[stylist] Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no language or adult content

[Alan]

I like this...a lot. You have me thinking about how I would write about my 
life like this. Hmm, perhaps a western instead of a fairy tale?


----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Bridgit Pollpeter" <bpollpeter at hotmail.com>
To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Sunday, September 26, 2010 9:34 PM
Subject: [stylist] Essay using third person,"Once Upon a Time" no language 
or adult content


> For those at the monthly phone gathering:
>
> I am posting the essay I spoke about during the meeting that I wrote
> like a fairy tale.  It has gone through a couple of rewrites, but it is
> still in the process.  It was also written a while ago.  It is not my
> best, but it gives an example of writing about yourself in third person.
>
> Bridgit
>
> Once Upon a Time
>
>
>
> Once upon a time there was a young girl, who lived in a large Victorian
> house.  Her wild imagination found the old house to be the perfect place
> to dream up fantastic stories.  It was a bright yellow, which was
> changed in short order by her mother who felt mauve suited the house
> better.  The covered red brick porch perfect for imaginative ponderings
> during rain storms was eventually torn down and replaced with a simple
> marble walkway and stone steps.  The surrounding yard was brought to
> life by the plants and foliage her mother pain-stakingly ministered
> over.  This garden was home to the fairies who built their dwellings
> among the roses, forget-me-nots, and carnations.  The little girl danced
> around the garden while the sun sank low in the horizon, and she and the
> fairies prepared for their midsummer romps.  With wand in hand, the girl
> directed the troupe to sing and dance.  Always the night ended when the
> girl's mother stood on the stoop with arms crossed and directed, "It is
> time to come in.  What will the neighbors think with you out here?"
> With a wave of the wand, the little girl made the fairies disappear, and
> she trooped into the house eager for the next night to begin.
>
> Connected to the back of the house was an old-fashioned cellar, which
> the young girl and her siblings would play on top of creating so many
> fancies until it was replaced by the swimming pool.  The pool was fun
> and became the neighborhood hang-out for children, but the little girl
> would miss the days when a simple cement platform was a wide field
> perfect for battle or an ancient discovery full of chalk drawings left
> behind by a people long forgotten.
>
> The most magical place for her, though, was in the back yard where a
> small grove of fir trees towered among a circle of stones and dirt that
> resembled a very tiny island.  She believed this island to be ancient
> and full of mystery, and was, therefore, resolute it not be destroyed.
> She did not want to invoke the anger of some ancient god.  The little
> girl would hold long conversations with the people who lived on the
> island.  The girl and her companions would jump and dive into the
> surrounding ocean to play with the mermaids.  Sitting on a giant rock,
> the girl would write the stories of the island people so they would
> never be lost.  The girl's contemplation was only broke when a voice
> strained through the screen door on the back porch.  "It is time to come
> in for lunch.  You are such a mess.  Why can't you play like a lady?
> People will begin to think your odd talking to yourself out there.
> Hurry up now."  The girl sat on the porch as her mother took a warm
> cloth to the girl's small face and attempted to comb through the tangles
> in the girl's long, blonde hair.  The mother complained as she fussed
> over the girl.  "How do you manage to get so much dirt on you?  When I
> was your age I played with dolls or practiced my baton.  You really are
> something else."
>
> The mother signed the girl up for pageants and Girl Scouts in hopes of
> breaking the wild streak coursing through the little girl.  The girl
> enjoyed these past times, but the girl packed along her imagination
> wherever she went.  The girl loved to dress up and stand in front of the
> full-length mirror admiring how princess-like she looked, but her spirit
> needed room to run free, to discover, to play.
>
> One summer day she returned home from a sea voyage to the Mediterranean,
> and found her parents conspiring together in the large office her father
> all but lived in.  She tiptoed to the French doors that stood slightly
> ajar and listened.  Her father sat at his large cherry desk while her
> mother paced the rich green carpeted floor of the den.  Mother was
> nervous and excited, but easy to understand, while Father spoke in low
> murmurs.  The young girl strained to hear what they said as, after all,
> she was an international spy.  The words spoken that day changed the
> fate of the little girl.  She learned to live in a dark tower that day
> and only years of solitude stood as her companion.
>
> "I don't know what to do with her anymore," Mother sighed.
>
> "Is it really that bad," Father asked.
>
> "It's not normal," she snapped.
>
> "She's only six years old.  Shouldn't we wait before doing anything?"
>
> "You are so weak when it comes to her.  I don't want her growing up
> being odd.  Other children don't talk to themselves or make up stories
> like she does."
>
> "She's just playing."
>
> "She is too old to be playing with imaginary friends.  I think we need
> to find a psychologist," Mother choked.
>
> "Really?  She's just a kid."
>
> "Its child not kid and her behavior is not normal.  She spends hours
> outside speaking to herself.  She comes in and begins speaking about
> people and places she has never met or been to.  She told me about some
> place where a fairy princess was in danger.  She is not living in
> reality!"
>
> Mother grew frantic as she spoke.  Her voice grew in pitch and she began
> to sob.  The desk chair creaked and muffled foot steps padded as father
> stood and went to her.
>
> "Don't.  She needs help and you can't give into her," she said sharply.
>
> "Alright, we will do what we have to.  Call a shrink and see what we
> need to do," he soothed.
>
> The girl was crazy.  She was crushed, and to this day she can still feel
> the sinking sensation within her.  The young girl did not want to cry,
> but as she breathed in heaving gulps, she felt the trickle of tears down
> her face.  Suddenly she was the princess in danger, but no one would
> come along for years to rescue her.  Until she met Ross, her husband,
> the thought alone of this memory would twist her stomach up.  He taught
> her what love was.  He taught her about acceptance, and he brought
