growth, and self-discovery. I have learned a lot about myself, my abilities, and my passions. In this essay, I will reflect on my journey as a student, highlighting the milestones, struggles, and achievements that have shaped my academic life.

Body Paragraphs

My journey as a student started when I was in elementary school. I vividly remember the excitement and nervousness I felt on my first day of school. I was eager to learn and make new friends. As I progressed through the years, I encountered many challenges, such as adjusting to new teachers, making the transition from elementary to middle school, and learning how to manage my time effectively. Despite these challenges, I remained committed to my studies and continued to work hard to achieve good grades.

In high school, I faced a new set of challenges. The workload was more rigorous, and I had to balance academics with extracurricular activities and part-time work. During this time, I also discovered my passion for writing and became an active member of the school newspaper. This experience taught me the value of teamwork, communication, and leadership.

As I entered college, I was both excited and nervous. I knew that college would be a new and challenging experience, but I was determined to succeed. I quickly learned that college required a higher level of dedication, discipline, and self-motivation. I had to learn how to manage my time efficiently, prioritize my tasks, and seek help when needed. Despite the challenges, I thrived in college and became more confident in my abilities. I also discovered new interests and passions, such as studying abroad and volunteering in my community.

Conclusion:

My journey as a student has been a remarkable experience. It has taught me valuable life skills, such as perseverance, time management, and teamwork. I have learned to adapt to new situations and challenges, and to never give up on my dreams. I am grateful for the opportunities I have had and for the people who have supported me along the way. As I continue my academic journey, I am excited to see where it will take me and what new experiences and challenges I will encounter.

Hello! Welcome to my Blog StudyParagraphs.co. My name is Angelina. I am a college professor. I love reading writing for kids students. This blog is full with valuable knowledge for all class students. Thank you for reading my articles.

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Crying Myself to Sleep on the Biggest Cruise Ship Ever

Seven agonizing nights aboard the Icon of the Seas

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Updated at 2:44 p.m. ET on April 6, 2024.

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MY FIRST GLIMPSE of Royal Caribbean’s Icon of the Seas, from the window of an approaching Miami cab, brings on a feeling of vertigo, nausea, amazement, and distress. I shut my eyes in defense, as my brain tells my optic nerve to try again.

The ship makes no sense, vertically or horizontally. It makes no sense on sea, or on land, or in outer space. It looks like a hodgepodge of domes and minarets, tubes and canopies, like Istanbul had it been designed by idiots. Vibrant, oversignifying colors are stacked upon other such colors, decks perched over still more decks; the only comfort is a row of lifeboats ringing its perimeter. There is no imposed order, no cogent thought, and, for those who do not harbor a totalitarian sense of gigantomania, no visual mercy. This is the biggest cruise ship ever built, and I have been tasked with witnessing its inaugural voyage.

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“Author embarks on their first cruise-ship voyage” has been a staple of American essay writing for almost three decades, beginning with David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” which was first published in 1996 under the title “Shipping Out.” Since then, many admirable writers have widened and diversified the genre. Usually the essayist commissioned to take to the sea is in their first or second flush of youth and is ready to sharpen their wit against the hull of the offending vessel. I am 51, old and tired, having seen much of the world as a former travel journalist, and mostly what I do in both life and prose is shrug while muttering to my imaginary dachshund, “This too shall pass.” But the Icon of the Seas will not countenance a shrug. The Icon of the Seas is the Linda Loman of cruise ships, exclaiming that attention must be paid. And here I am in late January with my one piece of luggage and useless gray winter jacket and passport, zipping through the Port of Miami en route to the gangway that will separate me from the bulk of North America for more than seven days, ready to pay it in full.

The aforementioned gangway opens up directly onto a thriving mall (I will soon learn it is imperiously called the “Royal Promenade”), presently filled with yapping passengers beneath a ceiling studded with balloons ready to drop. Crew members from every part of the global South, as well as a few Balkans, are shepherding us along while pressing flutes of champagne into our hands. By a humming Starbucks, I drink as many of these as I can and prepare to find my cabin. I show my blue Suite Sky SeaPass Card (more on this later, much more) to a smiling woman from the Philippines, and she tells me to go “aft.” Which is where, now? As someone who has rarely sailed on a vessel grander than the Staten Island Ferry, I am confused. It turns out that the aft is the stern of the ship, or, for those of us who don’t know what a stern or an aft are, its ass. The nose of the ship, responsible for separating the waves before it, is also called a bow, and is marked for passengers as the FWD , or forward. The part of the contemporary sailing vessel where the malls are clustered is called the midship. I trust that you have enjoyed this nautical lesson.

I ascend via elevator to my suite on Deck 11. This is where I encounter my first terrible surprise. My suite windows and balcony do not face the ocean. Instead, they look out onto another shopping mall. This mall is the one that’s called Central Park, perhaps in homage to the Olmsted-designed bit of greenery in the middle of my hometown. Although on land I would be delighted to own a suite with Central Park views, here I am deeply depressed. To sail on a ship and not wake up to a vast blue carpet of ocean? Unthinkable.

Allow me a brief preamble here. The story you are reading was commissioned at a moment when most staterooms on the Icon were sold out. In fact, so enthralled by the prospect of this voyage were hard-core mariners that the ship’s entire inventory of guest rooms (the Icon can accommodate up to 7,600 passengers, but its inaugural journey was reduced to 5,000 or so for a less crowded experience) was almost immediately sold out. Hence, this publication was faced with the shocking prospect of paying nearly $19,000 to procure for this solitary passenger an entire suite—not including drinking expenses—all for the privilege of bringing you this article. But the suite in question doesn’t even have a view of the ocean! I sit down hard on my soft bed. Nineteen thousand dollars for this .

