Sometimes you just have to say, “Rules? No no no. F*&# rules. I’m not following any rules.”
That’s why on Saturdays, we at the Write Practice break some rules.
On Thursday, Matt Snyder wrote a great post about three ways to provoke your audience to action. He told a heart-wrenching story of a young girl forced into prostitution in Thailand. It's the kind of story that makes you want to get up and smash some gross American men's faces in.
It makes me want to do something.
But it's not Thursday anymore. It's Saturday, and on Saturday we do things differently.
Instead of provoking your audience to action, what if you provoked them to inaction?
Bangkok's Red Light District
I'll show you what I mean.
There she is. She couldn't have been more than fourteen. The john walks up to her.
What are you going to do?
A movie sounds good, doesn't it? Maybe an action flick. The Dark Knight‘s always good. Maybe Hitch.
See how easy it is? Just tell them to do the opposite of what you actually want them to do. Let's continue.
The man is middle-aged. American. He caresses her in the street. He wears a wedding ring.
You should probably do something. Say something to the man. Kick his face in.
But you're hungry, right? KFC's down the road. You could hit up some pad thai. Damn, Thai food is good.
It is her first time.
Hell, why not just leave Thailand altogether, anyway. It's too stinking hot! Go home, lie back on the couch, and play some Halo. Sounds like a good evening.
Don't do anything to help a girl about to lose her dignity. Don't stop a man from shaming himself. Don't do anything.
What's the point? There are thousands just like her anyway.
It has a certain power to it, right? As if by telling people to do the opposite, it makes what you actually should do so much more obvious.
It's all about contrast. In writing, as in art, the more contrast you create, the more attention it grabs.
PRACTICE
Now, you try it. As before, think of an injustice you've witnessed. Describe it, then encourage people to NOT do something about it. Write for fifteen minutes, then post your practice in the comments. I hope you have a terrible time!
He followed us around in overalls, no shirt, his bare black chest turned a chalky tan from the dirt. We took his glue bottle but he had another one stashed in his pocket. We took that one, too. He shrugged. He would get another for a nickel. Less than the price of food.
His name was John.
The street kids got the glue from shoe stores, but it was illegal to sell to them. They’d pool their money, put one of the older kids in some half decent clothes, and send him to be their “representative.” Sometimes he wouldn’t come back with the money. If he did swindle them, though, he’d have to skip town. Street kids have a memory for that sort of thing.
The glue, they said, makes them think quicker. It hides their inhibitions. It is what allows them to steal, to run in and out of a store without getting caught by the shop owner. It allows them to sort through the dump, to eat garbage without getting sick. I met a man who had come out of it. He’d gone on to start a center for street kids. He said he sniffed glue when he was on the streets. Why? I asked. Because you’re not a real street kid unless you sniff glue.
Meanwhile, John was following us into the internet cafe. “We’ll see you tomorrow, John,” we said. But he stayed. The shopkeeper ran him out. John turned and was gone.
What should you do?
Do nothing.
These kids are beyond hope. Beyond help. Do nothing. They will die and we will be rid of them.
Do nothing.
They should know, by now, how to survive on the streets. Maybe they can be trash sweepers someday. If they live that long. The man said they rarely make it past eighteen.
Do nothing.
They can’t be helped. They want to live on the street. Why would you deprive them of their home? Their glue? Who are you to deny them, just a white boy.
No, go back to your games, your A/C, your obesity. Do nothing. Nothing matters anyway.
Fifteen lousy pips, he thought to himself. Who can make a living off fifteen pips. That Mike would set up the reservation for ten people, take him away from the floor, take Omar away from the floor, and all the others, all for fifteen goddamn pips. Mike wouldn’t know a fish if it hit him in the face. Screw Mike. He was done with Mike.
He stepped into the street and crossed over. Halfway up the block in the recess of a closed garage door he saw them, her facing the sidewalk, him with his back to the street, hulking over her and pressing his groin into hers, pinning her. At first he thought it was love. As he drew closer, her brown eyes locked his. Help me, she mouthed silently, strands of his black hair laying across her lips.
He shoved his hands deeper into his pants pockets and stepped into the next street. Goddamn Mike, he said silently. He never did know how to see a deal.
