PRACTICE
There's a class of people being formed today who make their living from the internet, giving them freedom to travel around the world, sometimes with their whole family. What would their lives be like? What would be the specific challenges of their lifestyle?
Write about Internet Nomads. Write for fifteen minutes, and when you're finished, post your practice in the comments section.
Berlin Café. Photo by Tim Lucas.
Here's my practice:
When the café's wireless went out, they went for a walk. They walked up Vietnamese streets they couldn't pronounce the names of, names with dots and dashes and apostrophes over the vowels, holding hands past a dozen noodle shops smelling of fish oil and cilantro.
They passed a woman with her baby on her lap, feeding him bits of meat with her chopsticks. The baby had a black tuft of hair and wide open eyes as he chewed. In the square they walked past a group of barefooted children running around, playing with a ball made of string and paper. Crossing the street, they noticed a woman driving a red motorbike, carrying her baby in a sling on her back.
She gripped his arm like she was going to faint, and he looked at her. Her eyes were perked and her lips tight like she was about to cry.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“That poor baby,” she said.
“What baby?”
“The one on the motorbike. What if she crashes? That can't be safe?”
“Yeah. You're right. But what other option do they have?” he said. “It's not like they have cars with back seats for car seats.” He thought about the car seat back home, the one they put in storage before they left. He wondered if the baby would be allergic to the dust collecting on it, if he would have to clean it if they ever got pregnant again.
“Do you think we're running?” she asked him.
“Running from what?”
A woman carrying a stack of knock-off books up to her forehead nearly ran into them. She said something they didn't understand, which could have meant, “Excuse me.” How could she watch where she was going? You could only see her black hair above a photo-copied version of The Life of Pi.
She nearly started crying again. She said something, but the light had just changed and her voice was carried away by a hundred motorbikes passing like bees and all he could hear was the sound of her lips moving.
There are two me’s. First, there’s the content me; perfectly happy staring at the same sterile walls of my cubicle, clicking away on my Dell desktop, checking Facebook and my bank balance every hour or so. But there’s also, the discontent, rolling-stone me that fantasizes about standing on my desk and shouting, “I quit, assholes!” then running out the revolving glass doors into the hot afternoon sun, kicking off my black wingtips and heading, well, anywhere but here.
Recently, the latter me told the former me to get lost, so I did. I’m lost, but in a good way, I think. I’m lost in my own world; a world where I can finally be found. I grabbed my laptop and headed to New York City. I had nothing holding me down. Well, except for the house and the wife and kids. But, you know what? They’re better off without me. The former, content me was anything but content. And I’m sure I was a bear to live with, so I am able to rationalize my need to fulfill my discontented fantasy of being a nomad. That was the best decision and I went for it.
Funny thing. I thought that when I left my past life behind me, that I would finally allow the real me to be set free and I would become one sane whole person instead of the two crazy people that constantly dook it out every day in my head. But that didn’t happen. My former me continues to harass the latter me.
There are two me’s. First, there’s the content me, perfectly happy staring at the same sterile walls of my cubicle. The shelter provides me three meals a day. But the discontent me misses home.
Love this character’s rationalization. Good writing!
This rings so true. It seems that no matter what we do or where we go, we can never be truly happy.
Wow, Tom. Great story. We are definitely in a “grass is greener” period, always wanting what we think we need rather than appreciating what we have. I love the irony of his leaving his life to be free and ending up in a shelter.
I like that Tom especially how you manage to make a fairly substantial story out of so few words.
Agreed. I love how you go back to the beginning, and it looks like the cycle could be never-ending…
I like this ambivalence Tom. It could be a really compelling story. As Joe would say to me, what about rewriting the whole thing “showing” rather than as an internal monologue.
(1) How did he suddenly decide to up and leave.
(2) What examples of the 2 drazy people constantly dooking out every day in this head?
Cheers
That’s a great idea, Oddznns. I suppose I tend to get impatient with the whole 15 minute rule and think I have to rush into my story so I can finish it within the time frame. This causes me to find the quickest route to make my point, instead of allowing the reader to discover it on their own.
