I was told, in a writing group, to find an author i loved and imitate that style to use in an introduction about me. The first time around, it was ok. Just standard hi/who i am/how many kids/where i live/blah blah/blah.The revision was where we were to critique the other people’s intro’s, and then do our original intro in the author of our choice’s style.
A. I have never critiqued anything in my life, least of all my work. I figure other people can figure out how to love their own work better by getting a sober look at it the next day. What could I say that could top it?
B. I didn’t read deep works of literature. My parent’s and grandparents were literary genius. and I grew up with their words dripping of the ceiling and oozing out of the carpet. And. And I still loved Dr. Seuss the best. Why, then would I choose some flowery words for my revision? Perhaps I felt some need to impress some faceless people. Maybe I wanted to know if i could make up poetry on the fly. Either way, it stunk.
So I will do my introduction in Seussian style. Read it out loud. That’s what it’s meant for. It’s how it was read to me, and how I read it to my kids. It’s what I grew up on. (And, it’s late at night. )
There happened to be, once upon a new lately,
A child named Sharon, who grew up sad…greatly.
She started out squished, smack dab in the middlers
of boy and girl yappers, and several young dribblers.
She worked and she played, but just didn’t feel homey,
Even though her house held some great musicamony.
Bob warbled. Sue wibbled. The twins just kajiggled.
The dog swayed her boubilous back and her front.
The cat jumped on kids right on que, meowing funk.
The piano and trumpets and trombones blig-bleeng’d.
Mom and Pop even foisted their musical thing.
(They put us in church so we all could …GULP!… sing!)
So often this child, in her room, would set setting,
And far-away thoughts would ka-thunk, just for getting.
With fingers on forehead and lips all scrunched up,
She’d imagine that world as her oyster, and FLUP!!
She’d write them down, scrib’ling any way she saw fit,
On walls, or on paper. Pig latin, Sanskrit!
She’d write them. She’d read them. She’d store em and freeze them.
But always the thinking would go on and on.
Whizzing and crunkling it’s storified song,
(Faster than Pop, driving ’round without Mom!)
So she wrote out her stories, her poems, her thoughts
Pretty soon on Pop’s ‘puter mick-do-hickey-box.
Her angst and her anger, her wonders and worries
Met the freedom of screen, and her eyes soon got blurries.
She wrote of her home, and she wrote of her future.
of siblings, and anger and yammering droolers.
Until, at last, came a big chance to get out.
To see the wide world and go out and about.
So, she went to big cities, to skylines, to urbans.
She forgot about stories because Hey! she had burbons!
The partying, jobbing, and marriage and kid.
It all moved on fastly, her time they all bid.
Till 20 years went, and she started to think,
“With so much amazing-ness, odd-ness and stink,
shouldn’t I put this in writing?” She blinked.
“I’d remember it more when my thinker’d untrim’d,
with wrinkles and oldness and head giv’n in.”
So she looked online just about where, then, to start.
And decided she needed to pick thoughts apart.
A writing group’s great for that kind of ka-picking.
They pick you and stick you, and build you, till grinning…
you have your hard skin and you new sense of style.
Not to mention the fact that the writings will pile.
The writings will pile and the styles will style.
So… when grinning, make sure to get gunk out of teeth
Cause that kind of stuff is not good to bequeath.
Enough for right now. I am barely awake!
But in Seuss or no Seuss, it’s the style I’ll fake.