I loved the biography shelf. They were all hardback books from the '40s and '50s in the "Childhood of Famous Americans" series, with titles like Robert E. Lee: Boy of Integrity and Jane Addams: Little Lame Girl (I kid thee not). Because of these lovely books, I know about obscure people. People like Elizabeth Blackwell, the first female doctor in America. And Dorothea Dix, instrumental in reforming women's prisons. People like Babe Didrickson, that golf lady, and Clara Barton, who started the American branch of the Red Cross. I know obscure and useless things - that Dolly Madison grew up a Quaker, for instance, and that J.C. Penney's parents made all their children start supporting themselves from the age of eight. I loved these books. I read them over. And over. And. Over.
When I was seven, at the height of this biography obsession, I noticed something. There was a voice in my head. A voice that narrated all my activities, in the past tense. Even the mundane. The voice - British, male, lifted from those PBS documentaries my mother loved - noted every detail of my life, and I remember wishing it would shut up already.
Fast forward fourteen years, and I still narrate my life. Only now it comes out in blog posts and diary entries and the random daydream monologues during afternoon classes that never make it to press. Thank you, Childhood of Famous Americans books, for this long-lasting obsession.
So imagine my delight last month when I walked into Reed's Books last month and found my old friend Narcissa. Narcissa Whitman, that is.
I loved Narcissa Whitman. She had an awesome name.
Narcissa made hooked rugs. So I bought hooked rug kit. I almost finished it, too.
Narcissa is my hero.
I loved Narcissa Whitman. She had an awesome name.
Narcissa made hooked rugs. So I bought hooked rug kit. I almost finished it, too.
Narcissa is my hero.
3 comments:
it's hard for me to like the name narcissa, because it just reminds me of narcissa malfoy, who, though she does redeem herself slightly by lying to voldemort that harry is dead, is still slimy and creepy and not generally nice.
however, i do completely understand narrating your life. i love to narrate my life. i like to think myself funny and entertaining, but i think that impression of myself only lasts as long as i keep it in my head. i doubt anyone else finds me as funny on paper. but that's okay.
Your post reminds me of the plot to stranger than fiction. (My favorite-ish movie)
"You write so even, so clear, both in style and penmanship, so much to the point, and give so much intelligence, that it is enough to kill one."
GODMERSHAM PARK, September 25, 1813
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