personality type and the written word
Readers have asked us how previous Type Writer pages can be accessed. Past issues of the The Enneagram and the MBTI are stored in the ARCHIVE.
Included are interviews, papers, and regularly appearing feature pages. But
you can also access past Type Writer pages by using the following table, which
provides a more comprehensive index, by author and title.
Type Writer #1
'Mermaid’s Song' by Jane Carlton, INFP, 9
‘Sky Child’ and ‘The Flu Defense’ by c.frost, INXP, 5w4 or 4w5 with 9
‘Sport’ by Diane Harcus, INFJ, 6 with a very strong 5 wing
‘Joey and Lisa Go Fishing’ by Dave Kramer, INTJ, probably 5
Type Writer #2
‘Aman’s Grave’, by Linda Rosenthal, INFP, probably a 4 with 5 and 9.
‘Hell’, by Malia Fee, ENFP, 6w7
‘Writing’, by ‘Penelope’, INTP, swinging between 1, 5 and 7.
‘A Tale of Two Personality Types’, Susan Geldart, ENTJ, 3.
Type Writer #3
'Under the Sea', by Anne Maxwell, INFJ, 4w5
'To Pass the Night Away/Succor and Comfort', by Paul Sturtevant, ENFP, 4
'I, Borg', by Keith Rogers, ISTP, probably 5
'Corporate Politics, (An Interview)', anonymous, INTJ, 1
Type Writer #4
'Ramblings of Mad Love', by Petra Salsjo
'Stumped', by Kathleen Mullally
'City Eavesdropper', by Frost, INXP, 5w4 or 4w5
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Submissions of short pieces of writing are welcome. Please
send them to gross@interfusion.net.au, together with your MBTI and enneagram type, if you know them. Some comments about how you go about writing and why you wrote this particular piece are often as helpful in
guessing an author’s type as the piece itself.
You can also comment on this column, or the poems, at our Message Board
Three New Pieces
Below are three new pieces. Once again, you are invited to guess the MBTI
and Enneagram types of the authors, and to explain why you make your choice. Please
keep in mind that the emphasis is not so much on literary merit as on
trying to understand what the connection between writing and type. Also
please remember that these pieces are copyrighted to their authors and may
not be used without their permission.
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Death of a Deer
Every time I tried to call it was like reaching out into a void.
What was I to do or expect? Expectations jump before my eyes and I am blinded by the sudden light, but attracted. With tingles I hesistate to act. I will never understand what it is like to be in your shoes.
I remember clearly now. Driving, fast and with determination, looking for
what is ahead. The darkness carved by two headlights, one slightly higher
than the other. The sound of leaves can be distinctly heard, rustling and
dragging across the road. The way the trees creaked as the wind leaned against
them like an old companion. The car's steady hum and rattle, thoughts of
childhood, the color of the leaves.
Only I did not realize you. I did not realize that there was another, who
was just as capable of many things. It only took a moment to reflect on my life.
The connection was hard and quick. Leaving room, it happened. It was over.
I walked back down the road. Looking. Looking not for you, but for the comfort that it was not so. I strained to see without my lights, and headed back to the car.
The moon was moving in and out of clouds that looked like bruises. The red tail
lights reflected in the road. That was when it happened. I heard a soft breathing,
but no more. I wanted to reach out but held back, leaving behind the sound of the
trees and leaves for the hum of the engine.
The Party
whatever happens it is always the same
what can be said
the party wanders
sparks from the fire leap into their hearts
warming their souls
desire is very much alive, I have seen
the wisps of smoke curl its finger to the sky
with a shimmer it changes perception
I watch closely as the party moves
bodies drift in and out
leaving behind their scent
holding on tight as desire pushes out
controlling the soul
acting without judgment
the evening as cold as the mist appears
the yellow light from the parking lot
sends out its rays in defiance
bringing a surreal atomsphere in its wake
the stars work hard in pushing through the black carpet
I walk upstairs to take notice
people without experience
pointing and poking
what can be next
as they dig deeper
till they find their place of rest.
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Booty
In the dim
cherry red ruins
of the wee hours,
a blue note forms
It is immaculate.
Like a perfectly shaped
dew drop
in the chill
morning air.
On the corner
a dark brooding soul
squeezes life
from the tip of his horn.
It rises upward,
naturally,
like a child's balloon.
The charred fragments
of a dream float by
on a sea of
cherry blossoms.
A goofy yellow sun
hangs like a big pancake in
the pastel sky
smiling down stupidly
on everything,
absolutely everything.
And even the precious
blue-faced prince
in his fathomless deep sleep
secretly longs
for the
little red embers
that can only be wrung
from the flesh
of one
who can never
be
wholly satisfied.
Who can possibly win
this kind of battle? Who
has ever won?
The end
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