I Hate Committing

I'm just out of school - well the zoom link which is school now - nine students, one teacher talking about aspects of writing for two hours on a Friday night (and it seems a three hour stretch for a couple of Saturdays).

And I'm at the stage with this novel where I have to start commiting to a few things. Which is hard for me as I hate commitment.

But so far:

• I have a character, Faith
• I have a situation
• I have a setting (Melbourne in about five years time)
• I've found my voice for writing
• I've got the whole thing started

But now, I've got to start to commit to:

• Some other characters - I have a few in mind
• Where the story is going
• What I want to really happen in this bloody book
• And the tone I want to take throughout
• And the politics of the book. 

Tonight in class we did place and setting. We had five minutes to write something, looking at the ins and outs of a place. Give the place a meaning. Make it sing. 

This is what I wrote:

Standing in his back yard, I looked over the ghostly suburban scene, a lonely tea towel on the Hills Hoist did its rounds as the clothesline proffered its odd metallic whine. It never changed. The grass was yellowed, part form the dog’s business, part through the drought. The ever-present ant hill spewed a line of the insects towards the beer fridge, its hum audible from fifty paces. It was once their family fridge. I could never grasp why he never threw the thing out. Buster sat next to me, his wet nose nudging at my hand. Beyond the yard, the back of the You Yangs were visible. Such a strange name for such little hills. Barely mountains at all. It’s where I grew up. It never changed. The squeaks and groans and hisses from the machinery found in the shed had been there since my childhood. In some ways they were comforting.

The magpie’s song would start soon. No so much a dawn chorus than a call to arms. They were relentless too. I’ve always hated the fuckers. They remind me of the malice one finds in country towns.

I breathe in the dry, dusty air. This place could never exist in the tropics. Who knows what you would find in the abandoned tyres found by the fence. Why he never got rid of them, never cleaned up, I would never know. He’s not around to ask any more.

This is not my home. It never was.

Today's Song: (Brought to you by the 30 Day Song Challenge)

Day 12: A song from your preteen years