Page 5 Narrative Writing
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Narrative Writing
Organization
Purpose is developed through organization, which affects almost every aspect of communication. For example, one can read or listen for organization. Or, one can organize written responses, speeches, or representations. The ability to organize your thoughts is a skill that is developed through practice.
Narrative Writing
The most common form of organization is narrative, a personal re-telling of an actual event, a joke, or a story often in chronological order. Suspense is built through events of ascending interest much like climbing stairs to see what is at the top to discover the resolution or the outcome of the narrative. For example, read the swimming narrative below. Suspense builds from items I to V until the story resolves in item VI.
Climactic Order
I. Renauld doesn’t know how to swim.
- He is advised not to boat in the fast-moving river.
- He decides to boat.
- Renauld’s mouth is open.
- Renauld struggles.
- He surfaces and calls feebly for help.
- John frantically dives into the river to locate Renauld.
- Renauld surfaces, his face white.
- His friend John grabs his shirt and pulls him to the surface.
- Renauld thrashes in the water and John goes under.
- John hits Renauld.
Other narrative forms include histories, or stories that actually happened in the past. These include memoirs, autobiographies, and biographies. Biographies are a form of non-fiction writing that describe or document people's lives. Biographies are commonly written for entertainment or information about significant people who influenced real events. Less accurate biographies alter or omit significant details of a person's life to put a positive "spin" on the subject's reputation or to make a profit.
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Read an excerpt from the narrative autobiography "Stowaway" by Armando Socarras Ramirez (written in 1969) to examine chronological and climactic order. Click here to access the full "Stowaway" article. |
...We dashed onto the runway and sprinted toward the left-hand wheels of the momentarily stationary plane. As Jorge began to scramble up the 42-inch high tires, I saw there was not room for us both in the single well.
"I'll try the other side!" I shouted.
Quickly I climbed onto the right wheels, grabbed a strut, and, twisting and wriggling, pulled myself into the semi-dark well. The plane began rolling immediately, and I grabbed some machinery to keep from falling out. The roar of the engines nearly deafened me. As we became airborne, the huge double wheels, scorching hot from takeoff, began folding into the compartment. I tried to flatten myself against the overhead as they came closer and closer; then, in desperation, I pushed at them with my feet. But they pressed powerfully upward, squeezing me, terrifyingly, against the roof of the well.
Just when I felt that I would be crushed, the wheels locked in place and the bay doors beneath them closed, plunging me into darkness. So there I was, my 5 foot 4 inch, 140 pound frame literally wedged in amid a spaghetti-like maze of conduits and machinery. I could not move enough to tie myself to anything, so I stuck my rope behind a pipe.
Then, before I had time to catch my breath, the bay doors suddenly dropped open again and the wheels stretched out into their landing position. I held on for dear life, swinging over the abyss, wondering if I had been spotted, if even now the plane was turning back to hand me over to Castro's police. [Horrified, I watched as Jorge fell to his death; but I hung on.] By the time the wheels began retracting in, I had seen a bit of extra space among the machinery where I could safely squeeze. Now I knew there was room for me even though I could scarcely breathe. After a few minutes, I touched one of the wheels and found that it had cooled off. I swallowed some aspirin tablets against the head-splitting noise and began to wish that I had worn something warmer than my light sport shirt and green fatigues. [By now, they were frozen. I was covered with ice.]
"I'll try the other side!" I shouted.
Quickly I climbed onto the right wheels, grabbed a strut, and, twisting and wriggling, pulled myself into the semi-dark well. The plane began rolling immediately, and I grabbed some machinery to keep from falling out. The roar of the engines nearly deafened me. As we became airborne, the huge double wheels, scorching hot from takeoff, began folding into the compartment. I tried to flatten myself against the overhead as they came closer and closer; then, in desperation, I pushed at them with my feet. But they pressed powerfully upward, squeezing me, terrifyingly, against the roof of the well.
Just when I felt that I would be crushed, the wheels locked in place and the bay doors beneath them closed, plunging me into darkness. So there I was, my 5 foot 4 inch, 140 pound frame literally wedged in amid a spaghetti-like maze of conduits and machinery. I could not move enough to tie myself to anything, so I stuck my rope behind a pipe.
Then, before I had time to catch my breath, the bay doors suddenly dropped open again and the wheels stretched out into their landing position. I held on for dear life, swinging over the abyss, wondering if I had been spotted, if even now the plane was turning back to hand me over to Castro's police. [Horrified, I watched as Jorge fell to his death; but I hung on.] By the time the wheels began retracting in, I had seen a bit of extra space among the machinery where I could safely squeeze. Now I knew there was room for me even though I could scarcely breathe. After a few minutes, I touched one of the wheels and found that it had cooled off. I swallowed some aspirin tablets against the head-splitting noise and began to wish that I had worn something warmer than my light sport shirt and green fatigues. [By now, they were frozen. I was covered with ice.]