Me, Myself, and I

According to Zinsser it is best to write in the first person when writing non-fiction. The quote, “Say what you mean and mean what you say.” comes to mind at this as he also points out that you should not be afraid to speak your mind through your writing. The piece no longer becomes yours when the words don’t support what you truly feel or how strongly you feel that way. The only place I don’t use first person is when I’m writing fictional stories where it doesn’t matter if it relays that the author thought this particular way since they are taking you into their mind anyway. They do not need to state that it is their thoughts on something because the whole story came out of the author’s mind in the first place.

Not all fictional writers write in third person, however, since fictional stories can come in diary format or are restricted to one point of view to add mystery. Two excellent examples of first person fiction can be seen in Terrier by Tamora Pierce and The Amber Chronicles by Roger Zelazny. In Terrier each chapter is a diary entry from Beka Cooper’s (the main character) journal while a member of the Guard. In The Amber Chronicles the whole book is written in first person, following one character and his thoughts throughout. Both of these styles keep the reader guessing as to what will happen next and it makes the whole story seem more personal than one written in third person. I plan to write in first person a bit more and see how much of a difference it makes to the people who read it.

The Perfect Gift

I slam the door shut behind me and wait for the others to get out. The car has one of those cloth tops, brown in color, which is held up by a sturdy frame. The rest of it is a creamy off-white with silvery metal accents. The sunlight warms the exposed skin of my arms, neck, and face as my eyes wander past the cars parked in neat, although unmarked, rows to scan the erected tents beyond. Most are of a white cloth and flat topped, making it easy to see the red, wooden buildings beyond. I ignore the scattered conversation beyond and nearby as I wonder what each tent contains.

The crunch of four pairs of feet on the dirt lot follow my own as we make our way towards the first row of stalls – squares on the ground marked by white lines. The right side of the path is filled with various trailers – some with their doors open and their owners nearby; others closed tight to deter anyone stupid enough to take an empty trailer. My gaze is held by the first tent on my left, lingering on the wares displayed within and in front of it. The footsteps of the people around us is reduced to background noise as we inspect the wooden wonders before us. Large birdhouses hang from a short wall on the right, sparking my interest. I lean closer and feel the rough surface, my eyes drawn to the white strip of paper upon it. $40. Frowning, I consider it, but then shake my head and back away.

We move on to the second stall, filled with more crafts to wonder the eyes. Polished wood bring a smile to people walking by and browsing. Yet again I find something to spark my interest – a polished logs festooned with animals. Atop each log rests a solar light, like the topper of a Christmas tree. I smile as I point them out to my grandma and ask her opinion of them. Shorter than I with black hair, she looks younger than her real age. Her skin is tanned from working in her garden at home. She agrees that one would make a great gift for my mother, yet I’m not satisfied completely. I look for one bearing animals she would like, her favorites being birds and teddy bears, but find them lacking in that respect. Grandma reminds me that we can come back later, so we move on.

The next stall had no tent and instead displayed a variety of stone figures and water basins, some sporting quaint sayings. I glance at them and smile, noting a standalone dog placed on a water basin, but wait for grandma and Aunt Annette to finish before moving on. My two cousins decide get a head start on the rest of us. Both of them are younger, yet taller than me – if only by an inch. Ali has strawberry red hair and is quite skinny and limber from years of dancing. Alona is an oddity in our family, possessing black hair instead of the normal blond and red. You wouldn’t know it, however, since she had dyed it blond not too long ago. Although she is not as thin, she has been dancing for longer than Ali has.

Moving on I spot a larger, three tiered log with a solar lamp on top of it. At the bottom were some pretty stones, a large one engraved with the word “Welcome”. Near the top were two birds: one a yellow finch, the other a blue hummingbird. My eyes lit up at the sight of it and I eagerly looked for the price tag. $30, I didn’t have that much since mom had given me two $10 bills and I had $6 left over. I told this to grandma and she said she would give me $5 if I really wanted it. She agreed that mom would probably love it, but told me that it would be better to see everything the Bazaar had to give before buying. I agreed, but made sure to remember what stall I had found it in. I hoped it wouldn’t be gone when we came back.

We made our way slowly down the row, stopping at most of the stalls, but not buying. At the end of the first row we moved further towards the red buildings and went down the opposite side of the stalls we had been looking at previously. We saved the other side of the row for when we came back down it. When we came to the next row, Ali and Alona were waiting for us. Ali told something to Aunt Annette, both of whom looked much alike since they were mother and daughter, although Annette’s hair is blond and not red. She gave Ali some money to use to buy kettle corn and off they went. Yet again I stayed with Aunt Annette and grandma, browsing the stalls. Mostly I was looking for something to rival what I had seen in the first row; however, I also went to wonder at the talented works of others.