It’s all she ever wanted, Maurey says. To travel the world for Ex-Pat Magazine,
sending back stories so far from the South she’ll one day forget the smell of honeysuckle. The guy who will or will not give her the job
is from New York and Maurey knows the power of the Southern voice, which she’s using
full-tilt today. They all think the Deep
South is mint juleps and wide porches and Coca Cola for breakfast, she knows. Of course it’s not, except for the Coca Cola.
He touches the knot in his tie and then runs his fingers
through what’s left of his hair. A good
sign she thinks, so Maurey leans forward.
“Experience?” he asks and she tells him the story from her time as a TV
reporter, when she interviewed a contestant for the Miss Alabama title. The girl, oiled up like a Thanksgiving turkey
ready for the oven, sat with her hands folded on the table. She had a smile so big it looked like it
hurt. “What’s your platform going to be?”
Maurey asked, expecting to hear that she’d be using her title to fight
childhood obesity or to enlighten the state on the need for smoke alarms. But
instead the girl bowed up and said, “I don’t have a platform. I stand flat-footed on the stage just like
everybody else. I don’t think I’m better than nobody.”
But of course she did.
The contestant’s name? the man asks. Maury says Ashley, and then changes it
quickly to Tiffany. That year they were all Ashleys and Tiffanys.
What she won’t say is that she doesn’t much care where he
sends her. What she truly wants is to
get away from her mama’s judgmental relatives and her daddy’s bad reputation. As for the TV job, she hopes he doesn’t check
references. She didn’t make too many
friends in news. There was no glamour in
it and the pay sucked. One Christmas she’d
stood in the sleet and told smarter people to stay inside. During a tornado outbreak, when the other
reporters were showing crumpled buildings and telling survival stories that
brought viewers to tears, she was reading the numbers of electric companies
aloud from the newsroom so that people without power could report outages. She’d been given a reprimand when she pointed
out during the last segment of a three-hour morning show that people without
power probably weren’t watching.
She didn’t exactly get fired. But when her contract was up they didn’t
renew it.
“What languages do I know?”
Maury repeats. “Rosetta Stone,”
she answers, and laughs. “Anything they teach I can lean. My gift, my true gift, is that folks trust
me, and I think if you have that the barriers of language fade clean away.”
With that she leans forward, letting her blond hair drop across
one eye. The man laughs, and then Maury
laughs.
He leans back in his chair, hooks his fingers together behind
his head. He is looking at her like her
daddy looks at liquor, like it’s oxygen and he’s about to smother. There will be a day, she thinks, when she
doesn’t have this kind of power over men.
The thought makes her heart flit like it’s trying to bust right out of
her chest.
She thinks she’ll ask to go to France. Or Italy.
So she says, her voice so sweet and soft it sounds like a melody, “This
is off the subject, but do you know anywhere around her close where I could get
some sweet tea? I’m about to die of
thirst.” She bites her lip, and the man sits up straight, adjusting his tie
once again. “You wouldn’t want to come along with me, would ya?”
You have an interesting story here, Marla. I grew up in the southernmost tip of Texas where Coke and iced tea were the drinks of choice. Well, tequila, too, but for another reason entirely. I love the southern colloquialisms you included. Nice job.
Thank you Heather. I love Texas! And yeah, tequila sometimes.
this is interesting but I get confused about whether Maurey is an interviewer or a miss alabama (second paragraph). The dialogue is good though.
Thanks Marianne. Probably too many “she’s” in that paragraph. Good catch.
This is so good! Great descriptions and characters… Made me laugh and hanker for sweet tea!!
It was her lifeline and now it was lost. Or, more likely, stolen. When she walked into the room it was the first thing she noticed, the lack of a laptop on her desk.
She could speak a little Spanish but she doubted it was enough to report a theft to the police. And she’d heard enough about them to suspect they wouldn’t do much even is she could.
