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

[Robert Leslie Newman]

Interesting treatise --- A tale in 3rd person --- fits a tale, though this
be a sad, sad, tale.

How is this different then a fable? Or --- is it that a fable has a
prescribed purpose? 

And yes, 3rd person can be found in modern day fiction too, right? (I'm just
blank on this --- coming up with an example.)


-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Priscilla McKinley
Sent: Monday, September 27, 2010 1:07 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] Essay using third person, "Once Upon a Time" no
language or adult content

Bridgid,

I like the idea of using the third person in a prologue to a
book-length memoir or a collection of essays on your relationships
with your mother and Ross, as well as general topics.  The images of
typical storybook themes could be used to hold the piece(s) together
-- the castle, queen, princess, prince, and so on.

What is it with those mothers whose children are never good enough?
It's amazing how those childhood memories can carry into our adult
lives.  Nice work of illustrating this point!

Thanks for sharing,

Priscilla



On 9/26/10, Alan <awheeler at neb.rr.com> wrote:
> 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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