The empty house.

Just a writing passage of a scene, or piece of a chapter for a writing exercise. Criticism is highly welcomed.

The gate groaned to a close behind her. Her movement rustled through the leaves until she reached the front porch. Approaching the door with a creak beneath her feet, she pushed the key into the brass knob and turned, only to be greeted with thick, musty air and a pile of letters. She hung her coat, pulled away her scarf and wandered into the living room. Everywhere still seemed tidy except for the brown, crispy flowers and her father’s mug left on the coffee table. As she ran her finger along the dusty bookshelf, she couldn’t help but think of times woebegone. When her father read to her as a child, she never understood half of the words, but enjoyed listening on his lap.

She entered the kitchen with a sigh and grabbed bin bag from under the sink. She emptied a bowl of rotten fruit into it and began to clear out the rest of the kitchen. She was halfway through clearing out the fridge when she heard a knocking sound. It was too quiet to be the back door attached to the kitchen, so she checked the front. No-one was there. She thought nothing of it until a minute or so later when she heard it again. She stood up, walked toward the corner of the room where the sound seemed to be coming from and looked around. Nothing. She paused and listened intently. This time it sounded like someone rubbing cloth. She began slowly edging, raising her hand toward the toward the cupboard when something shot out from behind the bread bin. After a jumping scream she laughed to herself. ‘Never mind’ she thought, ‘just a mouse’. After turning its nose from the smelly cheese offered, she eventually encouraged it into the back garden, and continued with the task at hand.

A few hours had past and the sun was falling tired, declaring dusk through the window. She slipped her coat back on, tightened her scarf, and sat on the front porch. Only the whispers of the wind skimming past branches kept her company, recalling times of with her father. She thought of how they argued when she was a teenager, for not letting her stay out late or refusing to play; often leaving her to distract herself from boredom. She looked at the old set of keys in her hand. Only now did it occur to her that all the time she resented him for pushing her aside, putting her second to his work, she realised that in truth, he worked so hard so that he could pay off a mortgage, so that she could now possess this house. All the time he was busy and neglecting, he was ensuring she always had a place of sanctuary. After all, it was not his fault that her mother was not always around, as he had also lost a wife. He was a cheerful, playful man before then.

When she displayed frustration, he would never give it back. He always understood and accepted the weight on his shoulders. If only she had realised this sooner, perhaps she would have returned to visit more as an adult. She began thinking of the rare occasions after when he did show affection, when he embarrassed her by dressing as a clown for her birthday, or putting on puppet shows with teddies, showing her the various types of plants on hikes, or simply showing her how to fix a bicycle. The memories began to suffocate her, punching regret into her chest. “I don’t want the stupid house”, she sobbed, “I just want my dad back”.

As if on que, the moment of revelation was interrupted by a curious squirrel. How fast the snivelling turned to a smile when she noticed this little creature munching an acorn so close by, as if to greet her. It reminded her of what her father once taught her about squirrels. “They are jolly little creatures, here to remind us to keep balance; to not get too caught up in life’s challenges and make time to be playful. After all, there’s no point to life if you’re not living”. She wiped her eyes, stood up, and began walking with a smirk. She knew what she would do next…

A brief reflective commentary on the techniques used in developing my writing (300 words).

 

Freewrite: I began writing a brief note roughly once every ten seconds, giving me a little time to think and connect dots. I then began to speed up toward the end as I started to suspect that the point of this freewrite is to write utter nonsense, rather than correlated thoughts, and felt I were writing too slowly. But this resulted in gibberish, so slowly and consistently seems more effective for the purpose of freewriting; although personally, I love daydreaming out of a window until feeling something is too good to note on a nearby pad or voice recording.

Passage: I’ve tried to be descriptive without interrupting the flow. I did have a little think about what the plot would be on the way to a corner shop, and had keys, a house and leaves in mind. This helped me paint a picture in my head of an old farmhouse in Autumn. By the time I got back I had decided on a history of the house (mortgage, father, daughter) and decided that a character arc would be the realisation that her father worked hard for her out of love when the whole time she assumed he pushed her away because he didn’t like her. Although I didn’t need a beginning and end, I felt the scene had to make some sense. This also helped me form the moral of the story: sometimes we take things too personally to realise the tough love underneath. The keys became symbolic of this, and the squirrel represents work-play balance. I then tried to focus on regret and revelation to bring emotion into the scene. Once I jotted enough small ideas including creaking porch, I ordered each bullet point and turned them into sentences, then paragraphs.