I haven’t been with WoW for long, and as
writing is a recently revisited challenge for me, I don’t have much work to
analyse, nor time to do it this week – so here’s a quick rewrite.
I have gone with the “in my neighbourhood”
piece, the first one I did as your helpful comments made me realise I had
confused some of you. Being too close to the story can be blinding, can’t it? I
don’t want to change the style as I like the way the writing reflects his brisk
anxiety. So my aim is to make the story clearer.
Here goes…
Original
His eyes snap open. The hydraulic hum, the
distant smash of glass a far away call to duty. Feet to floor, he dresses
quickly, buttons one two three four five, a compulsory sixth tightens his neck.
High waisted jeans, longitudinal creases precisely pressed. Hair parted and
combed slickly.
His pulse quickens as the noises come
closer, anxiety presses in as he anticipates the disruption ahead. Socks, then
shoes, laces left over right, under, looped then tightly snapped. Sugared tea
stirred, exactly thrice.
He stands outside tense and waiting. His block runs from Shipley St to Windy
Parade and he must keep it right.
‘G’day, mate!!” shouts the garbo over the
cacophony of rubbish and recycling. An annoyed dismissal – how dare this
troublesome invader expect response?
Machines lift and lower, coloured-lidded
bins crash landing spreadeagled in gutters and grass. As the truck moves off,
he scuttles into action, dragging them back into place, perfectly lined.
Down the street, house after house, (the
units are the biggest anxiety), order is regained. Sweaty palms pocketed, his
breathing slows as he surveys his morning’s work.
Another Tuesday morning.
Rewrite
His eyes snap open. The hydraulic hum of
the truck, the distant smash of glass a far away call to duty. Garbage day has
always unsettled him. Feet to floor, he dresses quickly, buttons one two three
four five, a compulsory sixth tightens his neck. High waisted jeans,
longitudinal creases precisely pressed. Hair parted and combed slickly.
His pulse quickens as the noises come
closer, anxiety presses in as he anticipates the disruption ahead. Socks, then
shoes, laces left over right, under, looped then tightly snapped. Sugared tea
stirred, exactly thrice.
He stands outside tense and waiting. 200 metres of street is his
self-enforced job to protect.
‘G’day, mate!!” shouts the approaching
careless garbo over the cacophony of rubbish and recycling. An annoyed
dismissal – how dare this troublesome invader expect response?
Machines lift and lower, coloured-lidded
bins crash landing in gutters and on grass. As the truck moves off, he scuttles
into action, dragging them back into place, perfectly lined, as they should be.
Down the street, house after house, (the
units are the biggest anxiety), order is regained. Sweaty palms pocketed, his
breathing slows as he surveys his morning’s work.
Another Tuesday morning.
