radiumgirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
radiumgirl) wrote2011-03-29 08:45 pm
radiumgirl) wrote2011-03-29 08:45 pm
Second Person Twice Removed
I like writing in second-person narrative. I've utilized it in fanfic, original fic, and poetry with generally positive responses. I'm stuck in the mud with Radium Girl, and I've never used it for non-fiction, nor have I heard of it being utilized very often in the genre (though I'm more than happy to acknowledge my ignorance if anyone knows of any examples), so I'm experimenting.
Go forth, my little lab rats. Eat this tainted cheese and let me pick your brains. This is a super-short segment from the first (of three) sections in Radium Girl that I've rewritten in second-person, so it's pretty rough, but before I go ahead and do a large-scale rewrite, I would love some insight.
I'm concerned that it just doesn't work in a non-fiction narrative. Is it weird to be writing about myself and referring to myself as "you?" Is it a cop-out? I'm particularly worried about it being a cop-out because when I write about the really shitty times, I find it much easier to write about it with a buffer between us. Then again, maybe this just an elaborate way for me to write about the bad things I've done without actually taking responsibility for them?
This actually isn't a dark segment though, so don't worry. The angst is at a minimum. I don't even cuss in this segment. (I know, crazy, right?) This is just a quick and dirty rewrite for the sake of driving the shiny new narrative around.
When you were five, you got your tonsils out. "Routine," the dark-haired doctor lady said, "It's routine. A perfectly standard procedure."
Yours wasn't routine.
Something went wrong and you had a seizure in the recovery room. It didn't hurt. You don't remember it hurting. You got to ride in a helicopter, but you don't remember that either. Apparently, you were dying. The dark-haired doctor told your dad that you were dying and he wanted to know why. She didn't know why. "It was a routine procedure," she said, like it still mattered.
You spent three days dying, and you don't remember it. You don't remember a white light or angels or anything like that even though your mom told your neighbors and your cousins and your grandparents that you did and that it was all that you would talk about when you woke up on the morning of the fourth day of your dying.
You asked her to change the channel on the television. When you woke up in the tiny glass ICU room on the morning of the fourth day, Sesame Street was on the small, silent, TV mounted in the corner. You hated Sesame Street and very carefully, very quietly asked if you could watch Barney the Dinosaur instead. Your mother very slowly reached up and turned the knob off, then quietly walked into the hallway where you saw the broad stretch of your dad's shoulders hunched over a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee.
There were no angels.
There was a nurse in blue and yellow scrubs who had a gap-tooth smile, who told you that you could have fresh pajamas after the doctor checked you out. She said you could have a bath. She said that if the doctor said it was okay, later on, she could unhook some of those monitors; the leds on your chest that you kept scratching at, the tube in your nose that felt too tight. You asked about the IV in your hand, the plastic splint wrapped beneath your palm to keep you from dislodging the needle. She said, "No. That one has to stay a little longer, okay, sweetie?"
You asked her if she could change the channel. You hated Sesame Street, you said. You asked for Barney the Dinosaur.
"Everyone is just so happy you're awake," she said.
You remember all of this. You don't remember any white light. In fact, if your mother had never mentioned it, you would have never even thought about it. You wonder how many things wouldn't matter if you didn't know about them, like the seizure. You don't remember having it. As far as you're concerned, you fell asleep in Freehold Hospital and woke up in Jersey Shore Medical Center and the three days in between and what you did during those three days, would be completely inconsequential if you hadn't been told that you spent them dying.
You were a glass figurine after that, locked up on the highest shelf of the china cabinet. Before the not-routine, you took gymnastics and played on a tee-ball team. You crashed your bike and jumped off of stairs and weren't afraid to pet strange dogs and cats because no one told you that you should be.
Go forth, my little lab rats. Eat this tainted cheese and let me pick your brains. This is a super-short segment from the first (of three) sections in Radium Girl that I've rewritten in second-person, so it's pretty rough, but before I go ahead and do a large-scale rewrite, I would love some insight.
I'm concerned that it just doesn't work in a non-fiction narrative. Is it weird to be writing about myself and referring to myself as "you?" Is it a cop-out? I'm particularly worried about it being a cop-out because when I write about the really shitty times, I find it much easier to write about it with a buffer between us. Then again, maybe this just an elaborate way for me to write about the bad things I've done without actually taking responsibility for them?
This actually isn't a dark segment though, so don't worry. The angst is at a minimum. I don't even cuss in this segment. (I know, crazy, right?) This is just a quick and dirty rewrite for the sake of driving the shiny new narrative around.
When you were five, you got your tonsils out. "Routine," the dark-haired doctor lady said, "It's routine. A perfectly standard procedure."
Yours wasn't routine.
Something went wrong and you had a seizure in the recovery room. It didn't hurt. You don't remember it hurting. You got to ride in a helicopter, but you don't remember that either. Apparently, you were dying. The dark-haired doctor told your dad that you were dying and he wanted to know why. She didn't know why. "It was a routine procedure," she said, like it still mattered.
