NARRATION

In writing or speech, narration is the process of recounting a sequence

of events, real or imagined. It's also called storytelling. Aristotle's term

for narration was prothesis.

The person who recounts the events is called a narrator. Stories can

have reliable or unreliable narrators. For example, if a story is being

told by someone insane, lying, or deluded, such as in Edgar Allen Poe's

"The Tell-Tale Heart," that narrator would be deemed unreliable. The

account itself is called a narrative. The perspective from which a

speaker or writer recounts a narrative is called a point of view. Types of

point of view include first person, which uses "I" and follows the

thoughts of one person or just one at a time, and third person, which
can be limited to one person or can show the thoughts of all the

characters, called the omniscient third person. Narration is the base of

the story, the text that's not dialogue or quoted material.

Uses in Types of Prose Writing

It's used in fiction and nonfiction alike. "There are two forms: simple

narrative, which recites events chronologically, as in a newspaper

account;" note William Harmon and Hugh Holman in "A Handbook to

Literature," "and narrative with plot, which is less often chronological

and more often arranged according to a principle determined by the

nature of the plot and the type of story intended. It is conventionally

said that narration deals with time, description with space."

Narration isn't just in literature, literary nonfiction, or academic studies,

though. It also comes into play in writing in the workplace, as Barbara

Fine Clouse wrote in "Patterns for a Purpose": "Police officers write

crime reports, and insurance investigators write accident reports, both

of which narrate sequences of events. Physical therapists and nurses

write narrative accounts of their patients' progress, and teachers

narrate events for disciplinary reports. Supervisors write narrative

accounts of employees' actions for individual personnel files, and

company officials use narration to report on the company's

performance during the fiscal year for its stockholders."

Even "jokes, fables, fairy tales, short stories, plays, novels, and other

forms of literature are narrative if they tell a story," notes Lynn Z.

Bloom in "The Essay Connection."

Examples of Narration

The Brink of Death

When I was 13 years old, I went on a 735-mile cycling trip with my

brother and father. My father was a professional cyclist, and wanted to

show his twin sons the work of the trade and bond with them. My

brother Chris and I were ecstatic for the adventure—my mother not so

much so. However, there is not too much that can stop three

adventurous guys.

The trip was across the San Juan Islands and then Vancouver Island. We

prepared for the trip by going on smaller trips and practiced riding with

panniers. Adjusting to the weight on a bike was harder than I thought.

We were all avid cyclists, even though my brother and I were so young.
I can say I felt like I was born on a bike, even though I smashed into a

mailbox the first time I rode one without training wheels.

When we set out for the trip, I knew that I yearned to have an

adventure and wanted to see the beautiful sights of mountains, bears,

moose, deer, forests, and much more. But I what I did not realize was

that trouble was around each corner. There were bears, inclement

weather, cougars, and much more.

One night, after perhaps a week into the trip, we were on our last legs

getting to a campsite, and going down a large hill. It was raining

moderately and we were coasting down the hill in eager delight to take

a rest from going uphill with all our gear and sore legs.
Suddenly, my brother’s front tire slipped in the rain, and he slid into the

middle of the road. My father and I stopped, asking if he was okay.

Apparently, he was not hurt too much, but his leg was caught up in the

bike frame. From the top of the hill, we saw the light of a car coming.

My father and I looked in shock of the situation. Chris could not seem

to get out of the entrapment of his bike, and now a truck was blasting

his way. This all happened within seconds.

Instinctively, I rushed out in front of my brother in the middle of the

road, and waved my hands frantically. The truck rushed forward, but

quickly jammed to the left to go around my brother and I. My brother

was saved from being crushed by the truck, and for some reason, I did

not think that I was risking my life. It seemed like the only thing to do.

There was no way I would watch my brother die under the wheels of a

truck.
My brother says I was incredibly brave, but I think we do what we know

is right. From this experience, I believe that one should listen to one’s

gut when in times of peril, and not intellectualize dilemmas. If I had

thought about what I was doing on that fateful night, my brother might

have been robbed from this world. Life and death often swing in the

balance between what seems natural and rational.

Personal essay

Violence Can Be an Answer

I was rather small and skinny, and because of this, I had been dumped

into toilets, locked into lockers, pushed around, called names, and I was

finished with it. No one was going to bully me anymore. That is how I
felt in the fifth grade, when for years I had been subjected to torment

by my larger peers.

Burabod Elementary was a non-graded school, which meant that we

never received a grade, but only a “pass” or “fail.” It is a progressive

approach to education, but the playground and the halls were not as

modern as one might expect. The issue of bullying still abounded.

Perhaps even more so, with troubled children coming to the school to

find an easier footing in the Washington state educational system.

Though I had been bullied for as long I could remember, it never

stopped. Pacifism had not done its purported job.

On my birthday in the fifth grade, I got a basketball from my mother.

Basketball was my favorite sport, though I was short. I loved watching

the theatrics and the intense pace of the game. Sometimes there was
nothing better than going to a hoop and shooting baskets and dribbling

around. It was a type of therapy for me.

The day after my birthday, I brought my basketball to school. I wanted

to shoot some hoops during recess. After only a few shots, a big kid

came up to me and snatched the ball away from me with strong force.

At that moment, something surged within me. It was a rage I had never

known. It must have been cultivating within me through the years of

bullying and mocking. Without a thought, I punched the kid in the face

as hard as I could. It seemed like an uncontrolled force made me do it—

purely out of instinct. All the pain and shame I felt powered my punch,

and knocked the kid down into a crying fit.

The principal called my mother in a calm voice and informed her of my

actions. My mother seemed indifferent about it, and thought it was

best that I fought back. I think she was right, because after this fight, no
one bothered to bully me again, until middle school. But that is another

story.