SAMPLE SIX-FIRST PERSON MALE NARRATIVE (MY LATEST GW PROJECT)

 

Growing up, my father was like Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde. He had two sides: there was my dad  and then there was the man. Dad was his bright, beaming side- the playful undercover Sailkot Palestinian. Then there was the man. The man was his dark shadow, the perfectionist who drowned his pains in alcohol.

I did everything I could to please the man. My first clear memory was me and the man working together at his store in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. He owned quite a few businesses over the years and at the time he had a beer distribution warehouse. It wasn’t pretty-just a huge dusty stockroom with piles of beer cases and a cement floor. You didn’t come in for ambiance-just for some beer and some snacks. At the warehouse people couldn’t buy beer by the bottle-only by the box.  While I swept the floors and cleaned up in the back, many a stranger would come in to pay the man so they could drown their sorrows by the caseload.

As a kid, everything was an adventure to me. I’d run up and down the aisles of stacked beer cases counting each one, playing whatever mental games I could invent to make it more interesting.  The man would yell at me to stop. I think what he intended to be an apprenticeship like he had with his father turned more into him babysitting me while running the store. Both of us couldn’t seem to understand why the other was behaving the way they did.

The man and I were in the beginnings of a life-long culture clash. There he was, looking at me playing and having fun- and wondering what was wrong with me and why I was so irresponsible.

Meanwhile I looked at him wondering why he was so angry at me all the time. Except when he was dad.  On those days, if for some reason he was in a good mood, he’d let me bring my dog in to work. Boy, those were fun times. I’d have somebody to play with and it was entertaining seeing my dog in a different environment. She would go crazy sniffing stuff and exploring the warehouse. I tried to stay in the back so when the bell hanging over the door jingled, I wouldn’t get into trouble. That was the unspoken rule: when a customer came in, I had to be quiet. And if my dog saw someone unfamiliar enter the store, she would start barking. So I tried to keep her in the back.

 

SAMPLE FIVE-FIRST PERSON NARRATIVE (FEMALE)

 

I loved Saturday mornings. The sweet aroma tantalized my nosehairs the second I opened my eyes. Smiling, I wriggled under the covers and stretched out my arms, pulling my muscles out. It sure felt good. 

Cinnamon rolls. I could hear Sister Patrice singing one of her show tunes as she bustled about in the kitchen.  Saturday mornings was our vacation day, though the Lord’s work never seemed to be done.  But Saturday was family time-when friends or relatives could visit and when all the sisters would settle down from their outreach projects or vows of seclusion to sit and break bread together. I, for once, was looking forward to the day ahead.

Those cinnamon rolls made this place feel like home, which is why I loved Saturday mornings so much. Usually the Convent air was chilly, damp, musty and silent.  Rarely were there any apple pies baking in the oven. But Patrice was really into cooking. I never saw her as happy as when she was slicing and dicing in the kitchen. She took a vow of poverty which directed her creative efforts to fundraising and charity-anything to give money and possessions away.

As I pulled myself out of bed, I looked around my room. It wasn’t anything like a dedicated Sister’s should be. To most people it was pretty drab, but in that world it was borderline “worldly”.  I had a crate underneath my writing desk that was stacked with CDs and books. (Granted the CDs were mostly Christian  music). Sister Agnes wasn’t too fond of Mike grabbing his crotch as fervently as he did. I think the last popular album I listened to was Michael Jackson’s Thriller-and that was before CDs were even popular.

The rest of my memorabilia were books. I loved to read ever since I was a little girl and that was something I could not vow to give up. The head mistress, Sister Agnes, was very old school. All personal items had to be filed with the desk clerk so it could be inspected and approved-or rejected. Two generations away from each other, it was obvious that my taste and hers did not match. I had the classics-Huckleberry Finn, Mobey Dick, Tale of two cities, Wuthering Heights…needless to say, I was holding my breath. As I’ve heard another Sister say, “If it ain’t the Bible, it’s gotta be libel”.  Apparently Wuthering Heights had some explicit sexual content to it, but me and Sister Aggy negotiated around it. 

SAMPLE FOUR-FIRST PERSON MEMOIR SUSPENSE NARRATIVE (FEMALE)

 

The place looked like a hotel. I’d never seen a nursing home with bellhops before. When you come into the lobby, the stylish chrome paneling, red awnings and gold-plated revolving doors made you feel like you wanted to check in and take a dip in the pool instead of just visiting.

The moment I saw nana tears welled up in my eyes. I was amazed at how nice her room was. The place used to be a hotel in the 1920’s. There she was, sitting in a chair by the window, her head turned toward the light. When I came in, she didn’t seem to notice.

“Nana?” I said gently, brushing away a lock of grey hair from her soft, wrinkled forehead. “It’s Violet, honey. How are you doing?”

She didn’t answer. All she did was stare outside at the sunny 10 a.m. Manhattan skyline. I hated seeing her like this. It had been ten years since she first began showing signs of dementia. The once strong indestructible figure in my life was gone, long gone.

The doctor came in with his chart. Every time I was there a different doctor was on the scene. I wanted to know what was going on with my grandmother. He said nonchalantly that it was the disease taking its course.

