Try rewriting a piece of your writing, perhaps just a paragraph or so, using different tense: past, present, future.

Here is my original piece, written in past tense:

Zikmund’s mother was young. His father, like his grandfather before, was greedy, ambitious. He married the most beautiful girl in the village, thought it was said she was in love with another. It was not a happy marriage.

On the day Zikmund was born, his father was out of town. It was the height of summer. Nothing stirred beneath the searing gaze of the sun. Birds, too hot to fly sought refuge in leafy trees, fish sank to the river’s coolest depths, wolves crawled into sunless caverns. The world held its breath.

The babe was overdue and stubborn. Born feet first, his hands gripped his mother’s insides, refusing to be birthed. The midwife, sweating with the effort, pulled the child’s feet as the mother screamed silently into her husband’s pillow. No one spoken for the effort was too taxing. The birth was primal, brutal; the mother and midwife both terrified, both exhausted. In one final pull on the babe’s feet, the child was wrenched from the womb. Zikmund fought, clawing and ripping his mother’s flesh. The only sound was the crunch of bone as the thumb on Zikmund’s left hand broke and his mother shattered around him.

Zikmund came into the hot day screaming, the pain of his thumb, the agony of breath an affront to his senses. His mother died silently crying into her husband’s pillow never having laid eyes on her son. The midwife swaddled the baby in blankets and handed the child to a wet-nurse before covering the mother’s body.

A week later, the father arrived home; the baby still screamed. He was carried and rocked and fed and warmed and tickled and cooed over in attempts to stop the shrieks. Zikmund cried for four years until his father’s second wife had her first child. Supplanted, Zikmund, with his thumb now healed into an unbendable will, drew breath and developed other strategies of getting ahead.

Here is some of this in present tense:

Zikmund’s father, like his grandfather before, is greedy, ambitious. He marries the most beautiful girl in the village, though it is said she is in love with another. It is not a happy marriage.

On the day Zikmund is born, his father is out of town. It is the height of summer. Nothing stirs beneath the searing gaze of the sun. Birds, too hot to fly seek refuge in leafy trees, fish sink to the river’s coolest depths, wolves crawl into sunless caverns. The world holds its breath.

The babe is overdue and stubborn. Born feet first, his hands gripping his mother’s insides, refusing to be birthed. The midwife, sweats with the effort, pulls the child’s feet as the mother screams silently into her husband’s pillow. No one speaks for the effort is too taxing. The birth is primal, brutal; the mother and midwife both terrified, both exhausted. In one final pull on the babe’s feet, the child is wrenched from the womb. Zikmund fights, clawing and ripping his mother’s flesh. The only sound is the crunch of bone as the thumb on Zikmund’s left hand breaks and his mother shatters around him.

Zikmund comes into the hot day screaming, the pain of his thumb, the agony of breath affront his senses. His mother dies silently crying into her husband’s pillow. She never lays eyes on her son. The midwife swaddles the baby in blankets and hands the child to a wet-nurse, then covers the mother’s body.

Here is some in future tense:

It will be the height of summer when Zikmund is born; his father will be out of town. Nothing will stir beneath the searing gaze of the sun. Birds will be too hot to fly and seek refuge in leafy trees, fish will sink to the river’s coolest depths, wolves will crawl into sunless caverns. The world will hold its breath.

The babe will be overdue and stubborn. Born feet first, his hands will grip his mother’s insides and refuse to be birthed. The midwife will sweat with the effort and pull the child’s feet. The mother will scream silently into her husband’s pillow. No one will speak for the effort will be too taxing. The birth will be primal, brutal; the mother and midwife will both be terrified, both exhausted. In one final pull on the babe’s feet, the child will be wrenched from the womb. Zikmund will fight, clawing and ripping his mother’s flesh. The only sound will be the crunch of bone as the thumb on Zikmund’s left hand breaks and his mother will shatter around him.

Mmm, this is an interesting exercise. The present tense has more immediacy. I think the future tense is somehow more sinister, like an ill-omen, a dark prophecy. Clearly they would need further re-writing to work successfully, but it is useful to play around with tense. Give it a go yourself.

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