First and Third Person Assignment

In no fewer than 400 words total, write the same scene twice: once in first-person point of view, and once in third-person.

It’s easy to hide what I’m feeling. Actually, I wouldn’t exactly say “easy” but when you don’t tell anyone the full story, what else do they really have to go on besides the way that you’re acting? Exactly. I had my time of mourning and trust me, I used it well. There comes a point where you just can’t cry anymore. I didn’t believe that it existed, but it did. I got it out of my system and now when I smile, I don’t feel as if I’m faking it. It might not be as genuine as it used to be; it might not be as wide; but it’s there and it’s mine.

            I looked up from my notebook, not realizing how long I’d been writing for. My watch read 4:05. That was at least 45 minutes. My professor once told me about the 15-minute rule: you write non-stop for 15 minutes, no matter what. So, even if you couldn’t think of anything, you just kept writing. That’s what I was trying to do…but I guess the 15-minute rule got the best of me today…I can’t believe 45 minutes had already passed. I looked back down at my spiraling script. I hadn’t written about the accident yet. I was almost too afraid to write about it. The line between what was real and what I’d told everyone was starting to blur. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep it straight, though. I liked the blurred version that I told everyone else…it didn’t hurt as much…but it also wasn’t the truth, at least not the full truth (do you swear to tell the full truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth?). Nope.

Third person:

            Amalie didn’t look upset anymore. It wasn’t just her facial expressions, though; it was the way in which she carried herself as well. Her slouch was gone and her smile was back…it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet but a smile was there nonetheless. All she’d done for the last 45 minutes was scribble furiously into her notebook.

She never let anyone see that notebook…no one could blame her, though. After the accident, all she did was carry around that notebook. She would write in it all the time, even during class. No one knew what Amalie was writing about. No one bothered to ask, either.

She was still hurting. Everyone knew it, Amalie even knew it, but again, no one wanted to remind her.