A few things caught my eye, but did not seem as perfect as the one on my mind. Hours ticked by as we browsed, finally ending near the food stalls. Many smells assaulted me, but the sweet smell of glazed nuts overrode them in my mind. I knew the taste. This is the first time they’ve sold glazed pecans so of course we tried one first. It was delicious and much softer on the teeth than the almonds. Aunt Annette was wary of them at first, since a glazed almond had once chipped her tooth. Grandma and I barely gave that a second thought and bought a coned bag of almonds and pecans mixed together. We shared them on the way to the big red building farthest to the right.

Climbing the steps I could smell the sweet yet tangy sent of apple cider, my throat suddenly dry. I told grandma I wanted a glass and she agreed. While we were waiting in line, I decided I’d call mom and ask if she wanted a gallon of apple cider for home. When I flipped open my phone, however, I saw that the batteries were dead. Determined to get my mother’s opinion, I asked Aunt Annette if I could use her phone and she was willing to part with it. I kept the gift I had in mind a secret, asking her if she wanted a gallon of cider. She told me she did and asked me if I could get her a bag of apples. After a moment of confusion I agreed and hung up only to find that my aunt had already left to go downstairs.

Shrugging I put my aunt’s pink Razor in a pocket and told grandma that my mom would like a gallon of cider as well. Each of us with a cup of cider in hand, we went back downstairs to look through the items the gift store could offer us. I didn’t find anything of interest, so I followed the others around, a bit impatient to get my mother’s gift and anxious that it could already be gone. I realized I still had Aunt Annette’s Razor phone in my pocket and gave it back to her. I also kept to my mother’s wishes so we went into the grocery building next door to look for apples. Finding none, I left with the others after my aunt had bought some bread. Back outside we agreed that grandma and I would go back to the first stall with a mysterious package from Ali and Alona in tow. I was told not to let her see the contents, so I made sure that only I held it.

I kept with grandma’s pace although I wanted to move faster, dreading that my gift had already been taken by someone else. When we went down the first row, heading back towards the car, my anxiety surfaced as we neared the middle where a road went between stalls having found only one stall with the solar lights. I asked her if she was sure it was the first row when I knew in my mind that it was. I sighed in relief as we came upon the right stall and found that the item I wanted was still there. Smiling, I took my grandma’s $5 bill and paid the woman in charge of the money. I was perplexed as to how I should move it, however, until her husband agreed to take it to our car for us. I was glad the car was not too far away as he told us of a lady who had him wandering all over the parking lot looking for her car. He had been carrying a heavy toad at the time. He put it safely in the car just as the others came back, making sure that it wouldn’t roll and harm the birds that were insecurely attached to the log. Thus I found the perfect gift for my mother the day before Mother’s Day.

Descriptive In Class Writing Assignment

As you walk into the S-wing building of Delta community College you are immediately faced with the choice of paths. The rough red brick wall to your right continues on while the wall to your left opens up to a short hallway. Turning left you pass a a set of double doors made of an off-white steel on your right. In the center of each door is a narrow glass window surrounded by a coffee brown steel. Said doors are place far into the wall so as to accentuate the large display area between two double doors leading into a large room presumably for lectures.

The footsteps and the voices of people further within S-wing's halls can be heard bouncing off the walls. Within the display are a variety of macabre art from acrylic paintings to digital pictures. Upon a black stand is a statue made out of melted silver spoons. On the glass windows you can find the labels which state the author, title, medium, scholarship, and award for each piece. A reflection of the yourself and the windowed view beyond can be seen within the reflections on the display window.

The scents of nature leak through the ceiling-high windows to your left, the view beyond which is dominated by various construction vehicles and mounds of dirt. The windows are cool to the touch, reflecting the temperature of the world beyond. Sunlight streams through them, warming your exposed skin and making rectangles of light on the floor. A colder gray steel frames the windows while black rubber prevents the sounds of construction from reaching your ears.

At the end is a clear glass door leading outside. it is blocked by yellow caution tape stretched across by two black stands. To your right is a hallway similar to the one you glanced down earlier. However, you see a large room at the end as well as more artwork. The noises you heard in the small hallway get louder as you walk down this new one and you see more people walking past the opening to the room.

Clutter and Simplicity

The words are flowing, so clutter them not
For simplicity is
Was and will be
Easier to read

Pomp and circumstance is long and boring
So cut out some words
And help the reader
Discern what you say

Rewrite and proofread; over and over
Try not to assume
That they understand
Everything you write

To make things simple, try sticking to this:
Instead of “attempt”
And “assistance”
Use “try” and “help”

Forget using “personal” to describe
As well as "in a sense"
"A bit" and "sort of"
They are not needed

Heed what I say now and you will soon find
Through speech or paper
Your words will improve
The message you send

Insanity or Brilliance?