The viewless suite does have its pluses. In addition to all the Malin+Goetz products in my dual bathrooms, I am granted use of a dedicated Suite Deck lounge; access to Coastal Kitchen, a superior restaurant for Suites passengers; complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream (“the fastest Internet at Sea”) “for one device per person for the whole cruise duration”; a pair of bathrobes (one of which comes prestained with what looks like a large expectoration by the greenest lizard on Earth); and use of the Grove Suite Sun, an area on Decks 18 and 19 with food and deck chairs reserved exclusively for Suite passengers. I also get reserved seating for a performance of The Wizard of Oz , an ice-skating tribute to the periodic table, and similar provocations. The very color of my Suite Sky SeaPass Card, an oceanic blue as opposed to the cloying royal purple of the standard non-Suite passenger, will soon provoke envy and admiration. But as high as my status may be, there are those on board who have much higher status still, and I will soon learn to bow before them.

In preparation for sailing, I have “priced in,” as they say on Wall Street, the possibility that I may come from a somewhat different monde than many of the other cruisers. Without falling into stereotypes or preconceptions, I prepare myself for a friendly outspokenness on the part of my fellow seafarers that may not comply with modern DEI standards. I believe in meeting people halfway, and so the day before flying down to Miami, I visited what remains of Little Italy to purchase a popular T-shirt that reads DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL across the breast in the colors of the Italian flag. My wife recommended that I bring one of my many T-shirts featuring Snoopy and the Peanuts gang, as all Americans love the beagle and his friends. But I naively thought that my meatball T-shirt would be more suitable for conversation-starting. “Oh, and who is your ‘daddy’?” some might ask upon seeing it. “And how long have you been his ‘little meatball’?” And so on.

I put on my meatball T-shirt and head for one of the dining rooms to get a late lunch. In the elevator, I stick out my chest for all to read the funny legend upon it, but soon I realize that despite its burnished tricolor letters, no one takes note. More to the point, no one takes note of me. Despite my attempts at bridge building, the very sight of me (small, ethnic, without a cap bearing the name of a football team) elicits no reaction from other passengers. Most often, they will small-talk over me as if I don’t exist. This brings to mind the travails of David Foster Wallace , who felt so ostracized by his fellow passengers that he retreated to his cabin for much of his voyage. And Wallace was raised primarily in the Midwest and was a much larger, more American-looking meatball than I am. If he couldn’t talk to these people, how will I? What if I leave this ship without making any friends at all, despite my T-shirt? I am a social creature, and the prospect of seven days alone and apart is saddening. Wallace’s stateroom, at least, had a view of the ocean, a kind of cheap eternity.

Worse awaits me in the dining room. This is a large, multichandeliered room where I attended my safety training (I was shown how to put on a flotation vest; it is a very simple procedure). But the maître d’ politely refuses me entry in an English that seems to verge on another language. “I’m sorry, this is only for pendejos ,” he seems to be saying. I push back politely and he repeats himself. Pendejos ? Piranhas? There’s some kind of P-word to which I am not attuned. Meanwhile elderly passengers stream right past, powered by their limbs, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. “It is only pendejo dining today, sir.” “But I have a suite!” I say, already starting to catch on to the ship’s class system. He examines my card again. “But you are not a pendejo ,” he confirms. I am wearing a DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL T-shirt, I want to say to him. I am the essence of pendejo .

Eventually, I give up and head to the plebeian buffet on Deck 15, which has an aquatic-styled name I have now forgotten. Before gaining entry to this endless cornucopia of reheated food, one passes a washing station of many sinks and soap dispensers, and perhaps the most intriguing character on the entire ship. He is Mr. Washy Washy—or, according to his name tag, Nielbert of the Philippines—and he is dressed as a taco (on other occasions, I’ll see him dressed as a burger). Mr. Washy Washy performs an eponymous song in spirited, indeed flamboyant English: “Washy, washy, wash your hands, WASHY WASHY!” The dangers of norovirus and COVID on a cruise ship this size (a giant fellow ship was stricken with the former right after my voyage) makes Mr. Washy Washy an essential member of the crew. The problem lies with the food at the end of Washy’s rainbow. The buffet is groaning with what sounds like sophisticated dishes—marinated octopus, boiled egg with anchovy, chorizo, lobster claws—but every animal tastes tragically the same, as if there was only one creature available at the market, a “cruisipus” bred specifically for Royal Caribbean dining. The “vegetables” are no better. I pick up a tomato slice and look right through it. It tastes like cellophane. I sit alone, apart from the couples and parents with gaggles of children, as “We Are Family” echoes across the buffet space.

I may have failed to mention that all this time, the Icon of the Seas has not left port. As the fiery mango of the subtropical setting sun makes Miami’s condo skyline even more apocalyptic, the ship shoves off beneath a perfunctory display of fireworks. After the sun sets, in the far, dark distance, another circus-lit cruise ship ruptures the waves before us. We glance at it with pity, because it is by definition a smaller ship than our own. I am on Deck 15, outside the buffet and overlooking a bunch of pools (the Icon has seven of them), drinking a frilly drink that I got from one of the bars (the Icon has 15 of them), still too shy to speak to anyone, despite Sister Sledge’s assertion that all on the ship are somehow related.

