HOW TO STOP ROWDY BOYS FROM STEALING YOUR SYRUP
Tonight I was talking to Bernard. He's taking a creative writing class and has been struggling in his attempt to make a transition from third-person to first-person. It's funny-- he's got a great blog, and it's in the first-person of course, but he's having trouble figuring out the nature of writing in someone else's voice.
Here are some excerpts of our conversation.speedycatalack:
well i dont know how to do it actuallyKeefKeefKeefKeef:
what do you mean?speedycatalack:
to write like that, in first person. it'd all just be internal monologue.
I’m tired of these kids coming onto my property on their four wheelers and turning my taps, kicking my pails, making a sticky awful mess of my woods. Every few years Christmas comes around and the quiet winter nights are turned inside out when a new group of kids ascends into the proud ranks of 4-wheelers owners; every few springs when the kids are rowdy and ready for their lazy summers and leaving their tracks from my maple stand to my sugar shack.speedycatalack:
is that stupid?KeefKeefKeefKeef:
I like it. It's very.. explicatory, but it's finespeedycatalack:
explicatory, what do you mean?KeefKeefKeefKeef:
Like, it's all telling, and no showing.speedycatalack:
how do i make the person move around?KeefKeefKeefKeef:
I walked down to my maple grove. Sure enough, the pails were all scattered around in the snow. Several of then were dented and one had been stomped on, the tin bottom punched through. Those little motherfuckers would get theirs, oh yes. I stepped into my deer stand and cocked my rifle. Those motherfuckers would pay tonight.speedycatalack:
thats more like itspeedycatalack:
hes not mean though, but now i understand betterspeedycatalack:
to have him explain all that stuff is too severe or somethingKeefKeefKeefKeef:
I pissed in a big bucket and put it up in the crotch of a tree. I tied a bit of gossamer fishing wire to it and attached the other end to one of the syrup taps. Then I pulled until it was taut. The next one of those little rascals who turned on my taps was going to get a bucketful of chilled piss all over his bastardy bastard head! I chortled and laughed to myself there, in the grove, in the snow. "You'll get yours, fuckhead!" I called to the clouds. "You'll get a mouthful of bitter urine! You'll see what happens when you fuck with Old Man Jenkins!"speedycatalack:
hahaha. He's going to drug the kids, he's insane. He's not so cranky.KeefKeefKeefKeef:
The little boy looked so exquisite, in his bloodied parka. I'd tied his hands and feet behind the sled. When I got bored of looking at his vandal face, I started to slap him around. Eventually, he came out of his drugged stupor enough to start screaming when he realized where he was. "Oh, now you don't want to be here in my grove, do you, fuckhead?" I snarled. He gazed up into the tap. I licked a finger and held it up into the wind. It had to be five below, maybe ten. I slowly reached up and turned on the syrup tap. Painfully slowly, the syrup dripped down onto the boy's face. "Drink it all down, sonny!" I screamed. "Drink it all down, or drown in the treacly delight that you love so much! It'll drip slowly enough that you'll have to swallow all night!" I bellowed my laughter to the treetops, sending a flock of sleeping sparrows across the face of the moon. The boy gurgled at my feet.