robertreams
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 17, 2007
- Posts
- 1,993
II would like the opinion of those who suffer, as do I, to make their work as good as they are able. A story I am writing was originally written in the 'historical present," but on good advice I changed to past tense. Unfortunately I sometimes am at a loss how to proceed, as in this transition to describing a town that still exists and has the qualities described, but would have to be changed to past tense to match the rest of the narrative. So: change to past, leave the tense switch, or return the entire story to historical present, as in: "I Am Born."
. . . The first such time I can recall was March of my twelfth year. Mom and dad and I, and Duane and Ernie and Julie, shared a rickety, rented, house-behind-a-house, a house with a half-address. How embarrassing it always was to add that telling half: 330½, North Oak. Though it is a step up for the Hunter family from our previous address exactly six blocks away on the “south side”, that tiny, seemingly harmless ½ addendum, immediately revealed our financial and social status to the world. Should one of us forget to add the ½, our mail would go to the landlord’s house in front. Collecting our mail from the arrogant McDonaughs, our landlords, was the ultimate humiliation.
Waukegan, Illinois, a medium-sized city by Midwestern standards, lies (lay, etc.) perched high above the shores of Lake Michigan. A long Coast Guard pier juts one mile out into the lake, slants sharply to the south then out for another quarter mile. This structure helps form a channel creating one of the best harbors on the lake, from which a fleet of commercial fishing boats goes forth each morning, accompanied by hundreds of swirling, squawking gulls. Huge merchant ships come and go, supplying coal and iron ore for the many industries which spread north and south of the pier for several miles, providing the major source of employment for the workers of Waukegan.
. . . The first such time I can recall was March of my twelfth year. Mom and dad and I, and Duane and Ernie and Julie, shared a rickety, rented, house-behind-a-house, a house with a half-address. How embarrassing it always was to add that telling half: 330½, North Oak. Though it is a step up for the Hunter family from our previous address exactly six blocks away on the “south side”, that tiny, seemingly harmless ½ addendum, immediately revealed our financial and social status to the world. Should one of us forget to add the ½, our mail would go to the landlord’s house in front. Collecting our mail from the arrogant McDonaughs, our landlords, was the ultimate humiliation.
Waukegan, Illinois, a medium-sized city by Midwestern standards, lies (lay, etc.) perched high above the shores of Lake Michigan. A long Coast Guard pier juts one mile out into the lake, slants sharply to the south then out for another quarter mile. This structure helps form a channel creating one of the best harbors on the lake, from which a fleet of commercial fishing boats goes forth each morning, accompanied by hundreds of swirling, squawking gulls. Huge merchant ships come and go, supplying coal and iron ore for the many industries which spread north and south of the pier for several miles, providing the major source of employment for the workers of Waukegan.
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