He turned left on 15th. A ribbed dog nosed a pile of garbage. Half a block ahead a cop hovered over a parking ticket. He hunched his shoulders against the cold and kept on marching home.
This is great Mark. I love his voice, even if he is an ass. What if you added some inner dialogue?
“Help me, she mouthed silently, strands of his black hair laying across her lips.”
…
Should he? Should he help her? He saw her trying to push him off, but the was too big. The guy was too big. And she probably deserved it anyhow. Probably was asking for it. Those kind of women are always asking for it. Let him have her, a lesson to her. It was too cold anyhow.
Maybe this works —
_______________
… Help me, she mouthed silently, strands of his black hair laying across her lips.
Tom froze, and with him, the sound of his footsteps. What now? Should he help? The man stiffened and his right hand slowly reach beneath his dirty overcoat.
Her honor for my life? Who the hell is she, anyway?
Tom walked on. He shoved his hands deeper into his pants pockets and stepped into the next street. Goddamn Mike, he said silently. He never did know how to see a deal.
He turned left on 15th. A ribbed dog nosed a pile of garbage. Half a block ahead a cop hovered over a parking ticket. He hunched his shoulders against the cold and kept on marching home.
Hmm… I think so, but I’m not sure. I might like it without the pause for reflection better.
Hey Joe, great exercise! I thought I’d try keeping it in 3rd person to see if it would cause the reader to relate to the inaction and incite some indirect reflection. But it didn’t work. It just made me hate the guy. Maybe it would work if the guy was less of a jerk overall?
my mother told me to clean my room
so i folded my blanket and hid it in her closet. I emptied my school books from by school bag and money from my shopping bag, and dumped it on the floor. I looked at my empty desk, shook my head, went down to paper plus and bought pens to scatter on my desk top. I bought paint for my white walls. I scribbled on the walls using permanent marker, just like what i did when i was five.
my father told me to get dressed, we’re going to swim
so i gathered my bras and underwear, my shorts and tops, my jumpers and jackets, my scarves and socks, and dressed myself.
my sister told me to return the i pod to her
so i hid it amongst the notes and coins in my treasure chest.
I took her laptop and watch and i pad and i hid it in he gardern, amongst the bushes, like an easter hunt.
…i don’t know if i’m writing inaction.
my mother told me to clean my room
so i folded my blanket and hid it in her closet. I emptied my school books from by school bag and money from my shopping bag, and dumped it on the floor. I looked at my empty desk, shook my head, went down to paper plus and bought pens to scatter on my desk top. I bought paint for my white walls. I scribbled on the walls using permanent marker, just like what i did when i was five.
my father told me to get dressed, we’re going to swim
so i gathered my bras and underwear, my shorts and tops, my jumpers and jackets, my scarves and socks, and dressed myself.
my sister told me to return the i pod to her
so i hid it amongst the notes and coins in my treasure chest.
I took her laptop and watch and i pad and i hid it in he gardern, amongst the bushes, like an easter hunt.
…i don’t know if i’m writing inaction.
Amid the chaos of school corridors, injustice runs rampant and hidden in plain sight.
From the corner of my eye I spy a squabble. Two, three boys, maybe even more. They make a blur over my eyes with their running.
At one point their shouts become louder. One of the boys’ bags gets tossed over his head. I realise the others are jeering at him, running in circles around him as they play a twisted game of handball.
“Give it t’me!” the boy cries. “Give it back!” The shouts swell, expand and echo around the wide corridor.
I try to avert my eyes. Next to me, a well-meaning poster says: “Bullying. Are YOU doing anything about it?” The capital letters feel like an accusation. I can only look in two directions: at the poster or at the tormented boy.
They probably don’t even know I’m here. My presence is so quiet most kids at school don’t notice I’m there. I eavesdrop all the time.
I’m trapped within this silent cocoon of mine. That boy could easily have been me, I think. But still I hesitate. I can’t move.
I clutch my own backpack. The swarm of boys is getting dangerously close to my seat. I offer up a silent prayer: make me invisible, please. Make him invisible, too. Make us all invisible, why don’t you.
They are all gone the next second. To where I don’t know. Petty fights like this are beyond my understanding. They lack the rhyme and reason, the logic, which things of the real world have. What is one child’s suffering, really, in a grey sea of school-wide madness?