Response to The Book Thief and
Mechanically Inclined
I first wrote this piece in the past tense. After studying what Anderson had to say about changing verb tenses and playing with your writing in this way, I found that I liked the piece much more written in the present tense. It brings the reader into the present as if this story is happening for me - and them - right now. Below you can see some of the revisions this piece went through to reach its finalization. The finished piece is also below.
He stands there with a shit-eatin' grin on his face. His countenance often holds this expression, but somehow today is different. It looks way too Machiavellian to be standing here in the church parking lot.
"Here," is all he says.
In his hand is a brand new C.D. Really? Meatloaf? Awesome! I had been wanting this album for a long time, and there it is. In his hand. Now in mine. Excitement swells. I can't wait to hear it.
"How'd ya get it?" I ask, knowing full well that neither one of us is old enough to purchase it because of explicit lyrics. A devious glint twinkles in his eyes, and my face falls. "How? I repeat.
"I swiped it from Meijer," he states matter-of-factly.
Conflict seeps into my conscience. That little case feels as if I bear Christ's cross in my hand. Stealing is wrong. I know this. I also know my dad does not approve of such behavior or music for that matter. I almost give it back to him. I almost tell him no. Almost.
But I can't resist. I rip the packaging, yank out and flip open the case, and jam the glimmering disk into the player in my car.
"Here," is all he says.
In his hand is a brand new C.D. Really? Meatloaf? Awesome! I had been wanting this album for a long time, and there it is. In his hand. Now in mine. Excitement swells. I can't wait to hear it.
"How'd ya get it?" I ask, knowing full well that neither one of us is old enough to purchase it because of explicit lyrics. A devious glint twinkles in his eyes, and my face falls. "How? I repeat.
"I swiped it from Meijer," he states matter-of-factly.
Conflict seeps into my conscience. That little case feels as if I bear Christ's cross in my hand. Stealing is wrong. I know this. I also know my dad does not approve of such behavior or music for that matter. I almost give it back to him. I almost tell him no. Almost.
But I can't resist. I rip the packaging, yank out and flip open the case, and jam the glimmering disk into the player in my car.