Recovering a little, Lana went downstairs and knocked on her landlady’s door. She was a kindly old lady with amazing English and a very bad ear. Still, it was a start. Señora Rodriguez offered her a cold drink and sat her down. No, she hadn’t heard anything and she had been home all day. (Of course, Lana thought. Isn’t it always like this?)
She should get going. Back to her room first, to see what else was missing. Her papers were all there and she carried what little cash she had on her when she went out. That’s what cards were for. So it was just her laptop that was missing.
Searching for time (and options), Lana called her friends. She knew she hadn’t left the computer with any of them, but it was worth a shot. She had to look everywhere before giving up; the alternative was too painful. If she couldn’t work, she wouldn’t get paid and she’d have to go back to her parents’, defeated.
No luck with her friends, as expected. Carefully locking windows and door, she went downstairs and into the street. To the police station it was, then.
Interesting piece Yali. Some dialogue would have brought it to more life…
Thanks! I do forget to write dialogue, this a nice reminder 🙂
I’m quite interested in what was on that laptop. What part of Mexico is Lana visiting/living? I agree with Yvette that a little dialogue would be nice. Maybe between Lana and Senora Rodriguez. Show us the dynamic between these women. Nice job.
It’s funny that you should think it was set in Mexico. I was thinking more Southern Spain, but I guess I can’t help the bad rep our police has.
I grew up five minutes north of Reynosa so I guess I automatically think if Mexico first when I see Spanish is the spoken language. Naive, I know, but it’s a bit like home for me. 🙂
Good story Yali. It would be a terrible thing to be there and lose your source of income.
Great post, Yali! Any writer’s life is over without a computer. Been there. (Though it wasn’t stolen, it was broken which can almost be worse).
Katie
Beautiful story. The only thing I question is the last line. If he can’t hear what she’s saying, how can he hear her lips move?
Great question, Louise. It doesn’t really work, does it? You know how sometimes you can taste the sound of someone speaking, or feel a piece of music? I think I was going for that.
I was nearly tempted to say the same thing as Louise but I thought you probably had a handle on it/reason for it. Your choice of words gave off a subtle feeling…
Her blog’s title, “Killer Smile – Natural Remedies to a Healthier Mouth”, deceived its 1387 followers. According to the IRS, Serena Dowd earned a living as a professional blogger for Dr. David Danvers, the dentist who “changed smiles and changed lives”.
Though the pay was meager, the online job afforded Serena the luxury to remain anonymous and to use the blog for her real work. Pairing seemingly innocuous words, she embedded links within the testimonials and FAQs pages on the blog. Those links opened documents of code for potential clients.
The parameters of her profession dictated discretion. Public meetings never happened. Unless something went wrong. And on the last assignment, something went wrong. Terribly wrong.
She waited in the mall courtyard surrounded by the cacophonous soundtrack of hormonal teenage banter, cell phone chatter, public announcements, and the myriad bells and whistles of storefront wares. This was Serena’s first time in public in nearly a decade. She craved privacy and anonymity and loved the simplicity of algorithms, codes, and language. Her favorite language resided in the blissful elegance of ones and zeros. Her conversations existed in the cosmic strata of cyberspace. Give her a complex mathematical equation to solve or a doctoral dissertation on nanotechnology to read and she would drift into peace. But people scared her. People were unpredictable.
She checked her watch. He was twenty-eight seconds late. She warned him she would walk at one minute. Then she felt him.
He sat across from her, coffee in hand, and passed her the envelope. He sipped. Waited.
She opened it. Read its message and closed her eyes.
“You want to do this here or someplace more private?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said.
“Everything matters. Especially this.”
“Fine. Private. This place is hell enough.”
“Agreed.” He stood and flashed a sideways smile. A killer smile. “Follow me. The entrance by Nordstrom.”
She could run. Should run. But didn’t. She had already spent her whole life hiding. How can I run from death, too? she thought as she trailed him into the burning July sun.
“She craved privacy and anonymity…” That seems to be an innate characteristic in all of us.
Love your writing!
Thanks, ShelleyD!
And I agree about the innate drive for privacy. I think that’s why things like FB and Twitter are so popular. We can be anyone online but can then close the door on the world with the click of a button.