You spent three days dying, and you don't remember it. You don't remember a white light or angels or anything like that even though your mom told your neighbors and your cousins and your grandparents that you did and that it was all that you would talk about when you woke up on the morning of the fourth day of your dying.
You asked her to change the channel on the television. When you woke up in the tiny glass ICU room on the morning of the fourth day, Sesame Street was on the small, silent, TV mounted in the corner. You hated Sesame Street and very carefully, very quietly asked if you could watch Barney the Dinosaur instead. Your mother very slowly reached up and turned the knob off, then quietly walked into the hallway where you saw the broad stretch of your dad's shoulders hunched over a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee.
There were no angels.
There was a nurse in blue and yellow scrubs who had a gap-tooth smile, who told you that you could have fresh pajamas after the doctor checked you out. She said you could have a bath. She said that if the doctor said it was okay, later on, she could unhook some of those monitors; the leds on your chest that you kept scratching at, the tube in your nose that felt too tight. You asked about the IV in your hand, the plastic splint wrapped beneath your palm to keep you from dislodging the needle. She said, "No. That one has to stay a little longer, okay, sweetie?"
You asked her if she could change the channel. You hated Sesame Street, you said. You asked for Barney the Dinosaur.
"Everyone is just so happy you're awake," she said.
You remember all of this. You don't remember any white light. In fact, if your mother had never mentioned it, you would have never even thought about it. You wonder how many things wouldn't matter if you didn't know about them, like the seizure. You don't remember having it. As far as you're concerned, you fell asleep in Freehold Hospital and woke up in Jersey Shore Medical Center and the three days in between and what you did during those three days, would be completely inconsequential if you hadn't been told that you spent them dying.
You were a glass figurine after that, locked up on the highest shelf of the china cabinet. Before the not-routine, you took gymnastics and played on a tee-ball team. You crashed your bike and jumped off of stairs and weren't afraid to pet strange dogs and cats because no one told you that you should be.
no subject
I know I'll just end up dreaming about you now. ;-)
no subject
<3
no subject
I'm pretty good. I got to work late, so I'm stuck here til 4. It's all rainy and gross, so I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts on the way in for coffee because DD's coffee is liquid crack.
I'm alternating between working on For Keeps stuff, Radium Girl stuff, and actual, you know, work-that-I-get-paid-to-do stuff, while reading Minor Characters (which might just kill my glorious future!dissertation plans) and stealthily LJing via gmail.
Whooo multitasking.
How are you? <3
no subject
Yay for multitasking! It's a skill. You're just developing a skill, that's what you can say if anybody enquires.
<3
no subject
I'm a multitasking god...no one ELSE sees it that way...but I do. XD
no subject
I do too! I shall vouch for you. <3 I can't wait to get a job... I am kinda thinking if I don't get anything in the round of interviews I am going for at the moment, I just need to get any job, not social work. I will be an office gal or anything really. I don't think my current job has any full-time vacancies which sucks.
Somebody actually insinuated on LJ that I was lazy and I thought fuck I am.
no subject
It sucks not having a job when you want one. It's frustrating. I've been in that boat. I feel your pain. *hugs*
I can't believe somebody would say that! I never understand why people get bitchy on the internet. It's the freaking internet.
no subject
I will get a job at some point, I'm sure, but I just want one given to me rather than trying really hard. I've even been applying to do voluntary work since January and that's still being processed through the system.
no subject
Job hunting is seriously the most frustrating, pain-in-the-butt task ever. It always felt like such as waste of time, to me, when I would try so hard and go on interviews, and completely rearrange my life sometimes to get to these things...only to have it all have been for nothing.
And then, I get a job, and it's SO not what I wanted.
I hate that volunteer work is so complicated too. It's VOLUNTEER work. They should be overjoyed that anyone wants to do it, but every time I applied for stuff like that, it ended up being a more convoluted process than some job applications. (I wanted to serve in Americorp SO BAD, got denied after spending MONTHS writing letters and going to interviews and downsizing my life and not doing drugs, and I'm still slightly bitter over it.) Especially when you know you'd be good at it and enjoy it and be a real asset.
Something will come along though. Eventually! *hug*
no subject
We're just on the bus now :-) It's quite empty which is nice -- last week there were so many people and I can't be dealing with people practically sitting on my lap, heh. I'd let Sam or Dean, but... Noone else!
My sister just said 'are you still emailing that girl? You told me about her three weeks ago... Don't you run out of things to talk about?' XD
We just talk about life, don't we? And occasional fangirl-related squee. <3
no subject
We'll NEVER run out of things to talk about (insert evil laughter here). NEVERRRRR. That's the awesome part about moving past being mere co-fangirls. <3
no subject
I just had sausage 'n' mash for tea and now Steph's having her obligatory cigarette before we go inside.
She's telling me about her rebellious drunken shenanigans.. She's only 17! Naughty girl.