John Noble (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jackofallgeeks) wrote2004-01-28 01:32 pm
jackofallgeeks) wrote2004-01-28 01:32 pm
A Literary Curiosity
Some one postulated something about the differences between how men and women write. Necessarily, me being me, I'd like to test this theory. So, I have here one scene written twice, once by a girl and once by a guy. What I ask of you all, if you would, is to try and tell which was written by whom, and then give me reasons to back up your claim.
Unless you know specifically which piece was written by which person, as that would tip the bias, necessarily.
Update: Oh, yes, and please don't read other people's votes and explainations before you add your own -- it might taint your answer, and I want to try and keep this as clean as possible.
It's Wednesday now. I'll give it a few days, to give you all ample time to read them and decide, and, depending on how it goes, let you all know what's what this weekend.
Piece One
When I was in college, getting a Bachelor's degree in English and Literary Analysis, my teacher once told me I had a lot of talent for writing, but that I hesitated. 'If you want to be a writer, write,' he told me once. It was a quote from someone famous, but I can't remember who. He said that I spent too much time trying to make the characters go where I wanted, and not enough time watching where they would take themselves. I didn't understand him then, but I tried. I tried to figure out why Miguel, my Argentinean, liked scrambled eggs more than sunny-side-up, or why Suzette, the snappish French journalist, preferred suede over leather. But it didn't seem to make sense; there was no point. What did it matter if Miguel liked his eggs scrambled, or poached, or thrown in a blender with bacon and toast and set to 'frappe.' It all seemed really pointless to me.
That's when I met Her. Well, OK, it was more 'saw Her' than actually 'met Her,' but still... I was sitting at Xandos, the little yuppie coffee shop down the street, sipping my mocha double-smooth extra creme and trying to care if Suzette wanted her stilettos red instead of black, when She walked in the door.
Piece Two
I had been working on my English and Literary Analysis degree when my professor pulled me aside with another C paper and told me that while I had a gift for writing, I hesitated. "If you want to write, write!" He urged me. "Don't try to force your characters do what they don't want, let them guide you!"
I nodded, took the paper home, and tried to figure out what he meant. While blow-drying my hair in the morning, I wondered why Miguel, my suave Argentinean, liked his eggs scrambled rather then sunny side up. While drinking my coffee, I wondered why Suzette, the snappish French journalist, preferred suede over leather. During another pointless biology lecture, I realized; there was no point. Who cared if Miguel liked his eggs scrambled, or poached, or thrown in the blender with his coffee, toast, and bacon, and frappeed to one creamy gooey mixture? It seemed rather pointless to me.
That's when I met Her. Actually, it's more of 'saw Her,' that actually 'met,' but still...
I was sitting in Xandos, this little yuppie coffee shop down the street, sipping my mocha double-smooth extra creme, and trying to decide if Suzette cared that her stilettos were black instead of red, when She walked in the door.
Unless you know specifically which piece was written by which person, as that would tip the bias, necessarily.
Update: Oh, yes, and please don't read other people's votes and explainations before you add your own -- it might taint your answer, and I want to try and keep this as clean as possible.
It's Wednesday now. I'll give it a few days, to give you all ample time to read them and decide, and, depending on how it goes, let you all know what's what this weekend.
Piece One
When I was in college, getting a Bachelor's degree in English and Literary Analysis, my teacher once told me I had a lot of talent for writing, but that I hesitated. 'If you want to be a writer, write,' he told me once. It was a quote from someone famous, but I can't remember who. He said that I spent too much time trying to make the characters go where I wanted, and not enough time watching where they would take themselves. I didn't understand him then, but I tried. I tried to figure out why Miguel, my Argentinean, liked scrambled eggs more than sunny-side-up, or why Suzette, the snappish French journalist, preferred suede over leather. But it didn't seem to make sense; there was no point. What did it matter if Miguel liked his eggs scrambled, or poached, or thrown in a blender with bacon and toast and set to 'frappe.' It all seemed really pointless to me.
That's when I met Her. Well, OK, it was more 'saw Her' than actually 'met Her,' but still... I was sitting at Xandos, the little yuppie coffee shop down the street, sipping my mocha double-smooth extra creme and trying to care if Suzette wanted her stilettos red instead of black, when She walked in the door.
Piece Two
I had been working on my English and Literary Analysis degree when my professor pulled me aside with another C paper and told me that while I had a gift for writing, I hesitated. "If you want to write, write!" He urged me. "Don't try to force your characters do what they don't want, let them guide you!"
I nodded, took the paper home, and tried to figure out what he meant. While blow-drying my hair in the morning, I wondered why Miguel, my suave Argentinean, liked his eggs scrambled rather then sunny side up. While drinking my coffee, I wondered why Suzette, the snappish French journalist, preferred suede over leather. During another pointless biology lecture, I realized; there was no point. Who cared if Miguel liked his eggs scrambled, or poached, or thrown in the blender with his coffee, toast, and bacon, and frappeed to one creamy gooey mixture? It seemed rather pointless to me.
That's when I met Her. Actually, it's more of 'saw Her,' that actually 'met,' but still...
I was sitting in Xandos, this little yuppie coffee shop down the street, sipping my mocha double-smooth extra creme, and trying to decide if Suzette cared that her stilettos were black instead of red, when She walked in the door.
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But my initial thoughts on these two samples... The first one had a structure that was more explanatory where the second one was more matter of fact. And the bit at the end about the stilettos. I guess the feel of the first one just felt like a female's writing style.
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