On the way down I bumped into Kayla, a friend of mine who referred me to this place. She had nothing but the highest praises after her grandfather was admitted several months before. Her usual bright-eyes were dark, troubled. I couldn’t let her go without asking her what was up. Looking around, she took hold of my arm. “Meet me at Adolfo’s later around 4 o’clock.” That was it. She disappeared into the swinging revolving doors.

 

SAMPLE THREE- E-BOOK SAMPLE (PROFESSIONAL’S BOOK)

SAMPLE THREE- E-BOOK SAMPLE (PROFESSIONAL’S BOOK)

As a counselor, I find the person-centered approach to be most effective.  I’ve also found that only the client has internal knowledge of him or herself. In most cases, he or she simply needs direction from an external source to aid in self-discovery, finding their own solutions to life issues. 

Congruence (gentleness and realness) is necessary to counteract a client’s vulnerability when discussing sensitive personal issues. I’ve found through practice that this congruence will set the tone for 1. the relationship between therapist and client, 2.how open the client will be and 3. how much progress will be made. 

I define progress in terms of an increase in trust established between therapist and client.  It is an acceptance of the client regardless of who they are or what they say-or may not say.  The therapy environment should thus be a place for growth and exploration, resulting in a correct empathic understanding of the subjective world of another human being.  Empathy, or placing oneself in another’s shoes, lessens the tendency for the client to resist counsel by disarming defensive responses and therefore allowing the therapeutic process to unfold.

SAMPLE TWO- THIRD PERSON FICTION “CELEBRITY” NARRATIVE (FEMALE)

 

This is insane, thought Dalia, looking around the frenzied room. There were cameras being positioned, people in faded jeans and t-shirts wearing head microphones, pointing and yelling instructions to people with notepads. The lighting crew stood on ladders adjusting the floodlights suspended over the set. Dalia scratched her head and closed the door to her dressing room. A short skinny girl poked her head in to hand her a schedule for the shoot. Everything was in ten minute increments-make-up at 6:00, rehearsal at 6:10…it was overwhelming. The only things keeping her sane were the butterflies in her stomach and the jolt from the extra-large mug of Starbucks coffee making a brown, watery ring on the dresser.

Dalia looked up into the wide mirror lined with bulb lights. Many times she daydreamed about having her own dressing room, looking into this mirror. In her dreams, she was always in control. She would be applying her lipstick or perfecting her hair as people fluttered about, tending to her needs. Now as she stared at herself sipping her coffee, all she could see were the dark circles under her eyes and the scar on her nose where she popped her latest pimple with a clothespin.   Instead of feeling in control she felt as if she was just going along for the ride. In her dreams she was the center of it all but here she was a small player in this humongous spinning machine called show business. It was if it didn’t really need her, but rather beckoned her when it wanted to be served.

SAMPLE ONE-URBAN CRIME DRAMA FIRST-PERSON NARRATIVE (MALE/MEMOIR):

 

One of my side jobs in college was working for a bank collection agency that dealt only in automobiles. My friend “G” worked there and put in a good word for me. “G” was someone I knew since we were kids, a close friend of the family. He was tight with my brother and became a strong part of the Huxtable clan over the years. As a result, I became the ninth person added to the all-star team of customer service reps.

The office was a tight space crammed with desks, telephones and aging computer equipment. It was a place that was constantly buzzing with ringing phones and guys bustling back and forth (sort of like the stock market floor of car delinquency). The job was simple- do collections and answer the phones.

My boss, the auto broker, who went by the name “Uncle Larry”, came to me one afternoon with a question. He wanted to know if I could be of some assistance to a female customer of his. Thinking nothing of it, I said “sure, what can I do?”
He told me this woman wanted to trade in her car but was delinquent on her last few payments. What he needed me to do was cover her payments so she could trade in her car.

“Uncle Larry” then handed me a couple of bad checks and explained to me that the processing time for the bank would be several days. In the meantime, that would give his customer time to recoup her losses and come up with the money. Even if the checks bounced that still would give her time to get her money up to speed, even though it would be a higher amount. So I entered the check numbers into the database and for the time being erased her delinquency status for the amount she owed. After I hit the ENTER button I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

The situation worked out in the end. The woman was able to cover the bad checks and get another car. And Uncle Larry was very pleased with my performance. From then on I became his go-to guy for assistance with all the “hookups.”

One day a female customer called up the office complaining about her car and wanted to get a new one, but she was denied for a loan by the bank. Now she was hoping to work something out. The guy a couple desks over answered the phone and began going back and forth with her. Seeing the level of frustration rising and his inability to handle the situation, I signaled for him to transfer the call over to my line. I put on my smoothest voice, listened to her dilemma and told her that I could help. “Not a problem.” I crooned, swiveling my office chair over to the computer. I pulled up her account, cleared her delinquency status and in return she paid me 300 dollars.  I then called Uncle Larry to help her get another car and that was that. The easy money planted a seed in me.

With the success of that situation, I began to ponder the idea of contracting for myself  instead of simply “hooking up” Larry’s people for free...