Kim Brooks: On failing the family vacation

The ship’s passage away from Ron DeSantis’s Florida provides no frisson, no sense of developing “sea legs,” as the ship is too large to register the presence of waves unless a mighty wind adds significant chop. It is time for me to register the presence of the 5,000 passengers around me, even if they refuse to register mine. My fellow travelers have prepared for this trip with personally decorated T-shirts celebrating the importance of this voyage. The simplest ones say ICON INAUGURAL ’24 on the back and the family name on the front. Others attest to an over-the-top love of cruise ships: WARNING! MAY START TALKING ABOUT CRUISING . Still others are artisanally designed and celebrate lifetimes spent married while cruising (on ships, of course). A couple possibly in their 90s are wearing shirts whose backs feature a drawing of a cruise liner, two flamingos with ostensibly male and female characteristics, and the legend “ HUSBAND AND WIFE Cruising Partners FOR LIFE WE MAY NOT HAVE IT All Together BUT TOGETHER WE HAVE IT ALL .” (The words not in all caps have been written in cursive.) A real journalist or a more intrepid conversationalist would have gone up to the couple and asked them to explain the longevity of their marriage vis-à-vis their love of cruising. But instead I head to my mall suite, take off my meatball T-shirt, and allow the first tears of the cruise to roll down my cheeks slowly enough that I briefly fall asleep amid the moisture and salt.

I WAKE UP with a hangover. Oh God. Right. I cannot believe all of that happened last night. A name floats into my cobwebbed, nauseated brain: “Ayn Rand.” Jesus Christ.

I breakfast alone at the Coastal Kitchen. The coffee tastes fine and the eggs came out of a bird. The ship rolls slightly this morning; I can feel it in my thighs and my schlong, the parts of me that are most receptive to danger.

I had a dangerous conversation last night. After the sun set and we were at least 50 miles from shore (most modern cruise ships sail at about 23 miles an hour), I lay in bed softly hiccupping, my arms stretched out exactly like Jesus on the cross, the sound of the distant waves missing from my mall-facing suite, replaced by the hum of air-conditioning and children shouting in Spanish through the vents of my two bathrooms. I decided this passivity was unacceptable. As an immigrant, I feel duty-bound to complete the tasks I am paid for, which means reaching out and trying to understand my fellow cruisers. So I put on a normal James Perse T-shirt and headed for one of the bars on the Royal Promenade—the Schooner Bar, it was called, if memory serves correctly.

I sat at the bar for a martini and two Negronis. An old man with thick, hairy forearms drank next to me, very silent and Hemingwaylike, while a dreadlocked piano player tinkled out a series of excellent Elton John covers. To my right, a young white couple—he in floral shorts, she in a light, summery miniskirt with a fearsome diamond ring, neither of them in football regalia—chatted with an elderly couple. Do it , I commanded myself. Open your mouth. Speak! Speak without being spoken to. Initiate. A sentence fragment caught my ear from the young woman, “Cherry Hill.” This is a suburb of Philadelphia in New Jersey, and I had once been there for a reading at a synagogue. “Excuse me,” I said gently to her. “Did you just mention Cherry Hill? It’s a lovely place.”

As it turned out, the couple now lived in Fort Lauderdale (the number of Floridians on the cruise surprised me, given that Southern Florida is itself a kind of cruise ship, albeit one slowly sinking), but soon they were talking with me exclusively—the man potbellied, with a chin like a hard-boiled egg; the woman as svelte as if she were one of the many Ukrainian members of the crew—the elderly couple next to them forgotten. This felt as groundbreaking as the first time I dared to address an American in his native tongue, as a child on a bus in Queens (“On my foot you are standing, Mister”).

“I don’t want to talk politics,” the man said. “But they’re going to eighty-six Biden and put Michelle in.”

I considered the contradictions of his opening conversational gambit, but decided to play along. “People like Michelle,” I said, testing the waters. The husband sneered, but the wife charitably put forward that the former first lady was “more personable” than Joe Biden. “They’re gonna eighty-six Biden,” the husband repeated. “He can’t put a sentence together.”

After I mentioned that I was a writer—though I presented myself as a writer of teleplays instead of novels and articles such as this one—the husband told me his favorite writer was Ayn Rand. “Ayn Rand, she came here with nothing,” the husband said. “I work with a lot of Cubans, so …” I wondered if I should mention what I usually do to ingratiate myself with Republicans or libertarians: the fact that my finances improved after pass-through corporations were taxed differently under Donald Trump. Instead, I ordered another drink and the couple did the same, and I told him that Rand and I were born in the same city, St. Petersburg/Leningrad, and that my family also came here with nothing. Now the bonding and drinking began in earnest, and several more rounds appeared. Until it all fell apart.

Read: Gary Shteyngart on watching Russian television for five days straight

My new friend, whom I will refer to as Ayn, called out to a buddy of his across the bar, and suddenly a young couple, both covered in tattoos, appeared next to us. “He fucking punked me,” Ayn’s frat-boy-like friend called out as he put his arm around Ayn, while his sizable partner sizzled up to Mrs. Rand. Both of them had a look I have never seen on land—their eyes projecting absence and enmity in equal measure. In the ’90s, I drank with Russian soldiers fresh from Chechnya and wandered the streets of wartime Zagreb, but I have never seen such undisguised hostility toward both me and perhaps the universe at large. I was briefly introduced to this psychopathic pair, but neither of them wanted to have anything to do with me, and the tattooed woman would not even reveal her Christian name to me (she pretended to have the same first name as Mrs. Rand). To impress his tattooed friends, Ayn made fun of the fact that as a television writer, I’d worked on the series Succession (which, it would turn out, practically nobody on the ship had watched), instead of the far more palatable, in his eyes, zombie drama of last year. And then my new friends drifted away from me into an angry private conversation—“He punked me!”—as I ordered another drink for myself, scared of the dead-eyed arrivals whose gaze never registered in the dim wattage of the Schooner Bar, whose terrifying voices and hollow laughs grated like unoiled gears against the crooning of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”

But today is a new day for me and my hangover. After breakfast, I explore the ship’s so-called neighborhoods . There’s the AquaDome, where one can find a food hall and an acrobatic sound-and-light aquatic show. Central Park has a premium steak house, a sushi joint, and a used Rolex that can be bought for $8,000 on land here proudly offered at $17,000. There’s the aforementioned Royal Promenade, where I had drunk with the Rands, and where a pair of dueling pianos duel well into the night. There’s Surfside, a kids’ neighborhood full of sugary garbage, which looks out onto the frothy trail that the behemoth leaves behind itself. Thrill Island refers to the collection of tubes that clutter the ass of the ship and offer passengers six waterslides and a surfing simulation. There’s the Hideaway, an adult zone that plays music from a vomit-slathered, Brit-filled Alicante nightclub circa 1996 and proves a big favorite with groups of young Latin American customers. And, most hurtfully, there’s the Suite Neighborhood.

