Right now I’m working on a piece that is unlike anything I’ve ever written before. I’m struggling a little bit because I had began it as a first person piece, but when I worked out where I wanted the story to go, I realized that perhaps third person would be better.
I’ve gotten rather attached to the start, though. I’m concerned that if I use a more distant point of view, the beginning of the piece, and the characterization of the narrator will lose its lustre.
Today in workshop we discussed point of view. Our professor said a rule of thumb was to challenge every piece that is in first person. Not that first person is bad, but it should be justified. I feel like I could argue effectively on both sides of the piece.
I think remaining in first person would be more practical at this point considering that i have a Wednesday deadline and changing pov now would require a massive overhaul of everything I’ve done so far.
The story is called, “Exquisite Corpse,” which is a shout-out to a really awesome writing exercise that we did last year in a group i was in called The Writers’ Block titled the same. Here’s an excerpt:
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The train pulled, groaning, through Kendall Square. Wind pushed through the tunnel and rang a set of chimes, tolling like the bells in a cathedral. They echoed through the station in an eerie melody.
They say the biggest mistake is over dressing. You want them to see how chic you are, how good you make clothes work. You think they want to see you know what’s in, what’s hot, vogue, now, wham! All big scarves and chunky jewelry because that’s what you’ve seen on the runway, in Marie Claire. They don’t. They don’t give a fuck if you know. They don’t need you for that. What they want to see is your tiny waist, your long neck, your cheekbones and your breakable wrists, your collarbone and your long, long legs. If you want a painter to buy a canvas, you don’t paint all over it first. You make sure it’s not just blank, it’s immaculate. It’s clean and perfectly stretched just so on the wooden frame that he can see his masterpiece lurking there behind the blinding white.
I’m not a religious person, by any means. My family is Greek Orthadox, but I’m what my aunt called a CEO, I only go to church on Christmas, Easter and special Occasions. Still, I found it comforting to pass below the giant, disembodied hand of some saint or other. The Red trains at Park are blessed coming and going, inbound and out. So either way, you’re good. I molded my face, staring at the windows made reflective, opaque, by the dark backdrop of the tunnel. Lips apart, eyes smoldering, Mouth wide, teeth showing, eyes bright. Frown, smile. Sad, bored, light, heavy. Pout. Grin.
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