How Writing Changes

I am always surprised how words and sentences evolve over time. By time, of course, I mean editing, rephrasing, altering, exchanging words and crossing out. What starts off as an idea can sometimes end up as beautiful prose but, most of the time, it will end being boring or simply not making any sense at all.

So it therefore becomes a question of how much time I am willing to spend repeatedly going over my prose and correcting the mistakes until I am satisfied? Perhaps I will never be satisfied?To invest time requires commitment and a desire to succeed in getting across your idea onto the page but time is always limited and precious so therefore rewriting becomes a juggling act.

Possibly, the above 2 paragraphs don't make much sense. Perhaps my editor is shaking her head in disbelief at my grammar. If so, its most likely to be because I don't have the time to dedicate to it as I need to concentrate my limited time on finishing off other writing maybe?

But sometimes, the hard work pays off. Here is an example :



This foreword is roughly Version 57

My father died in 2006, 78 years old. Despite the huge shock, I remember feeling that I had no right to complain when there were so many other people out there who never knew their father at all. Did I also perhaps not appreciate that the heart attack that killed him within 10 minutes actually spared him from years of mental and physical degeneration? Even if I had been allowed to play God and preside over his mortal fate, what life sentence would I be passing on to him if I let him continue to live? And yet, despite these hidden blessings, I found no comfort in his death, only nagging reminders of my mortality. The footpath of my life would forever remain littered with unanswered questions and deep regret because I never got to say goodbye or tell him how much I loved him.



Here is what it was about a week ago

My father died in 2006, aged 78 years old. Despite the huge shock, I remember thinking that I had no right to complain since there were so many people out there in the world who never knew their father. I was able to appreciate, especially in retrospect, that my dad died a “good death” ; the heart attack that killed him within 10 minutes actually spared him of the likely prospect of years of mental and physical degeneration and all the pain that might entail. Besides, my father, by all accounts, had lived a full and happy life. Even if I got to play God for the day and could preside over his mortal fate, what life sentence would I be passing on to him if I let him continue to live? Whatever the hidden blessings, his death was still a nagging reminder of my mortality. Yes, someone seemed to whisper in my ear as they pinched the skin on my naked arm, you will die one day and your children will grieve for you just as your grandchildren will grieve for them. Here's a hard slap in the face just in case you were ever tempted to forget. There is no comfort to be found in death, only a path littered with unanswered questions. There were so many things I wish I had told him and so many apologies I wish I had made. Most of all, I never got to say goodbye or tell him how much I still miss him.