Stone, wood . . . and words – change with time.

Here’s the opening paragraph from a short story, Not Your Home, that I am working on.

I live with the ghost of a wife who died too young and too slow. A disease with a complicated name ate away at her nervous system until she, literally, twitched to death. Ghost Wife follows me around her house. I walk her footsteps across the polished wooden floors. In the bright kitchen, I use the stainless steel pot with the wobbly handle, the one she used to make warming, winter stews. The fragrant freesias I picked from a forgotten corner of the garden, where she planted them, sit in her favourite vase in the centre of the smoky glass table she chose from an expensive furniture shop. She thought it was classy, Paul says.

Here’s another opening paragraph from a short story, Middle Brother, that I’ve finished . . or at least think I have.

Stop going on about that bloody duck.

Mum turned and glared at all three of us even though Skids was the one doing all the whinging. I said nothing. Skids stuck out his bottom lip. He’d done everything right. The old rusty bath was topped up with water every day and the bird was locked in its cage at night so pythons, eagles, dogs and anything else that liked to eat ducks couldn’t get to it. Still, despite all this, The Duck was dead. I kept my mouth shut.

The difference between the two paragraphs is time. One is new and raw. The other has had my tampering hands all over it.

Do writers ever feel happy with their work? Do they look back at a story they wrote ten years ago, read it and think – that’s exactly what I meant and I’ve expressed it perfectly?

I suspect not. Not often anyway.

When I read past stories I’ve written I cringe – not all the time – but nearly. It isn’t about being harsh on myself but about developing as a writer. Not only developing the way I use words but increasing the discernment of my own work.

This feels like the key to writing better. But it may take some time.

Pic taken at 2010 Sculpture-by-the-Sea at Bondi.