I say hurtfully because as a Suite passenger I should be here, though my particular suite is far from the others. Whereas I am stuck amid the riffraff of Deck 11, this section is on the highborn Decks 16 and 17, and in passing, I peek into the spacious, tall-ceilinged staterooms from the hallway, dazzled by the glint of the waves and sun. For $75,000, one multifloor suite even comes with its own slide between floors, so that a family may enjoy this particular terror in private. There is a quiet splendor to the Suite Neighborhood. I see fewer stickers and signs and drawings than in my own neighborhood—for example, MIKE AND DIANA PROUDLY SERVED U.S. MARINE CORPS RETIRED . No one here needs to announce their branch of service or rank; they are simply Suites, and this is where they belong. Once again, despite my hard work and perseverance, I have been disallowed from the true American elite. Once again, I am “Not our class, dear.” I am reminded of watching The Love Boat on my grandmother’s Zenith, which either was given to her or we found in the trash (I get our many malfunctioning Zeniths confused) and whose tube got so hot, I would put little chunks of government cheese on a thin tissue atop it to give our welfare treat a pleasant, Reagan-era gooeyness. I could not understand English well enough then to catch the nuances of that seafaring program, but I knew that there were differences in the status of the passengers, and that sometimes those differences made them sad. Still, this ship, this plenty—every few steps, there are complimentary nachos or milkshakes or gyros on offer—was the fatty fuel of my childhood dreams. If only I had remained a child.

I walk around the outdoor decks looking for company. There is a middle-aged African American couple who always seem to be asleep in each other’s arms, probably exhausted from the late capitalism they regularly encounter on land. There is far more diversity on this ship than I expected. Many couples are a testament to Loving v. Virginia , and there is a large group of folks whose T-shirts read MELANIN AT SEA / IT’S THE MELANIN FOR ME . I smile when I see them, but then some young kids from the group makes Mr. Washy Washy do a cruel, caricatured “Burger Dance” (today he is in his burger getup), and I think, Well, so much for intersectionality .

At the infinity pool on Deck 17, I spot some elderly women who could be ethnic and from my part of the world, and so I jump in. I am proved correct! Many of them seem to be originally from Queens (“Corona was still great when it was all Italian”), though they are now spread across the tristate area. We bond over the way “Ron-kon-koma” sounds when announced in Penn Station.

“Everyone is here for a different reason,” one of them tells me. She and her ex-husband last sailed together four years ago to prove to themselves that their marriage was truly over. Her 15-year-old son lost his virginity to “an Irish young lady” while their ship was moored in Ravenna, Italy. The gaggle of old-timers competes to tell me their favorite cruising stories and tips. “A guy proposed in Central Park a couple of years ago”—many Royal Caribbean ships apparently have this ridiculous communal area—“and she ran away screaming!” “If you’re diamond-class, you get four drinks for free.” “A different kind of passenger sails out of Bayonne.” (This, perhaps, is racially coded.) “Sometimes, if you tip the bartender $5, your next drink will be free.”

“Everyone’s here for a different reason,” the woman whose marriage ended on a cruise tells me again. “Some people are here for bad reasons—the drinkers and the gamblers. Some people are here for medical reasons.” I have seen more than a few oxygen tanks and at least one woman clearly undergoing very serious chemo. Some T-shirts celebrate good news about a cancer diagnosis. This might be someone’s last cruise or week on Earth. For these women, who have spent months, if not years, at sea, cruising is a ritual as well as a life cycle: first love, last love, marriage, divorce, death.

Read: The last place on Earth any tourist should go

I have talked with these women for so long, tonight I promise myself that after a sad solitary dinner I will not try to seek out company at the bars in the mall or the adult-themed Hideaway. I have enough material to fulfill my duties to this publication. As I approach my orphaned suite, I run into the aggro young people who stole Mr. and Mrs. Rand away from me the night before. The tattooed apparitions pass me without a glance. She is singing something violent about “Stuttering Stanley” (a character in a popular horror movie, as I discover with my complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream Internet at Sea) and he’s loudly shouting about “all the money I’ve lost,” presumably at the casino in the bowels of the ship.

So these bent psychos out of a Cormac McCarthy novel are angrily inhabiting my deck. As I mewl myself to sleep, I envision a limited series for HBO or some other streamer, a kind of low-rent White Lotus , where several aggressive couples conspire to throw a shy intellectual interloper overboard. I type the scenario into my phone. As I fall asleep, I think of what the woman who recently divorced her husband and whose son became a man through the good offices of the Irish Republic told me while I was hoisting myself out of the infinity pool. “I’m here because I’m an explorer. I’m here because I’m trying something new.” What if I allowed myself to believe in her fantasy?

“YOU REALLY STARTED AT THE TOP,” they tell me. I’m at the Coastal Kitchen for my eggs and corned-beef hash, and the maître d’ has slotted me in between two couples. Fueled by coffee or perhaps intrigued by my relative youth, they strike up a conversation with me. As always, people are shocked that this is my first cruise. They contrast the Icon favorably with all the preceding liners in the Royal Caribbean fleet, usually commenting on the efficiency of the elevators that hurl us from deck to deck (as in many large corporate buildings, the elevators ask you to choose a floor and then direct you to one of many lifts). The couple to my right, from Palo Alto—he refers to his “porn mustache” and calls his wife “my cougar” because she is two years older—tell me they are “Pandemic Pinnacles.”

This is the day that my eyes will be opened. Pinnacles , it is explained to me over translucent cantaloupe, have sailed with Royal Caribbean for 700 ungodly nights. Pandemic Pinnacles took advantage of the two-for-one accrual rate of Pinnacle points during the pandemic, when sailing on a cruise ship was even more ill-advised, to catapult themselves into Pinnacle status.

Because of the importance of the inaugural voyage of the world’s largest cruise liner, more than 200 Pinnacles are on this ship, a startling number, it seems. Mrs. Palo Alto takes out a golden badge that I have seen affixed over many a breast, which reads CROWN AND ANCHOR SOCIETY along with her name. This is the coveted badge of the Pinnacle. “You should hear all the whining in Guest Services,” her husband tells me. Apparently, the Pinnacles who are not also Suites like us are all trying to use their status to get into Coastal Kitchen, our elite restaurant. Even a Pinnacle needs to be a Suite to access this level of corned-beef hash.

“We’re just baby Pinnacles,” Mrs. Palo Alto tells me, describing a kind of internal class struggle among the Pinnacle elite for ever higher status.

And now I understand what the maître d’ was saying to me on the first day of my cruise. He wasn’t saying “ pendejo .” He was saying “Pinnacle.” The dining room was for Pinnacles only, all those older people rolling in like the tide on their motorized scooters.

And now I understand something else: This whole thing is a cult. And like most cults, it can’t help but mirror the endless American fight for status. Like Keith Raniere’s NXIVM, where different-colored sashes were given out to connote rank among Raniere’s branded acolytes, this is an endless competition among Pinnacles, Suites, Diamond-Plusers, and facing-the-mall, no-balcony purple SeaPass Card peasants, not to mention the many distinctions within each category. The more you cruise, the higher your status. No wonder a section of the Royal Promenade is devoted to getting passengers to book their next cruise during the one they should be enjoying now. No wonder desperate Royal Caribbean offers (“FINAL HOURS”) crowded my email account weeks before I set sail. No wonder the ship’s jewelry store, the Royal Bling, is selling a $100,000 golden chalice that will entitle its owner to drink free on Royal Caribbean cruises for life. (One passenger was already gaming out whether her 28-year-old son was young enough to “just about earn out” on the chalice or if that ship had sailed.) No wonder this ship was sold out months before departure , and we had to pay $19,000 for a horrid suite away from the Suite Neighborhood. No wonder the most mythical hero of Royal Caribbean lore is someone named Super Mario, who has cruised so often, he now has his own working desk on many ships. This whole experience is part cult, part nautical pyramid scheme.

From the June 2014 issue: Ship of wonks

“The toilets are amazing,” the Palo Altos are telling me. “One flush and you’re done.” “They don’t understand how energy-efficient these ships are,” the husband of the other couple is telling me. “They got the LNG”—liquefied natural gas, which is supposed to make the Icon a boon to the environment (a concept widely disputed and sometimes ridiculed by environmentalists).

But I’m thinking along a different line of attack as I spear my last pallid slice of melon. For my streaming limited series, a Pinnacle would have to get killed by either an outright peasant or a Suite without an ocean view. I tell my breakfast companions my idea.

“Oh, for sure a Pinnacle would have to be killed,” Mr. Palo Alto, the Pandemic Pinnacle, says, touching his porn mustache thoughtfully as his wife nods.

“THAT’S RIGHT, IT’S your time, buddy!” Hubert, my fun-loving Panamanian cabin attendant, shouts as I step out of my suite in a robe. “Take it easy, buddy!”

I have come up with a new dressing strategy. Instead of trying to impress with my choice of T-shirts, I have decided to start wearing a robe, as one does at a resort property on land, with a proper spa and hammam. The response among my fellow cruisers has been ecstatic. “Look at you in the robe!” Mr. Rand cries out as we pass each other by the Thrill Island aqua park. “You’re living the cruise life! You know, you really drank me under the table that night.” I laugh as we part ways, but my soul cries out, Please spend more time with me, Mr. and Mrs. Rand; I so need the company .

In my white robe, I am a stately presence, a refugee from a better limited series, a one-man crossover episode. (Only Suites are granted these robes to begin with.) Today, I will try many of the activities these ships have on offer to provide their clientele with a sense of never-ceasing motion. Because I am already at Thrill Island, I decide to climb the staircase to what looks like a mast on an old-fashioned ship (terrified, because I am afraid of heights) to try a ride called “Storm Chasers,” which is part of the “Category 6” water park, named in honor of one of the storms that may someday do away with the Port of Miami entirely. Storm Chasers consists of falling from the “mast” down a long, twisting neon tube filled with water, like being the camera inside your own colonoscopy, as you hold on to the handles of a mat, hoping not to die. The tube then flops you down headfirst into a trough of water, a Royal Caribbean baptism. It both knocks my breath out and makes me sad.

In keeping with the aquatic theme, I attend a show at the AquaDome. To the sound of “Live and Let Die,” a man in a harness gyrates to and fro in the sultry air. I saw something very similar in the back rooms of the famed Berghain club in early-aughts Berlin. Soon another harnessed man is gyrating next to the first. Ja , I think to myself, I know how this ends. Now will come the fisting , natürlich . But the show soon devolves into the usual Marvel-film-grade nonsense, with too much light and sound signifying nichts . If any fisting is happening, it is probably in the Suite Neighborhood, inside a cabin marked with an upside-down pineapple, which I understand means a couple are ready to swing, and I will see none of it.

I go to the ice show, which is a kind of homage—if that’s possible—to the periodic table, done with the style and pomp and masterful precision that would please the likes of Kim Jong Un, if only he could afford Royal Caribbean talent. At one point, the dancers skate to the theme song of Succession . “See that!” I want to say to my fellow Suites—at “cultural” events, we have a special section reserved for us away from the commoners—“ Succession ! It’s even better than the zombie show! Open your minds!”

Finally, I visit a comedy revue in an enormous and too brightly lit version of an “intimate,” per Royal Caribbean literature, “Manhattan comedy club.” Many of the jokes are about the cruising life. “I’ve lived on ships for 20 years,” one of the middle-aged comedians says. “I can only see so many Filipino homosexuals dressed as a taco.” He pauses while the audience laughs. “I am so fired tonight,” he says. He segues into a Trump impression and then Biden falling asleep at the microphone, which gets the most laughs. “Anyone here from Fort Leonard Wood?” another comedian asks. Half the crowd seems to cheer. As I fall asleep that night, I realize another connection I have failed to make, and one that may explain some of the diversity on this vessel—many of its passengers have served in the military.

As a coddled passenger with a suite, I feel like I am starting to understand what it means to have a rank and be constantly reminded of it. There are many espresso makers , I think as I look across the expanse of my officer-grade quarters before closing my eyes, but this one is mine .

A shocking sight greets me beyond the pools of Deck 17 as I saunter over to the Coastal Kitchen for my morning intake of slightly sour Americanos. A tiny city beneath a series of perfectly pressed green mountains. Land! We have docked for a brief respite in Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitts and Nevis. I wolf down my egg scramble to be one of the first passengers off the ship. Once past the gangway, I barely refrain from kissing the ground. I rush into the sights and sounds of this scruffy island city, sampling incredible conch curry and buckets of non-Starbucks coffee. How wonderful it is to be where God intended humans to be: on land. After all, I am neither a fish nor a mall rat. This is my natural environment. Basseterre may not be Havana, but there are signs of human ingenuity and desire everywhere you look. The Black Table Grill Has been Relocated to Soho Village, Market Street, Directly Behind of, Gary’s Fruits and Flower Shop. Signed. THE PORK MAN reads a sign stuck to a wall. Now, that is how you write a sign. A real sign, not the come-ons for overpriced Rolexes that blink across the screens of the Royal Promenade.

“Hey, tie your shoestring!” a pair of laughing ladies shout to me across the street.

“Thank you!” I shout back. Shoestring! “Thank you very much.”

A man in Independence Square Park comes by and asks if I want to play with his monkey. I haven’t heard that pickup line since the Penn Station of the 1980s. But then he pulls a real monkey out of a bag. The monkey is wearing a diaper and looks insane. Wonderful , I think, just wonderful! There is so much life here. I email my editor asking if I can remain on St. Kitts and allow the Icon to sail off into the horizon without me. I have even priced a flight home at less than $300, and I have enough material from the first four days on the cruise to write the entire story. “It would be funny …” my editor replies. “Now get on the boat.”

As I slink back to the ship after my brief jailbreak, the locals stand under umbrellas to gaze at and photograph the boat that towers over their small capital city. The limousines of the prime minister and his lackeys are parked beside the gangway. St. Kitts, I’ve been told, is one of the few islands that would allow a ship of this size to dock.

“We hear about all the waterslides,” a sweet young server in one of the cafés told me. “We wish we could go on the ship, but we have to work.”

“I want to stay on your island,” I replied. “I love it here.”

But she didn’t understand how I could possibly mean that.

“WASHY, WASHY, so you don’t get stinky, stinky!” kids are singing outside the AquaDome, while their adult minders look on in disapproval, perhaps worried that Mr. Washy Washy is grooming them into a life of gayness. I heard a southern couple skip the buffet entirely out of fear of Mr. Washy Washy.

Meanwhile, I have found a new watering hole for myself, the Swim & Tonic, the biggest swim-up bar on any cruise ship in the world. Drinking next to full-size, nearly naked Americans takes away one’s own self-consciousness. The men have curvaceous mom bodies. The women are equally un-shy about their sprawling physiques.

Today I’ve befriended a bald man with many children who tells me that all of the little trinkets that Royal Caribbean has left us in our staterooms and suites are worth a fortune on eBay. “Eighty dollars for the water bottle, 60 for the lanyard,” the man says. “This is a cult.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. There is, however, a clientele for whom this cruise makes perfect sense. For a large middle-class family (he works in “supply chains”), seven days in a lower-tier cabin—which starts at $1,800 a person—allow the parents to drop off their children in Surfside, where I imagine many young Filipina crew members will take care of them, while the parents are free to get drunk at a swim-up bar and maybe even get intimate in their cabin. Cruise ships have become, for a certain kind of hardworking family, a form of subsidized child care.

There is another man I would like to befriend at the Swim & Tonic, a tall, bald fellow who is perpetually inebriated and who wears a necklace studded with little rubber duckies in sunglasses, which, I am told, is a sort of secret handshake for cruise aficionados. Tomorrow, I will spend more time with him, but first the ship docks at St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Charlotte Amalie, the capital, is more charming in name than in presence, but I still all but jump off the ship to score a juicy oxtail and plantains at the well-known Petite Pump Room, overlooking the harbor. From one of the highest points in the small city, the Icon of the Seas appears bigger than the surrounding hills.

I usually tan very evenly, but something about the discombobulation of life at sea makes me forget the regular application of sunscreen. As I walk down the streets of Charlotte Amalie in my fluorescent Icon of the Seas cap, an old Rastafarian stares me down. “Redneck,” he hisses.