You have a good way with dialogue Heather. And the story had enough hooks that you left me wanting to read more…
Thank you so much, Yvette Carol. I truly appreciate it. 🙂
This is well done. I think you could really get a good mystery going using this premise.
Thanks, Marianne. I enjoyed writing this. I might keep working on this to see where it takes me.
Oh my… I really want to read more of this. Much more. Where IS the rest Heather?
Hee-hee. Thanks, Oddznns. I haven’t written more, but I shall. 🙂
I also want to know what happens next. You did an excellent job drawing us in and building suspense!
I appreciate that, Becca C. I’ve been reading a lot of thrillers lately, so that’s where my mind took me. 🙂
This is really good, Heather! It looks like a great start to a murder mystery or something equally thrilling.
Katie
You are too kind! Thanks so much. Maybe I will keep writing this story. 🙂
(hi, I’m new – hope its ok to just jump in)
“It wasn’t supposed to work like this,” she thought to herself.
Sitting impatiently, waiting on the timer to sound, her mind explored
the possibilities and repercussions, thinking and rethinking every
decision, every “mistake” that led up to this moment.
It hadn’t been a year since she and James had hit the road as a
dynamic blogging duo, and that decision had been a
difficult one to make. You could say that their hearts weren’t in it,
at least, not at first. Both unwilling to admit it to themselves or
each other, it was obvious to everyone else that James and Sara were
running. Running from their past full of broken dreams; running for
their lives.
After spending a month in northern California, they accepted an
invitation to visit Thailand, where they were photoblogging their
journey and writing travel advice columns. It was there in the deep
forrest, surrounded by nothing but miles of land and trees, that they
had finally begun to make peace with the truth. The future they had
dreamed of, planned and saved for wasn’t meant to be. “I’m sorry,
there’s nothing more you can do,” the fertility specialist’s words
echoed in their minds for months, but no matter how determined they
both were, no amount of willpower could make it less true.
That’s when they set to the road, renting their furnished home to a
friend indefinitely, uncertain if they’d ever feel like returning
again. James was angry and tearful. Sara was quiet and withdrawn.
He mistook her silence for relief, she mistook his anger as directed
at her… and so they drifted, further from home than they’d ever been
before, and just as far from each other.
This is gorgeous! I love the ending. Great writing.
Thank you!
You did a great job of hooking the reader into your story. I got a little confused in your last paragraph. The first sentence throws me. Were the emotions/attitudes of the characters a result of their initial decision, or as a result of their drifting apart? (I’m assuming the latter)
Thank you for the feedback! I intended to reflect that their emotions were a result of the news from the doctor, and that their misunderstanding of each other’s reactions resulted in drifting apart. I’ll need to rework that – thanks!
Good job taking the first step and jumping in! That takes courage. Your piece is great. I love the emotion and underlying story. Welcome to The Write Practice!
Katie
Thank you!
Becca
I love your hospitality, Katie!! You always make people feel welcome on the site!
Thanks, zo-zo. I want to make sure parents know that the other kids in our day care play nicely. 😉
Katie
Welcome, Becca! Good story – you keep us until the end, and then we understand why they’ve been running… I love your last line ‘and so they drifted, further from home than they’d ever been before, and just as far from each other.’
I’ll admit. This was a little harder than I thought, but here goes.
If anyone would have told me a year ago, that I’d be sitting in a soba house writing for a travel magazine, I’d have said they were crazy. It’s been years since I’ve been in Okinawa, Japan, and not a whole lot has changed. There’s a kind of comfort with that.
“Irashaimasu!”
I never tired of hearing this greeting. No matter where you are, it’s the same. People used to laugh when I described what it was like going to a gas station. This year, I”ll take pictures. They won’t believe it when they see the pristine attendants all bowing as you drive away from the station. Unbelievable.
(Seated with menu) Let’s see. What should I order? Don-katsu or a bowl of soba? It’s a no brainer. Don-katsu.
“Nominono?”
“Hai. Ocha, onigaishimasu.”
