Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Ode To Virginia Woolf Writing Prompt (Part #2)

A couple of weeks ago my writing class had the opportunity to study the first sentence (an 181 word sentence) of Virgina Woolf's essay On Being Ill. Here's my version (On Being Southern) of the sentence.
I've been a Southerner long enough now to claim it, y'all, and at lunch the other day, I confessed through tears, to one of the most Southern woman I know, that I love being a Southerner, even though she probably, like most native-Southerners, views me as a funny talking impostor, another Yankee nuisance, someone that will never fully grasp the finer point of things like barbecue-as-a-noun, grits or drinking iced-tea post Labor day, while my Midwest relatives and friends see my move to the South, as well just that, as if it were some sort of betrayal to the wonderful marvelous Midwest city I grew up in, these so called friends and relatives claim that after a few short years of living in the South I have started "talking funny" and beg me to tell them, then proceed to peel over with laughter, as I recount the lead story on the local news that first night I lived in North Carolina, the one where the county sheriff, with an ax swung over his shoulder, was busting-up he's third still that year.

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