Monday Mission: Self-Effacing

I know I let these ones go ages ago (which was great--I was happy to see it find life elsewhere), and gods only know what they're up to in the blogosphere these days; so rather than lay claim to the original, I'm going to say that this is the original Monday Mission's fraternal twin. Not exactly the same, but very close.

One of the books on my to-be-read pile is a set of writing exercises called The 3 A.M. Epiphany. There are 200 of them, and I'd like to work my way through them without it stealing precious off-line time from my actual writing projects. So I thought I'd inflict it on you. I mean (ahem) share it with you. And maybe you'd like to participate, too.

Of course if you'd like you can just show up on Mondays and (kindly and constructively) trash what I've written. I'd be very grateful to you if you did. Or you can get your own copy of the book and play along. Or you can avoid the blog like the plague on Mondays because nothing sounds more tedious than reading someone else's writing exercises. It's up to you.

Without further ado, this week's mission is to write 600 words from the first-person point of view while using first-person pronouns (I, me, my) only twice. The author of the book intends this to be fiction, of course, but I don't see why this can't be a blog post--600 words of any scene or story, real or not, told from the first-person without the use of first-person pronouns.

~~~~~

Mom’s eyes were narrowed and looked like two black stones in her face. Her lips were pressed together between her front teeth. She hadn’t said anything for fifteen minutes. Dad was puttering around the kitchen like he always did, as if making food for someone would fix their problems. He was making an omelette, whisking eggs and chopping vegetables, shredding cheese. He hummed as he chopped, like everything had not just changed.

Mom was still staring, turning her coffee cup around in her hands without looking at it, though it was twenty minutes old now and cold. She hadn’t had any. Not a good sign. She hadn’t even added any milk or sugar. Around her the kitchen was dingy—the paint was grimy and needed redoing and the tiles were old and grey and she’d wanted to replace the counter for years and she never had and she was going to say why again. “Do you know what I’ve given up for you?” she said. “All the years I’ve worked and slaved and never had anything for myself, so we could save enough money for you to go to school. And what are you going to do?”

“Shhh, shhh,” said Dad, bringing the omelettes over. They sat in a platter in the middle of the table, cheerful and topped with melted cheese in just the way everyone liked, and no one touched them. He tsked and served it out. They looked rubbery and inedible that day.

“You’re going to throw it all away to be a whore and a stripper.” She said. She dropped her fork on the plate where it clanked like a metal door closing.

I shoved the omelette away; Dad came and pushed it back. “Fire dancer,” he said.

“Fire dancer,” she said, in a tone of exaggerated respect. “Whores and strippers who don’t even have enough sense to charge real money for what they do.”

Outside the window, two goldfinches chased each other through the branches of the dogwood tree. The male was turning yellow; it was spring, and their song and flight as they chased each other was as beautiful as it had been every other spring.

“Shh, Gunny, shh. You’re disappointed, I know—“

“Disappointed!”

“—but this is Kyrie’s choice to make.”

“Like fire it is! We’ve saved for sixteen years for her schooling!”

“HER schooling. Come on, Gunny. You don’t want to do this.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t want to do this. But I will if I have to.” She stood up quickly and her wooden chair croaked on the floor. “No daughter of mine would do such a thing.”

He stood still, holding the hot skillet in his oven-mittened hand. “What are you saying?” How sweet and yet perfectly ridiculous he seemed, stunned as always by the unkindness of anyone, even his sharp-angled selfish wife.

“You know what I’m saying.” Her voice was rising now, nearly hysterical. That wasn’t a good sign. Oh, gods. “But she’s not leaving me any choice. I saved for sixteen years on a clerk’s salary to send her to school! And she wants to be a fire dancer!”

“You know it’s not like that. It’s a calling. She can’t choose it any more than you can choose the shape of your head.” He shook his, baffled and weary and scared, and put the skillet in the sink. “Gunny. Please.”

“Please! Please! What have I been saying to her for two days now! Did it do any good?” Her voice was sharp and jagged now. She never forgave anyone for seeing her like this. She looked around and found her purse and grabbed it and put her jacket on. “I’m not having it, I won’t have it. If she goes through with this she’s no daughter of mine.”

“Gunny,” said Dad; but it didn’t do any good, it never did any good at this point. Out she went, slamming the door. My head fell to the kitchen table; the worn wood with its innumerable dents and scratches was cool. Dad stroked my hair. It felt good, relaxing, like he could make all these problems disappear just by loving everyone enough. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Shh. I’ll talk her down. She won’t stick to it. She doesn’t mean it. I’ll pack your bag.”

He didn’t know her very well. Twenty-five years married and he didn’t know her at all.

~~~~~

OK, so it's 740 words and I used first-person pronouns 3 times. I cheated. But I cheated with good intentions? And it's not particularly good or well-written (the dialogue is over the top), but it was a challenge, and that's the important thing. The only pronoun I can think to get rid of would be the "my" in the last paragraph, but I don't think chopping that sentence would make it better, so I'll leave it in and cheat instead.

Posted by Andrea at January 7, 2008 7:39 AM under Monday Mission , Wordsmithery

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