(Glancing around the room for the manga shelf) Oh, there it is. The difference between here and the U.S. I can’ t imagine having any U.S. restaurant providing magazines for people to read while they eat.
“Sumimasen. Inta-net-o arimasuka?”
“Nani?”
“Wii-Fii aru?”
“Iie. Arimasen.”
“Arigato.”
I forgot how big the portions were at this restaurant. “Mochi kaeri, onigaishimasu.” Lunch for tomorrow.
Good writing. Is this from an experience you had? Just wondering.
This particular scene is fictional, but my time living in Japan is not. Thank you.
Fact or fiction …
It’s 7.45 Saturday evening and I’m at LAX. The significant other’s on his way back to Orange County for a dinner party with old schoolfried. I’m headed out to Singapore. I’ll be into Changi at 5.40 Monday, Singapore time and showered and dressed for my 9.30 meeting. They’re going to run back to back, 3 meetings in a row. I wish we could do teleconference but the guys at the company are old fashioned. They like face to face. We have to eat together after we’ve negotiated the contract too. I told them I need to be out at 2. I’ve to catch the flight back to LA at 4. It’s going to be 34 hours of flying, just for those 7 hours of back to back meetings. Guess what I’ll be back in LA at 5 pm on Monday 16th!!! That’s what the shifting international deadlines do for you… lose you a Sunday and give you a long long long Monday.
I get to use the 34 hours reading up the papers for my meetings. There’s internet on board. So, if I need to make a bid on some properties that the significant other’s promised to look at on Monday LA time, I can send him the electronic signatures. Maybe, on the way back, when I’ve got those meetings set aside, I’ll have time to edit the last chapter of the WIP. Maybe …
Tuesday, we’re doing lunch with significant other’s brother-in-law in Seal Beach. Wednesday we go to Seattle to pick up our last kid. What a life!
Meanwhile… this is getting sent out now.
Qustion? Fact or fiction?
Fact.
And you’re insane.
‘Let’s go outside,’ she said. The room had gotten smaller all day, and she was sick of everything in it. Sick of the little elephant that was standing on it’s hind feet with a smirk on its face. Sick of the vague smell of spices that she had tried to clean out of the linen, the tablecloth, but it lingered still, after three washes.
He nodded and did not move, his eyes peering into that little white screen. She had never imagined her picture of him would be this when they married in the woods. They’d loved the woods together, the crunch under their feet of the leaves in autumn, and that scent of cold when winter was near. He’d been the one dragging her from her books, from her sleep-ins, from the warmth of her third cup of tea that morning. He’d made her explore. She could never catch him, he was so active. He’d always be running ahead, and she had to run slightly to catch up. That was before the wedding, before his father died.
After that everything changed. She looked at him. He was still in his pyjamas. The same ones he wore the whole of yesterday. The blue and white stripes were faded and she has just bought them three months ago.
‘It’s nice outside,’ she said looking at the sun shine onto the concrete that was their garden. Beyond the grey concrete was the hustling crowd whom she had to prepare herself to meet, like Aunt Aggie who grabbed her elbow when she was excited by the conversation. But today Jackie was more than ready for the crowd. At least there was life there, and movement.
Matt hadn’t moved. His back was an ugly curve and his neck stretched towards the computer. She’d mentioned it once, and he laughed it off. And then went back to the same position.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. He took a hold of her head and for a second there was a trace of the honeymoon kiss. He smoothed his hair down and smiled.
‘Maybe I’ll even have changed by the time you’re back.’
‘I’m a believer in miracles,’ she said. She closed the door behind her and walked alone into the sweaty morning.
Whoops – the last line should be ‘into the sweaty afternoon’!
I like how you presented from a different perspective, the significant other of the nomad entrepreneur. Aunt Aggie’s brief description also brings some movement in.
It’s really good.
Appreciate that Shelley! Ja, I can get a bit flowery sometimes, so I need to remind myself of action! 😉
Lovely melodic flow to this piece zo-zo. I absolutely loved it. The character vignettes were bang-on!
Thanks Yvette!! 🙂