First Person Twice Removed

 Check out this hilarious link if you haven't already. 
25 Things Writers should Stop Doing (Right Fucking Now)
I saw it on my Facebook newsfeed yesterday and didn't have time to read it. When I did have time, I couldn't find it. Then, by chance, I found it in my email this afternoon!
It's not just funny, but inspiring and true.



               I changed perspective on the essay I started yesterday. I really like second person. I know it's tricky to get right and you risk alienating your readers, so I apologize in advance to the three of you :0)
I just got started, but here it is thus far:

Christmas is coming and your five year old grandson can ride a bicycle sans training wheels. The one that that he has now is babyish.  It’s a bike his grandfather, your ex-husband presented him with on his third birthday.

“Did you see what I got him?” Your ex-husband said, leading you to  a large box.

On the box was a picture of a Disney bike designed after the animated car, Lightening McQueen.

“A bike in a box,” you said. “Cool.” Your eyes traveled first to the bright red block letters that read : EASY TO ASSEMBLE. INSTRUCTIONS INSIDE and then to your current husband. He was laughing and eating birthday cake, innocently unaware of the fact that within a matter of hours he’d be throwing tools and cursing Disney.

                It’s a bike you never would have bought him.

                You think back on the bicycles your parents bought you over the years. Most of them red. Most of them Schwinn. A girl’s three speed when you were twelve. You could tell a girl’s bike from a boy’s bike because a boy’s bike had a horizontal bar spanning from just under the seat to the handlebar. The bar on the girl’s bike sloped downward, away from the crotch. Based on your limited knowledge of boy parts, you thought the bike manufacturers had gotten it backwards, that it would be much more painful for a boy to land on that bar.

                “That’s not why, Brainiac,” your best friend Susan had said. “It’s so we can wear dresses and still ride our bikes.

                “That’s so gay,” you said.

                Back then gay meant dumb or lame. Back then you hated dresses and wore boys corduroy jeans.

Getting a new bike when you were a kid made you the envy of all of the kids in the neighborhood. You had wheels. Transportation. You could fly down the block with the wind screaming in your ears and your hands clasped behind your head.

Free as a bird.

You decide to get your grandson a bike for Christmas…

Here's another second person piece I started and plan to work on. I'm considering doing my next solo show on scenes on an airplane told/reenacted from 1st, 2nd and 3rd person perspective (sorry about the wonky formatting--not sure why, but my formatting never comes out the way I write it on this blog site):

You find your seat on the plane 13B, the aisle and before you stow your bag, you worry that you may have left your phone in the terminal. You plunge your hand into the main section and rummage. You feel nothing. Phones can be sneaky though. They’re not as big as they seem for one. Thinking that perhaps you had a rare moment of unconscious organization you begin to check the front zippered pockets. Nothing. You must have left it right there in the terminal on the seat beside you. You are nearly convinced of this when 13C shows up.

“Sorry,” he says.

 “No problem,” you say. 

Barely looking up you stand, one hand still rummaging and step aside to let him in. You sit back down, recheck every compartment. This is your all-purpose traveling purse. There are a lot of compartments. Shit, you think. I’m going to be one of those people who leave the plane before take-off. You wonder how complicated it will be, to exit now with the beefed-up security and X-ray scanners.  You wonder if you’ll need an escort.  An escort will take time. Maybe even delay take-off. Your fellow passengers will go from suspecting you are a terrorist making a hasty exit, to hating you for making them late. Your hand closes over your phone. “There you are” you say aloud. You look at the man in 13C. He’s reading a magazine and doesn’t look up. You feel bad that you didn’t at least say 'Hello' when he sat down. You don’t like to talk during flights, but you do like to at least great your fellow flier. He has a nice profile, the man. Might be Middle Eastern, or Italian. Which makes you feel slightly worse for not at least saying Hello. You want him to know that even if he is Middle Eastern you aren’t the type of American to think right-off that he’s a terrorist. You text your husband with lots of x’s and o’s, turn off your phone, tuck it deliberately in the front zippered compartment, and lean your head back. It’s cold. The menopausal stewardess has all of the air nozzles going full blast. The right side of your body is warming up though. The heat from 13c's body. You like him. There’s a feeling of comfortable companionship between you. The stewardess starts her seatbelt check and you notice the seat across the aisle, 13a, is empty. It’s a small plane—a puddle jumper—the seat is solo, both an isle and a window. 

You look at 13c and say “Please don’t take this personally,” He looks up from his magazine and you smile, unbuckle your belt.  “I’m gonna snag that seat. That way you won’t have me falling asleep on your shoulder.”  

 He smiles back. “I’ll try not to,” he says. 

He has a nice smile. White teeth. 

            You move across the aisle and he says “I should have showered this morning.” 

You laugh and wave him away. It’s not a typical gesture, this waving away. Usually done by fake, jokey people. Usually accompanied with the expression “Get outta here!” or “Oh, you!”

You tuck your purse, settle in. Sneak a glance at 13c. He’s back to his magazine. You like his face. Unshaven, not perfect. Hair more salt than pepper. You like his style. Jeans, black sweater with a gray stripe running down the sleeve, socks that match the stripe, neutral suede shoes. Good shoes, like they sell at The Walking Store. He looks like he’s showered. He looks soap and water fresh. You miss him a little bit. It’s colder in this seat for one, and what if the plane goes down, for two. You’ll be alone clutching the arm rest instead of locking eyes with his and reaching out for his hand with a sort of stoic resignation. 

       There’s a bustle a few rows ahead and you look up to see a late arriver headed in your direction. Sure enough it’s the rightful sitter of 13a.

      “Oops. Sorry!” you say, unstow your purse and scoot back across the aisle. He looks at you. 

       “I’m back,” you say. 

        “You sure get around” he says. 

         “Hahaha!” you laugh. A little too loud.  You buckle up and lean back wishing that instead of laughing too loud you had said something clever like ‘Yes, I try not to brag about it,’ or  simply ‘I try’ maybe narrowed your eyes slyly at him with a sexy half-smile playing on your lips. You close your eyes, feel yourself warming up again. The plane taxis forward.

You awaken with a snort and panic immediately wondering how loud you were. You look across the aisle at 13a. She doesn’t look up from her laptop. You turn your head. 13c’s eyes are closed. 

You’re thinking no harm no foul when 13c says “You should have warned me about that.”

You look at him, his eyes are still closed.