Narrative/Memior

Your personal life is exactly what it sounds like: personal. Make it personal. Add emotions YOU felt, things YOU saw, that YOU want to add in. It's your life, not any one else. They can't judge what isn't theirs. Make it personal, and more so, make it yours.

From example three from http://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Basic_Writing/Narrative_and_memoir#Narrative_and_Memoir, "I couldn't say anything. What could I say?" I really, really like this. It seems like they threw their emotion out there for us to feel ourselves; their hopelessness and loss of words. It's something we all have felt at one point or another. We can all connect. But they still made it seem like they owned that emotion, that it's theirs. From the same post, "At this point I was hysterical and customers were steering their shopping carts way around me. When my mom finally answered her comforting voice was gone." They made it seem like they flipped the emotion to their mother. Their mom's loss of words were there now, and they had taken a more hysterical role. I loved how this was a flipped role. Again, it seemed like he emotions they felt were only theirs.

For my narrative, I might write of my first time dealing with death- of my first dog, Lightning, and the trips I used to take out in the forest to visit his grave marked by two large tree trunks we laid across it. Or, I might write just about the trips I used to make through the forest behind my house, of the things I saw and felt (physically and emotionally) while there; building to the emotions felt on the day I left to move to town. Something along those lines, where there's a build to the story, not just... a story.

Second Polished Piece: Autumn

She never moved but inches, and those inches, if any, were slow and unnerving. I watched her laugh lines drain from her lips and become cold looking and cracked as she spoke. I loved those lines when they were filled; bringing life to her eyes that now seemed empty.

The days seemed far away of when she spoke of love, dreams and happiness. Even her thoughts seemed corrupted by the sickness that was forcing her away from me. So young, trapped inside a body so old and unforgiving. She spoke of things like her dreams, but instead of her wishes to fulfill them, they were dark thoughts of how her life won’t remain to see those days to come. She had come to terms with dying. She knew not even me, her husband, could help her.

She stared out of the window that looked over our garden like a balcony at the only tree that could be seen. She watched everyday as the seasons changed and leaves fell to the ground in autumn and regrew in the spring. She always had her hair the same, in that little messy braid that fell over her right shoulder. Sometimes she wouldn’t speak or look at me, but at those times she would reach for the child we had made together and hold him to her chest as he slept. Her eyes hardly ever moved from that tree.

She told me once that the spring had taught her that things always change; the autumn taught her that those things could be both terrible and beautiful. From then on she’d always called her sickness the autumn, and if she could walk that day or find a reason to smile, the spring.

She told me that day, as her favorite tree’s last brown leaf had fallen to the ground, that she could feel the end for her as well.

“Maybe my spring isn’t going to come around this time.” Her laugh lines had drained again. My eyes filled with tears, but I fought them away as she told me she loved our son and me. She reached for him without looking as almost always, and closed her eyes for a slow-moving blink. That was the last time I’d seen the green of her eyes. I wept as our son began to cry in the arms of his newly deceased mother.

Characterization Stories

http://www.npr.org/2011/11/12/142273145/hero-worship
Hero Worship: I read this story and immediately wanted to know what was going on, and how the child was involved. I could almost see clearly the expressions of pain on the family's faces, and how fake their entire lives seemed, though at first you wouldn't dare guess. Their wasn't much dialogue, but much more explanation from a child's view, which I enjoyed.

http://www.npr.org/2011/10/02/140973653/misshapen
Misshapen: At the beginning, I had an idea of what was happening: A Mother and Father fighting; a little girl listening.  I grew to be more and more confusing, as right in the middle of a normal fight, it states: "After a few running starts, he flew clear over the city of little blue people with funny white hats, soared over the village of fuzzy bears with varying emblems on their chests and landed in the town of Bedrock." What was even happening? I was so confused, but I kept reading. In the end, I finally understood it was a girl playing with her toys. I really liked how a world of make-believe and reality could combine into one story.

http://www.npr.org/2011/10/23/141622174/ocean-child
Ocean Child: At the beginning, I felt the wonder and excitement that I might find in a child's eyes as they gaze among the ocean. Immediately I felt drawn to this child... Maybe because my name, too, means "of the sea". I really liked the beginning. The ending was sweet and touching, how she connected her baby to the air in which she was raised and born from. All in all, this story was very charming.

The Untold Story

The ground caressed my bare feet. Soft moss made my path through a forest as green as my eyes shined. Trees lining my path; light trembled through their leaves to bring life along the ground, yet those leaves shaded most of the light away, leaving light to pour from a non-existent sky to an almost empty ground. The woods end up ahead, but I yearn to stay. My feet turn under me, moss showing them the way back to my oblivion. One foot caught behind the other, but behold- a tree with a light so apparent falling upon me had broken my fall, and I was upright. My body pressed against it, a feeling almost electrical ran through my veins; the tree was feeding off of me. The bark snagged to my sheer white dress as I slowly sank back into a place slightly darker. My fingers ran against the soft cotton of my dress as my arms fell to my sides, bringing me inspiration to walk once more against my moss path falling into my personal wooded oblivion. One foot in front of the other, I walked along, nowhere to be or to go.

Cold drops fell from the light, which has since disappeared, though I did not catch its farewell. Along my neck, they fell down my dress onto my path, making the moss glisten with hopes of new life and shining with its very existence. Trees let go of their scent, sending it along my body and through the soft wind blowing my hair softly around me like a blanket. A place untouched by human nature, still left to grow; the scent of the wood driving me deeper and deeper along my path, praying for it to never end.

Wind rustled leaves to a song to which I found my body moving to, arms thrusting themselves into the air without consent, catching the glowing drops of rain and suddenly dipping to caress the moss as it has done for me all through this journey. The beauty of the song brought drops to my eyes, which fell and again made the moss against my feet shine.  I never had heard a better melody than that of the leaves tickling each other and laughing, holding on along their branches and catching raindrops as I do. This new sound, the leaves laughing, marked my place along my oblivion and clouded me as my feet fell deeper down my path.

Show; Don't Tell.

A glare. Half-empty eyes, therefore half-empty souls, glaring black at me. What was actually behind the mask of inch-thick orange makeup was a natural breed of women- a natural hate felt toward others different. Their feelings toward me were blocked by their unclear conscience, while my conscience was cleared and therefore my stare more agonizing to feel pierce through. Their posse giggling and playing, whispering my name in each others ear. Mine did the same toward them, as they sneered and walked around us. Though the comments hurt, I'd never let them see what they've done to me; I'll never allow them satisfaction. My glare intensified as they grew closer to pass us, and only do I know now, that glare could never be strong enough.