“No,” I want to tell him, as I bring a hand up to my red neck, “that’s not who I am at all. On my island, Mannahatta, as Whitman would have it, I am an interesting person living within an engaging artistic milieu. I do not wish to use the Caribbean as a dumping ground for the cruise-ship industry. I love the work of Derek Walcott. You don’t understand. I am not a redneck. And if I am, they did this to me.” They meaning Royal Caribbean? Its passengers? The Rands?

“They did this to me!”

Back on the Icon, some older matrons are muttering about a run-in with passengers from the Celebrity cruise ship docked next to us, the Celebrity Apex. Although Celebrity Cruises is also owned by Royal Caribbean, I am made to understand that there is a deep fratricidal beef between passengers of the two lines. “We met a woman from the Apex,” one matron says, “and she says it was a small ship and there was nothing to do. Her face was as tight as a 19-year-old’s, she had so much surgery.” With those words, and beneath a cloudy sky, humidity shrouding our weathered faces and red necks, we set sail once again, hopefully in the direction of home.

THERE ARE BARELY 48 HOURS LEFT to the cruise, and the Icon of the Seas’ passengers are salty. They know how to work the elevators. They know the Washy Washy song by heart. They understand that the chicken gyro at “Feta Mediterranean,” in the AquaDome Market, is the least problematic form of chicken on the ship.

The passengers have shed their INAUGURAL CRUISE T-shirts and are now starting to evince political opinions. There are caps pledging to make America great again and T-shirts that celebrate words sometimes attributed to Patrick Henry: “The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people; it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government.” With their preponderance of FAMILY FLAG FAITH FRIENDS FIREARMS T-shirts, the tables by the crepe station sometimes resemble the Capitol Rotunda on January 6. The Real Anthony Fauci , by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., appears to be a popular form of literature, especially among young men with very complicated versions of the American flag on their T-shirts. Other opinions blend the personal and the political. “Someone needs to kill Washy guy, right?” a well-dressed man in the elevator tells me, his gray eyes radiating nothing. “Just beat him to death. Am I right?” I overhear the male member of a young couple whisper, “There goes that freak” as I saunter by in my white spa robe, and I decide to retire it for the rest of the cruise.

I visit the Royal Bling to see up close the $100,000 golden chalice that entitles you to free drinks on Royal Caribbean forever. The pleasant Serbian saleslady explains that the chalice is actually gold-plated and covered in white zirconia instead of diamonds, as it would otherwise cost $1 million. “If you already have everything,” she explains, “this is one more thing you can get.”

I believe that anyone who works for Royal Caribbean should be entitled to immediate American citizenship. They already speak English better than most of the passengers and, per the Serbian lady’s sales pitch above, better understand what America is as well. Crew members like my Panamanian cabin attendant seem to work 24 hours a day. A waiter from New Delhi tells me that his contract is six months and three weeks long. After a cruise ends, he says, “in a few hours, we start again for the next cruise.” At the end of the half a year at sea, he is allowed a two-to-three-month stay at home with his family. As of 2019, the median income for crew members was somewhere in the vicinity of $20,000, according to a major business publication. Royal Caribbean would not share the current median salary for its crew members, but I am certain that it amounts to a fraction of the cost of a Royal Bling gold-plated, zirconia-studded chalice.

And because most of the Icon’s hyper-sanitized spaces are just a frittata away from being a Delta lounge, one forgets that there are actual sailors on this ship, charged with the herculean task of docking it in port. “Having driven 100,000-ton aircraft carriers throughout my career,” retired Admiral James G. Stavridis, the former NATO Supreme Allied Commander Europe, writes to me, “I’m not sure I would even know where to begin with trying to control a sea monster like this one nearly three times the size.” (I first met Stavridis while touring Army bases in Germany more than a decade ago.)

Today, I decide to head to the hot tub near Swim & Tonic, where some of the ship’s drunkest reprobates seem to gather (the other tubs are filled with families and couples). The talk here, like everywhere else on the ship, concerns football, a sport about which I know nothing. It is apparent that four teams have recently competed in some kind of finals for the year, and that two of them will now face off in the championship. Often when people on the Icon speak, I will try to repeat the last thing they said with a laugh or a nod of disbelief. “Yes, 20-yard line! Ha!” “Oh my God, of course, scrimmage.”

Soon we are joined in the hot tub by the late-middle-age drunk guy with the duck necklace. He is wearing a bucket hat with the legend HAWKEYES , which, I soon gather, is yet another football team. “All right, who turned me in?” Duck Necklace says as he plops into the tub beside us. “I get a call in the morning,” he says. “It’s security. Can you come down to the dining room by 10 a.m.? You need to stay away from the members of this religious family.” Apparently, the gregarious Duck Necklace had photobombed the wrong people. There are several families who present as evangelical Christians or practicing Muslims on the ship. One man, evidently, was not happy that Duck Necklace had made contact with his relatives. “It’s because of religious stuff; he was offended. I put my arm around 20 people a day.”

Everyone laughs. “They asked me three times if I needed medication,” he says of the security people who apparently interrogated him in full view of others having breakfast.

Another hot-tub denizen suggests that he should have asked for fentanyl. After a few more drinks, Duck Necklace begins to muse about what it would be like to fall off the ship. “I’m 62 and I’m ready to go,” he says. “I just don’t want a shark to eat me. I’m a huge God guy. I’m a Bible guy. There’s some Mayan theory squaring science stuff with religion. There is so much more to life on Earth.” We all nod into our Red Stripes.

“I never get off the ship when we dock,” he says. He tells us he lost $6,000 in the casino the other day. Later, I look him up, and it appears that on land, he’s a financial adviser in a crisp gray suit, probably a pillar of his North Chicago community.

THE OCEAN IS TEEMING with fascinating life, but on the surface it has little to teach us. The waves come and go. The horizon remains ever far away.

