This task was about describing a single scene from three different perspectives: a detached, omniscient narration with no insight into the characters' thoughts, a third-person narrative and a first-person narrative.
Fly-on-the-wall perspective:
The room was stuffy, but no one dared open a window. The woman tried it once, and she was immediately scolded for that by her husband, so she closed it, apologised in a flat voice, and sat back in her armchair to return to her embroidery. The man was jittery. He’d spent all morning trying to write the next chapter of his novel, but all he did was start typing, pause for a long moment, type some more, then tear out the unfortunate piece of paper and crumple it, murmuring profanities under his breath. He never noticed the looks of disapproval his wife would direct at him with each cycle of this fruitless labour, too absorbed in what he had told her was his “creative process”. After several hours, he asked the woman to silence the children playing outside, because their joyful cries distracted him.
3rd-person perspective:
He was frustrated. He had woken up with the determination to spend his free day working on his novel, but now, close to noon, all he had achieved was a waste basket full of sheets of paper, none of which bore more than ten lines of text. He was sweating in his casual garb. The room felt too hot, but when his wife opened a window, the sounds of the city flowed inside, ruining his focus. He asked her to close it, and was vaguely annoyed to notice her disapproval. She had been quietly accompanying him all morning, working on some or other piece of cloth. He always found embroidery to be a rather pathetic and unproductive pastime. He returned to writing, ignoring his wife’s scolding glances whenever he cursed and tossed another piece of writing to the bin. He was almost glad to be rid of her when he sent her to silence the children that started to make excessive noise outside.
1st-person perspective:
It was another dull Saturday that my husband decided to spend on writing his novel. The routine repeated every week and nearly every time it looked the same. He would spring out of bed and chatter excitedly about his supposedly brilliant piece of prose during breakfast, then settle in our lounge at his desk with the typewriter. More often than not, what followed was exactly as on that day: he would start typing, hesitate about a minute or so, then continue clacking away at the machine’s keys with repetitive rhythm, before pausing, surveying what he’d written and then tear the paper from the roll with an expression of dissatisfaction. With each cycle, his mood would deteriorate. When I opened the window to let some air in and help him clear his mind, he harshly told me to close it at once. I knew arguing would lead nowhere, as we’d gone through this element of the routine many times, but his obstinacy irked me nonetheless. I was glad to leave the room when he asked me to silence the children playing outside. The relaxation that embroidering brought me was ruined by his grumbling and the noise of the typewriter.
Fly-on-the-wall perspective:
The room was stuffy, but no one dared open a window. The woman tried it once, and she was immediately scolded for that by her husband, so she closed it, apologised in a flat voice, and sat back in her armchair to return to her embroidery. The man was jittery. He’d spent all morning trying to write the next chapter of his novel, but all he did was start typing, pause for a long moment, type some more, then tear out the unfortunate piece of paper and crumple it, murmuring profanities under his breath. He never noticed the looks of disapproval his wife would direct at him with each cycle of this fruitless labour, too absorbed in what he had told her was his “creative process”. After several hours, he asked the woman to silence the children playing outside, because their joyful cries distracted him.
3rd-person perspective:
He was frustrated. He had woken up with the determination to spend his free day working on his novel, but now, close to noon, all he had achieved was a waste basket full of sheets of paper, none of which bore more than ten lines of text. He was sweating in his casual garb. The room felt too hot, but when his wife opened a window, the sounds of the city flowed inside, ruining his focus. He asked her to close it, and was vaguely annoyed to notice her disapproval. She had been quietly accompanying him all morning, working on some or other piece of cloth. He always found embroidery to be a rather pathetic and unproductive pastime. He returned to writing, ignoring his wife’s scolding glances whenever he cursed and tossed another piece of writing to the bin. He was almost glad to be rid of her when he sent her to silence the children that started to make excessive noise outside.
1st-person perspective:
It was another dull Saturday that my husband decided to spend on writing his novel. The routine repeated every week and nearly every time it looked the same. He would spring out of bed and chatter excitedly about his supposedly brilliant piece of prose during breakfast, then settle in our lounge at his desk with the typewriter. More often than not, what followed was exactly as on that day: he would start typing, hesitate about a minute or so, then continue clacking away at the machine’s keys with repetitive rhythm, before pausing, surveying what he’d written and then tear the paper from the roll with an expression of dissatisfaction. With each cycle, his mood would deteriorate. When I opened the window to let some air in and help him clear his mind, he harshly told me to close it at once. I knew arguing would lead nowhere, as we’d gone through this element of the routine many times, but his obstinacy irked me nonetheless. I was glad to leave the room when he asked me to silence the children playing outside. The relaxation that embroidering brought me was ruined by his grumbling and the noise of the typewriter.
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