> dreaming back into her life.  At six, though, she was not normal and
> this was the first of many thorns she would produce in her mother's
> side.  The older she became, the less she did correctly.  "You will
> never find a man who will want to stay with you as long as you act so
> undemure.  You really think it is a good idea to leave the house without
> make-up?" the mother chanted.  The girl felt like a stain that could not
> be removed.
>
> She never spoke again about her adventures to her family, and she
> listlessly played on her island until she stopped all together.  Even
> though the doctor found nothing wrong with her, she could not get past
> the fact that her parents believed she was insane.  She may not recall
> the exact flower, and it may not have been the Mediterranean she voyaged
> to that afternoon, but she was the little girl who found her world
> falling apart that day.  She shut herself away in her mind, and no one
> was allowed to enter.
>
>
>
>
>
> I struggled against my captivity for years.  By nature I was wild and
> rebellious, but when one is repeatedly told that they are crazy one
> begins to believe it.  I thrived on my fantasies since it was an escape
> from my reality.  I forgot to live for a time, though, and soon the only
> life I had was led inside my head.  I knew security within my
> imagination.  I did not belong on the outside.  My mother stands tall
> and perfect in my memory.  This shining beacon of womanhood that I could
> never live up to.  I sought to gain her approval and failed each time.
> My journey to reach perfection left me broken and incapable of
> maintaining a human relationship.  "You don't need friends.  People only
> hurt and it is better to be alone.  The only source of friendship a
> person needs is themselves and God," my mother said each time I felt
> betrayed or hurt.  I grew up learning not to trust.  Now it amazes me
> how people have life-long confidants.  I guard myself against any who
> attempt to penetrate my armor.  Yet I am fragile and do not even trust
> myself.  I tend to hang back and observe my friends instead of
> participating.  They laugh and hold hands as exciting news is shared.
> Mobile phones buzz and ring incessantly as my phone sits quietly.  I
> know I close myself off from the world, but I don't know how to interact
> with others.  My mind becomes home where I can slip in and out of
> scenarios that I control.  I have come so far from the little girl who
> found freedom in her imagination.  She morphed into the crazy woman who
> never found a niche to fit into.
>
> I left my dreams behind and walked towards the bleak future I saw in the
> distance.  I accepted my loneliness and knew I was drifting away from
> the person I was created to be.  My dreams were beat out of me.  Each
> goal was chucked into the waste bin.
>
> After high school I applied to the American Music and Dramatic Academy
> in New York.  I was flustered when a call came to schedule my audition.
> "There is no way you can survive in New York.  Besides, I don't want
> your hopes crushed.  You have a very nice voice, but it is not good
> enough for the stage," my mother told me.  The acceptance letter serves
> as a reminder of my lost youth.
>
> I recently sat sipping coffee and eating pie with my father.  Somehow,
> the conversation turned to my years in modeling school.
>
> "Can you believe how far Jamie King has come?" Dad asked.
>
> Jamie King and I were in the same class at the Nancy Bounds modeling
> school in Omaha.  Jamie has been successful with her modeling career as
> well as film acting.  She was caste in Pearl Harbor and Sin City among
> other roles.  I often wonder what it would be like if Jamie and I
> switched places.  I am the star-crossed girl while Jamie dwells in the
> real world of dreams achieved.
>
> "I know, it's crazy," I said.
>
> "I remember when the director thought you and Jamie stood out in class.
> You two were the promising students she told us."
>
> "What?"
>
> "She spoke with your mom and me and thought you and Jamie had the
> potential to go far."
>
> I sat stunned.  I was never told this.  I was told by my mother that I
> didn't have what it took.  I held my coffee mug unsure what to think.
> Here I was, twenty-eight years old looking down the tunnel of chances
> not seized.  Again I conjure the little girl whose life was waiting for
> her.  I feel sad for her and wonder where she went.
>
>
>
> Can my story have a happy ending?  Through years of loneliness and
> missed opportunities, I have been able to escape my dark tower, but not
> without a fight.  I was a knotted mess unable to latch onto another
> soul.  The girl so full of dreams and hopes turned into a statue.  My
> world did change, though.  February 22, 2005 was the day the door to my
> tower was unlocked.  I truly had a knight in shining armor rescue me
> from my cold, dreamless life.  Ross entered my world and once again I
> felt warmth and freedom.  One by one he helped me unravel the pain and
> solitude.  His touch grounded me to earth.  His voice brought reason to
> my tormented mind.  He held me as I released my story to him.  Wiping my
> tears he whispered, "I love you.  I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner to help
> you, but you are strong and I know you are better than this.  I will
> always stand by your side."  I cried out years of untold sorrow and
> struggle onto his shoulder.  The girl who dreamed of a prince finally
> found him.
>
> I have learned to view the past as a directional guide to point where to
> move next.  My mother believes I still make stories up, but I understand
> I have my own life to live and I must do what I think is right.  Despite
> what you may be told, my story is real.  I have traveled a long and
> winding road, but I have the photographs of my experience.  The gloom of
> the dark tower is not forgotten, but I can now move beyond the realm of
> what I once knew.  I now realize that I was not crazy.  I was a kid who
> imagined beauty in this world.  I was potential waiting to be tapped.
> That little girl who saw beyond reality was capable of so much.  I may
> not be that girl anymore and she may have missed out on so much during
> her hundred-years of slumber, but I understand who I am now.  I do miss
> her at times, but I have a new path to construct.  My dreams now are
> twined with another and our future is a blank page eager for words to be
> written.  Some day once upon a time will read, "A beautiful woman let
> her locks down and discovered the world outside her dark tower."
>
> _______________________________________________
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