I am constantly told by my fellow passengers that “everybody here has a story.” Yes, I want to reply, but everybody everywhere has a story. You, the reader of this essay, have a story, and yet you’re not inclined to jump on a cruise ship and, like Duck Necklace, tell your story to others at great pitch and volume. Maybe what they’re saying is that everybody on this ship wants to have a bigger, more coherent, more interesting story than the one they’ve been given. Maybe that’s why there’s so much signage on the doors around me attesting to marriages spent on the sea. Maybe that’s why the Royal Caribbean newsletter slipped under my door tells me that “this isn’t a vacation day spent—it’s bragging rights earned.” Maybe that’s why I’m so lonely.

Today is a big day for Icon passengers. Today the ship docks at Royal Caribbean’s own Bahamian island, the Perfect Day at CocoCay. (This appears to be the actual name of the island.) A comedian at the nightclub opined on what his perfect day at CocoCay would look like—receiving oral sex while learning that his ex-wife had been killed in a car crash (big laughter). But the reality of the island is far less humorous than that.

One of the ethnic tristate ladies in the infinity pool told me that she loved CocoCay because it had exactly the same things that could be found on the ship itself. This proves to be correct. It is like the Icon, but with sand. The same tired burgers, the same colorful tubes conveying children and water from Point A to B. The same swim-up bar at its Hideaway ($140 for admittance, no children allowed; Royal Caribbean must be printing money off its clientele). “There was almost a fight at The Wizard of Oz ,” I overhear an elderly woman tell her companion on a chaise lounge. Apparently one of the passengers began recording Royal Caribbean’s intellectual property and “three guys came after him.”

I walk down a pathway to the center of the island, where a sign reads DO NOT ENTER: YOU HAVE REACHED THE BOUNDARY OF ADVENTURE . I hear an animal scampering in the bushes. A Royal Caribbean worker in an enormous golf cart soon chases me down and takes me back to the Hideaway, where I run into Mrs. Rand in a bikini. She becomes livid telling me about an altercation she had the other day with a woman over a towel and a deck chair. We Suites have special towel privileges; we do not have to hand over our SeaPass Card to score a towel. But the Rands are not Suites. “People are so entitled here,” Mrs. Rand says. “It’s like the airport with all its classes.” “You see,” I want to say, “this is where your husband’s love of Ayn Rand runs into the cruelties and arbitrary indignities of unbridled capitalism.” Instead we make plans to meet for a final drink in the Schooner Bar tonight (the Rands will stand me up).

Back on the ship, I try to do laps, but the pool (the largest on any cruise ship, naturally) is fully trashed with the detritus of American life: candy wrappers, a slowly dissolving tortilla chip, napkins. I take an extra-long shower in my suite, then walk around the perimeter of the ship on a kind of exercise track, past all the alluring lifeboats in their yellow-and-white livery. Maybe there is a dystopian angle to the HBO series that I will surely end up pitching, one with shades of WALL-E or Snowpiercer . In a collapsed world, a Royal Caribbean–like cruise liner sails from port to port, collecting new shipmates and supplies in exchange for the precious energy it has on board. (The actual Icon features a new technology that converts passengers’ poop into enough energy to power the waterslides . In the series, this shitty technology would be greatly expanded.) A very young woman (18? 19?), smart and lonely, who has only known life on the ship, walks along the same track as I do now, contemplating jumping off into the surf left by its wake. I picture reusing Duck Necklace’s words in the opening shot of the pilot. The girl is walking around the track, her eyes on the horizon; maybe she’s highborn—a Suite—and we hear the voice-over: “I’m 19 and I’m ready to go. I just don’t want a shark to eat me.”

Before the cruise is finished, I talk to Mr. Washy Washy, or Nielbert of the Philippines. He is a sweet, gentle man, and I thank him for the earworm of a song he has given me and for keeping us safe from the dreaded norovirus. “This is very important to me, getting people to wash their hands,” he tells me in his burger getup. He has dreams, as an artist and a performer, but they are limited in scope. One day he wants to dress up as a piece of bacon for the morning shift.

THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE TITANIC (the Icon of the Seas is five times as large as that doomed vessel) at least offered its passengers an exciting ending to their cruise, but when I wake up on the eighth day, all I see are the gray ghosts that populate Miami’s condo skyline. Throughout my voyage, my writer friends wrote in to commiserate with me. Sloane Crosley, who once covered a three-day spa mini-cruise for Vogue , tells me she felt “so very alone … I found it very untethering.” Gideon Lewis-Kraus writes in an Instagram comment: “When Gary is done I think it’s time this genre was taken out back and shot.” And he is right. To badly paraphrase Adorno: After this, no more cruise stories. It is unfair to put a thinking person on a cruise ship. Writers typically have difficult childhoods, and it is cruel to remind them of the inherent loneliness that drove them to writing in the first place. It is also unseemly to write about the kind of people who go on cruises. Our country does not provide the education and upbringing that allow its citizens an interior life. For the creative class to point fingers at the large, breasty gentlemen adrift in tortilla-chip-laden pools of water is to gather a sour harvest of low-hanging fruit.

A day or two before I got off the ship, I decided to make use of my balcony, which I had avoided because I thought the view would only depress me further. What I found shocked me. My suite did not look out on Central Park after all. This entire time, I had been living in the ship’s Disneyland, Surfside, the neighborhood full of screaming toddlers consuming milkshakes and candy. And as I leaned out over my balcony, I beheld a slight vista of the sea and surf that I thought I had been missing. It had been there all along. The sea was frothy and infinite and blue-green beneath the span of a seagull’s wing. And though it had been trod hard by the world’s largest cruise ship, it remained.

This article appears in the May 2024 print edition with the headline “A Meatball at Sea.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.