Scribbles and Chronology

Ps. Could be dangerous

First Person: The “I” Problem

Chances are you have read (or possibly written) something that sounds very similar to this:

I looked around as I cautiously entered, and instantly I felt a chill run through me. I saw a broken window to the left, and a small, round, wooden table in the middle of the room, a solitary red vase standing resolutely upon it. I walked closer, and I wondered why it felt so familiar. I knew I had never seen it before, but something about the scene captivated me, and I continued to stare. 

Now the story seems mildly interesting, obviously something strange is going on here, and naturally we would want to turn the page. Why then, however, does this not hold our attention? What makes it such a chore to read, no matter how good the plot?

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Why I Write

Well, this is my first post, and I guess a good place to start would be to explain the reason I am even writing this blog.

Before I begin I would like to give a stipulative definition for the term Book in this post. When I say book from now on, it is a story, real or fictional, that tells you about at least part of someone’s life.

It’s ironic actually. It took quite a while for me to learn how to read. I remember telling my mom one time in particular with tears in my eyes “I will never learn how to read!”.   My younger brother was already reading before me, but he didn’t have much of an interest in books. I however, when it finally clicked and letters became words and words became sentences, couldn’t stop reading. My brother would whine and get quite upset at me because I was reading all the time and not playing with him. I immersed myself into the story and would find myself in trouble more than once for reading when I should be studying or not hearing my name being called.

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