In the case of one Fred Muin I have found him most cooperative and polite. If I had not known that he had in fact murdered his wife I would never have suspected it by his actions. He kept well composed for the duration of our sessions and actually seemed quite brokenhearted in the case of the late Mary Muin. Everyone else I asked held similar opinions and they were also quite perplexed regarding his predicament. His mother, however, informed me that he had uncharacteristic moods every now and then. She even went on to describe a young Fred of twenty climbing a tree in an appallingly undressed condition, yelling about some sort of devil creatures residing within the basement. As you would expect her husband went downstairs to look, but there was nothing in the least bit suspicious within its stone walls.

This led me to believe that poor Fred may possibly have suffered a manic attack frequent of individuals diagnosed with schizophrenia. With a curious resolve to prove his mental illness I delved deeper into the life of Fred and his family. As I had suspected, various members of his family also shared these episodes of mania although none had been properly diagnosed. However, all these memories were brought to me from word of mouth within the family itself and could not be very well verified as to its legitimacy. With that in mind, I asked the neighbors if they had heard of any of the various manic attacks the family claimed to have endured. Only Jane the maid and George, Fred’s best friend, told me they had seen Fred’s first bout of mania, but not the others. Suspecting that I had stepped into a considerable web of deception, I took a step back and pondered upon their intentions.

The late Mary’s father was a prosperous and influential gentleman of business and owner of a profitable chocolate factory. In his will I found that ten million dollars apiece were to go to his daughters and the rest to a variety of charities around the world. Supposedly since Fred had proven to be a good spouse to his eldest daughter, the old man had decided that if anything should happen to her, Fred would get the money. Fred was a business owner himself, inheriting the family business, called Muin Tires, from his own elderly father. With this new evidence before me, I conclude that I shall look into this more carefully, although now I am convinced that it is an all-consuming greed that drove Fred to kill his wife.

Marvin Zandolski

Marvin Zandolski

Family Psychologist

A Pack of Liars

Dear Diary,

I’m starting to have a sneaking suspicion that the shrink has seen through our best efforts. He started asking questions about my dear Fred’s “mania” today. Devil creatures from hell in the basement. I mean honestly, he has the strangest ideas. Why couldn’t he have just poisoned her? We wouldn’t have to pretend with that at least, just say that she was ill and passed away. No, Fred had to get his darn gun out and start waving it around. To darn greedy for his own good and too imaginative too.We finally decided that half would go to his family and the other half we would share by the way. Even George (Fred’s best friend) would get part of the money so if this goes belly up we’re all in trouble.

The problem is those darn neighbors. I overheard that the shrink questioned them too. The family should have bribed them into agreeing with us! They had to be stingy of course. Wouldn’t want to waste any of our precious money to protect ourselves now do we? I won’t forgive him if we don’t get the money. I’d rather not go to jail, thank you. Might not be a bad idea to skip town and start a new life. No, I won’t back down now. I won’t be the coward when we’re so close to getting that darn money. I’ll just sit tight and wait it out. Too late to back out now anyway, they’ll have wanted posters of me by the end of the week I just know it. So much for easy money.

What Makes a Writer?

Writers come from many different backgrounds and have many different views on how one should write. Most believe that you must revise over and over again to truly write well. Others never revise at all, saying that revision takes away from what comes naturally. I find myself revising instinctively, changing things only when it occurs to me to do so and mostly leaving things the way I wrote them. Some can only concentrate with silence; others like to have music blaring on the radio. I find it easier to write at night, usually in silence or with the radio on low. Some are night writers; others can only focus in the day. I can write in the day if I have to, but I prefer to get out a notebook and a pencil just before I go to sleep.

Writing in itself is hard work, but when you enjoy doing it, it seems easy. I find it easier to work on something I assigned myself to do than to do something that I was told to do. This is the reason why I don’t do well in English, yet have an enthusiasm for writing and reading. I’m far from professional by any means, but I do sometimes get the itch to write a story. Most of my focus has been on fictional writing, so non-fiction is something I tend to veer away from. I’m a bit afraid of it actually, since I don’t find my life all that interesting and don’t even know where to start when attempting a biography.

On Writing

Most of my writing has been online in roleplaying forums. Basically it's making a story with many different authors, each author controlling one or two characters. There is one creator who keeps things from drifting too much. I plan on making an RP (short for roleplay) soon using a regression-type plot.

In the past I have made a scene in dialog format for a Freshman English class. I have also been working on several ideas since 8th grade. For five years I have kept a diary/journal on day-to-day things which has been nice to look back upon. Sometimes I forget to write, or just don't feel like it so there are some huge gaps in it. In Health class I kept a journal on various things. One entry described a scene from a story idea I had been working on Freshman year.

As you can tell I forgot my eraser today, so any mistakes are there to stay. I believe that I am a rather good writer nonetheless. The hard part for me is to finish what I've started. Some of my papers I didn't finished completely so I didn't hand them in. Band mistake on my part. I have since decided that handing in incomplete work is better than not handing anything in at all. However, I do plan on working hard this "semester" and finishing my papers.