I’ve just begun writing. My first book was an eruption of expression resulting from a suppression of two decades of yearning to become a writer. But now, as I embark on writing my second book, I want to refine my writing skills and become a better writer. So I gave myself fifteen awesome writing drills — no shortcuts, no cheating. Here is the second one.
Exercise 2 — Voice Deep Dive
Goal: Create a narrative voice inseparable from the POV character — diction, rhythm, metaphor, syntax.
Prompt: Return to the childhood home after years away: meticulous, control-obsessed POV.
Target Length: 1,000 words
I turned the corner and expected to see the banyan tree, but only a fat stump stuck out of the ground where it once stood proud, holding up the sky. My childhood home; it was visible now, across the two square gardens, beyond the metal spear fence, the ground floor in the ultra-low-income housing block. Everything felt familiar, and yet so dilapidated, so alien. The gardens were filled with trees I hadn’t seen before, hadn’t climbed or played on. The boundary walls to the garden were black, covered in moss. The path that led to my home, the paver blocks that marked it, were broken, and in some places missing altogether. I looked at myself, my freshly pressed linen shirt, my straight cut pants, the immaculate shine on my Oxford shoes, and my brown leather bag, and then I looked around. I was an alien of exactness in that world of taint and dilapidation.
I was in front of the door of my childhood home. It was covered in brown sun mica, with the most unusual wavy patterns I had ever seen. It looked cheap; it was cheap. I stood there several minutes thinking whether I should go in or just leave and book a hotel room. I could ask her to meet me at the hotel. I could’ve done that, but I didn’t. I was foolish. I wasn’t prepared for what was about to happen next. I knocked on the door, and it tapped hollowly under my knuckles. So odd, so weird, I thought, doors weren’t supposed to sound like that. That’s when I heard her, dropping something, a kitchen vessel, I think, and the rushing about the tiny home, getting to the door. She opened the door and beamed a big smile. Mother had aged, her clothes were old, her hair that fake sheen less black from cheap hair dyes, her smile lopsided, maybe she’d lost a few teeth.
“It’s me!” I stuck my hands up and announced.
“Oh, come in, come in, son!” She opened the first door, then a second metal one behind the first door.
“Why do you have two doors?”
“Oh, one can’t be too careful these days. There have been too many break-ins in the last few years. And I live alone, and I get scared easily.”
I stepped into the tiny house and was immediately caught by the darkness. Unbearable. I turned on the lights. My eyes hurt immediately. Two very bright, very brash fluorescent tube lights came on, flooding the living room in industrial whiteness. And that’s when I saw it. It was like garbage strewn on the beach after a storm. There were things, big and small, mostly made of plastic, stuffed into every corner of the room. There were old books and novels, swollen, yellow, and musty, stacked in the corners. The ceiling was dripping, black spots marking the assault of the rainwater. There were several diaries kept on the short, gaudy coffee table, disused, years or even decades old. There were plastic trays filled with cheap Chinese-made electronics, most of which were already spoiled by the highly humid air. There was a heavy dankness that surrounded that place. The house, my childhood home, was this place, but yet, it felt as if I hadn’t grown up here, and yet it was exactly this place where I spent all my growing years. The living room, not more than 100 square feet, was connected to a small bedroom, another 100 square feet, which opened to a kitchen and toilet. The whole apartment, not measuring over 250 square feet, was shaped like an angry ‘C’.
I looked at my shoes. It represented the world of order and neatness that I came from in the sterile white light of the fluorescent lights. And then I noticed it, grime on my shoes. I panicked; these were expensive shoes. They had never stepped on anything hard, uneven, dusty, or slimy, but now, they had to endure all that I had to, only with superlative intensity.
I couldn’t help it. I put my bag away, took off my shoes, and stowed them in a relatively clean corner of the living room. I folded my sleeves and stood there watching exasperated, wondering where should I begin. Maybe the wooden bookshelf, but there was a thin layer of white fuzzy fungus growing on it, and the books inside looked as if they were going to crumble in my hands, spilling out deadly spores that would parasitize my lungs. Or I could begin with the showcase with the corroded picture frames, and spoilt photos in them, or I could begin by throwing out the million tiny things in those plastic trays.
The plastic trays, that’s where I began. A tiny speaker, a small doll missing her hands, hair bands, lots of them, too many, nail cutters, a wooden hand, unbelievable, a small bluetooth speaker, several pairs of headphones, a mobile stand, a broken digital clock, a working analogue clock, hair clips, too many of them, in neon colors that hurt the eyes. I wondered if I should keep some of it, maybe she needed it. But I quickly realized, it was all disused for quite a bit of time. It all had to go. I started with the plastic trays and began throwing their wares in the corner of the living room, but then realized why I needed to keep the plastic trays, so I threw them too into the pile, which was beginning to grow.
Mother walked back and stood there with two cups of tea, served in steel glasses — why steel glasses — her mouth agape. She let out a shriek.
‘What are you doing, son? Have you gone mad?’
‘Erm, it’s all so dirty… And there are things, everywhere, overflowing, angry, and unnecessary. I couldn’t help myself, Mother. I must do this, I must.’ I was shaking, visibly. Sweat dripped down my temples. My shirt clung to my wet back.
‘I don’t live like this. I live in a house where everything has a designated place, just like everything else on this planet. But this is chaos, pure, unadulterated disorder. I must take care of this. Only then will you find happiness. You know what I mean, right?’
‘You mean, you will find happiness?’
‘Erm… no, I mean, yes, I will feel better, too, but you will, too.’
My hands hadn’t stopped even as I argued with her about why I had to organize the place and throw out all that was not needed, and designate a place for everything. Everything must have a place, a pre-ordained, pre-appointed place in this world. Breaking it was nothing short of a catastrophe. It must be done. I must do it, I must!