Write on Wednesdays-Make it Better

This week I struggled a little on rewriting a previous piece. I chose the piece from two weeks ago about the mailman, and tried as hard as I could to scrape off bad bits and clarify others. Please criticize me all you want, because I have never been very good at editing.... One other note, if you have any time, I would love for you to read some of my poems. Obviously not necessary, but it would be nice.

Thank you for all your support and encouragement so far!

Claire



The Mailman-Original

He had the radio on to some trashy station that he wasn’t paying attention to. His foot was resting easily on the gas pedal as he puttered up another nondescript street. The collar of his shirt was itchy, and his hand frequently found itself scratching his neck. At the first house, he stopped and, grabbing his oversize carrier bag, climbed out of the blue and white truck and walked up the steps.

His worn out sneakers slapped the sidewalk as he gathered the letters and ads in one hand and expertly dished them out into the mailbox.  He inwardly groaned at the advertisements which he saw so often, knowing that only he could appreciate their nastiness. He, who carried them around all day, wishing desperately that he would find a wad of cash tucked into the magazines, or a secret note on the back of a letter, just to make his life a little less mundane.

The letters were different. He loved those envelopes, which told so many stories about the people who trusted their correspondence to him. He only wished that some day there would be more, not the dwindling number of droopy birthday wishes and sappy wedding invites. Every day he yearned more for true letters, fat paper packages filled with pages of deep sentiments and secret thoughts.

Over the years, he had begun to lose hope, waiting day after day for something special, something addressed to him. His hair had whitened, his bones had grown old and weary, yet still the postman waited. He knew his day would come, and when it finally happened, he was ready for it. He sat in his truck, which was nearly as old as he was, smiled an elderly smile, and ripped open the bulging envelope, only to gasp aloud and fall back into his seat, completely stunned.

The Mailman-Edited

The achingly obvious blue and white mail truck wound its way through the sleepy little town, delivering the usual odds and ends that so often come in the mail these days. Inside the truck, the mailman turned the radio to a station of music he didn’t care about, scratched absently at his collar, and pushed down easily on the gas as he puttered up another nondescript street. At the first house, he stopped and, grabbing his oversize carrier bag, climbed out of the truck and walked up the steps.

His worn out sneakers slapped the sidewalk as he gathered the letters and ads in one hand and expertly dished them out into the mailbox.  He groaned at the boring advertisements, and gave a silent cheer for every thick creamy envelope, which he hoped contained wishes and dreams. He loved those envelopes, which told so many stories about the people who trusted their correspondence to him. He only wished that some day there would be more, not the dwindling number of droopy birthday wishes and sappy wedding invites. Every day he yearned more for true letters, fat paper packages filled with pages of deep sentiments and secret thoughts.

Over the years, he had begun to lose hope, waiting day after day for something special, something addressed to him. His enthusiasm for the job faded over the years as his own correspondance dwindled down to nothing. His hair whitened, his bones grew old and weary, yet still the postman waited. Sometimes on dreary days, he sat in the truck by himself well into the day, silver tears making tracks down his cheeks. Then, one day, everything changed. Under a pile of newspapers, he discovered an envelope, yellowed with age. The front and back were blank. Breathing heavily with barely contained excitement, he slit open the letter, and gasped aloud.