I Am The First Person

Writing in first person has never been something I had considered. My characters have trotted along and stepped into their roles with little fuss. My outlines for future works, have all bounced upon my one cell, and all have been written in third person; He, she, they and them.

On Saturday night, I sat on my bed with the intention of reading a little more from Fire In Fiction. I had just settled into a comfortable reading position, when the desire to write something overwhelmed me.
I grabbed my notepad and pen, and scribbled down a couple of paragraphs about a woman, Maggie and her baby.

The following morning, I sat on the porch at first light. The air was fresh and warm, and my coffee was most welcome. Without warning, I had the urge to write again, so grabbed a pen and pad, and set to work.

I realised I was writing the same story as the night before, yet I had become Maggie. Rather, Maggie had become I. It was the strangest thing, it has never happened to me before.

When I sat back and compared the two, the first person POV felt so right. I am going to try it. The challenge of this POV will be fun. I must remember though, I cannot see myself blush etc.

I can describe the sensation, I could feel the warmth of what I knew to be a blush, rise from the base of my neck towards my brow. I cannot describe the visual blush, as I cannot see it happening. I was blushing from the base of my neck towards my brow.

I went, I am, I saw, I was, I...yawn


This is something I must remember not to do. Too many I references.
Changes have to be made to make the storyline more interesting for the reader.

Below is a little of what was written, Saturday night, Sunday morning.


Maggie could feel the milk trickle from her nipple. She could not prevent it, and it soaked into her cotton blouse. She was cold and uncomfortable.

I could feel the milk trickle from my nipple. I could not prevent it, and it soaked into my cotton blouse. It had been warm, then turned cold against my skin. I was uncomfortable.


Final outcome:


The cry from my son had stimulated my body to provide  food. Milk flowed from my nipples, mother nature had taken control. The warm fluid felt sticky against my skin. It was cold by the time it had soaked into my thin cotton blouse. I was uncomfortable. Miserable and uncomfortable.


What do you think of the final outcome? Am I on the right road?


 Have you written in first person?