Working On Some Re-Writes…

Wednesday is about writing, and reading, and books. Today, I re-share a new/old story, after a bit of a re-write…

Like the man (Paul Simon) says…I’ve been working on some re-writes.

I have never been great at revision. I can edit the work of anyone else, and even have quite strong ideas and opinions around that. But my version of revision for myself used to be to just write something again. Not the same thing. Just something new. Do it again. All new.

I guess it was a good way to start out, to build content, to practice, and spend time at the wheel. To churn.

But something had to give last year. And I had to learn how to spend time with stories.

I was given some incredible advice early on in the year — a year where I wrote stories every week, and thought about writing stories every day. A year where I read so much work by other writers, and so many incredible published short stories.

There was a lot of good advice too. But the very best was that I needed to learn how to use my time. I am lucky, if that’s the word, in that I can sit down at the screen and write — something comes out. I have banished the idea of a block from my house; from my practice. I don’t believe in it. Which is to say, I’ll acknowledge it’s a thing for people, but I’ve chosen to write right through it. I see the block and I put my foot down. I crash right into it, and carry on through it.

So, it was never a problem for me to find time and sit down and make something.

The issue was trying to make it the best it could be. And the advice was simply to learn how to best spend an hour.

If an hour was used and all that happened was a few words were changed, a few sentences lifted and shift, or a new title given — then maybe that was very much an hour well spent.

Sometimes I’d get a lot more than that done of course. But I learned to sit back and think about what had happened in an hour of revision. I’d have re-read the story, and I’d have found a new way in — somewhere. I’d have made it new in some way. I had to learn to be pleased-enough with this.

I have a batch of stories now. And I guess, like songs, like paintings, they aren’t finished as much as they are abandoned. They are there. In the shape they’re in. I can keep taking them down and giving them a shake, and dressing them anew.

Here’s a story I first scratched out in a very journalistic shape about five years ago. I rewrote it and submitted it as part of my application for the Masters last year.

I then reworked it again. Significantly. Here’s the brand new version, below.

It is the same story. It has new beats. It has a different feel to it. But it is recognisably — to me — the very same story I started with; better now. Better somehow. Probably never ever ‘fixed’ nor finished. Still only ever abandoned. But this one was worked on a lot to change it to how it reads now.

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The Shadow of Yesterday’s Triumph

He was in town for the rugby, mostly. But it was a rare visit where it was just him. Not mum. Down for the weekend, and my partner was away, so it was just me and him. I was in a small apartment at the time, one bedroom and so we had a late-night-laugh as we took turns sorting out the airbed; the vacuum could only suck. And after a few wines we were puffed. Breathless. Chests hurting with laughter at the silliness of the task at hand.

And the task at hand the next day was to find a hat for the rugby. It was cold. In Wellington. (“Bloody wind!”) And after several attempts we found the right beanie. One with no branding. Tough to find. Tougher still when you’re in the official All Black merchandise store.

I dropped him at the rugby. He pointed out cars he recognised from back in the day, a Triumph Herald he’d owned. A two-door. I reached for a joke. Said, “Well that was a small triumph for you then.” He almost laughed.
Went home. Watched one of those “unofficial” DVD documentaries. The making of Wish You Were Here. Had a couple of wines. And waited. The game was good. Apparently. Not that I really cared. But it had been a ripper. And we had a nightcap. The beanie was taken off. Tossed in the corner of the apartment.

“You can have that mate. It’s done its job.”

The next morning we were up early, had the day together. First time that had happened, just the two of us, in a decade or more. And we had no huge plans. We would go for brunch, maybe a movie, a wee walk around the town. I was dropping him off at the airport late in the day. We checked the paper and found some war flick that neither of us was particularly interested in, but we went anyway. We’d talked quite a lot walking around town the previous day. Small talk. Always. But we were connecting. We were making the gestures.
“We’ll grab some brunch after the movie,” he said. Oddly, whispering that to me when the film had about twenty minutes to go. It could have waited. And on the way out of the theatre we bumped into two old uni mates of mine. Good friends. He knew them too, so they joined us for lunch and a beer at his invitation. His shout too.

When they left, he said “I do have something I want to talk to you about. But it can wait.” And I worried that it was going to be another lecture about smoking. I’d squeezed three or four in the other night with the DVD. Had a shower, brushed my teeth a couple of times in a row, made out like I was just at home with a bottle of wine only. But I was ready for another already. I was feeling the itch all of a sudden. The day had been long. We drove around the bays, to kill yet more time.

Home to grab his bag. Out to the airport a bit early. One of those days where the final appointment is really the only appointment. It holds up the day in a way where nothing much happens, and it all takes forever.
Never seen the airport so packed. Worse than Christmas. Bunch of cancelled flights. (“The bloody wind! I do not know how you do it.”) People were sleeping on roll-bags. We stepped over legs, in the simple aim to find a place to stand. Every seat taken. Sticky fingers, overpriced drinks, small portions for large prices. And stress upon stress.

The call came for his flight. And he tapped me on the shoulder, “We’ll just go down here, come with me, I’ve got something I want to say just a bit out of the way of everyone else.”

And as we walked towards the airport toilets, I was almost talking directly to myself. All I could think was What have you done? What is it now? Has a debt collector called him. Did he open some of my mail, had he found ciggy butts somewhere he hoped he hadn’t, or more scratches on the car? Then we stopped. In the middle of nowhere. A corridor in the airport. The nearest stranger about eight feet away.

“Look, there is something I wanted to say. But what with the movie and brunch and seeing your mates and the car-ride and this and that and the rugby...”
“Fuck! What is it? What have I done now?” I cut in.
“No, it’s not you. It’s been great to catch up. Yesterday was nice. Look, I think it’s going to be okay. But I have to tell you something. I went to the doctor. And they’ve found this weird lump.” Something -something about a shadow. His lung. Words were falling from his mouth, and he was smiling as he said it. I think he wanted me to see that he thought he was totally okay.

The airport announcement told him he was late. He would be last to board.

“I think it’s going to be fine,” he said. “But I better go. We’ll talk more about it another time. Make sure you stay off those filthy cigarettes though, won’t you?”
And he extended his arm. We shook. And my hand felt like it was on fire. I drove home around the bays, lit a smoke. Sucked back hard.

And look, it’s not THAT different — really. But it’s significantly BETTER as far as I’m concerned. It’s more of a story. It has a better flow. It makes more sense. That’s the only way I can explain it. Those hours spent, shifting around a few sentences, adding a few, taking one or two away…they were worth it.

Here, for comparison (though it’s not strictly necessary for you to read), is the original: