Did you see them? The people in the car in front of you. The person at the table next to you.
All around you are people. Each one of those people has a story. Each one of those stories needs to be told.
Photo by Eneas
Maybe that person has a real story and you're the one entrusted to tell.
Or maybe that stranger launches you into a creative world and you come out with someone else's story.
People Watch
Spend some time today observing in silence.
Sit in the airport or library.
Who do you see? What are they doing? Where are they going? Why?
Make it up.
Let the other coffee shop patrons be your muse.
(Note: The Write Practice is not responsible for any confrontation due to staring).
PRACTICE
Let those creative juices run wild and tell a stranger's story. Post it in the practice and give feedback to a few other practitioners.
Katie Axelson is a writer, editor, and blogger who's seeking to live a story worth telling. You can find her blogging, tweeting, and facebook-ing.
I was at school when this girl who used to bully me came up to me and I realized today´s practice was going to be about her. Enjoy 🙂
Not so long ago I decided I was
going to try to be a better person. Since eight grade I’ve been intimidating
people in my school and so far it has been great; people actually respect me
and they never mess with me. So why change?
It all started one afternoon when
I was at the coffee shop with two of who supposedly were my friends. We were
drinking coffee and thinking about life when suddenly one of my victims came
through the door. She is a red hair girl and actually I think she is really
pretty, but somehow I had the urge to bully her. I started calling her names
like “Fat Ginger” or “Carrot head” when she grabbed her
usual lemon cake and came up to me. We started fighting when she said something
I will never forget.
“Are you really so empty
that you have to fill yourself insulting other people? I feel sorry for you, I
really do. You know why? Because of this bullying thing I learned to be a
better person, but you, you will never change”
At first I acted like I didn´t
care but then at night those words haunted me again. So I decided to be a
better person starting with my real friends. I´m not a bad person, but I really
do need something to fill my time with. Things started getting better and people
were actually nice to me in the hallways, I got a boyfriend who really loves me
and things with my family are actually perfect.
So next time you bully someone
ask yourself “Is this really who I am?”
I like how you’ve used the practice as an opportunity to want better things for this young woman rather than writing a sweet vengeance story. You chose the higher ground of believing she can be better. This is the kind of writing that makes the world a brighter place.
Yes, I agree
I agree, very mature of you. I also think it has more potential to encourage people to change their harmful behavior because it is more realistic. In my experience people are motivated to bully out of habit more than malevolence, but we too often characterise them as bad people.
Thank you so much!
Thank you so much, it means so much to me.
I love how the victim stands up to her!
I love how the protagonist details “I’m going to change and this is why.”
I enjoyed the fact that the leading thought about what the redheaded girl would do is get revenge, as someone said. Instead you turned it around to make the most of it and gain a positive experience. Oddly, I had a similar experience where what a person said to me hit me between the eyes and I started changing for the better after that. I love stories like that.
When I go to Disneyland, I take a small legal pad and a few pens. I spend a little time sitting, watching the people go by. It’s fun to make up stories about them based on clothing, demeanor, and what I see around them. I’m not sure if I’ll ever write fiction but this is a fun practice to expand my skill. Next, I want to ride the local train to the coast and write about the passengers….
Brilliant, D!
My sister-in-law used to go along to open houses (prior to auction) just to see the insides of other people’s houses, and one of her most-enjoyed activities was to go to the international airport terminal to ‘watch the people arriving and departing’. And she wasn’t even a writer! But, I’ve always remembered that, and have wondered, if she’d lived, would she have ended up becoming a writer?
I love to see the insides of others’ houses too.
I too am a people watcher. I love to sit anywhere that people pass, and I watch them. Favorite places are movie theaters, parks, restaurants, bowling alleys. It’s a great way to increase my understanding of people and the different way they react to things. It also supplies endless material for my fiction characters and the stories I make up in my mind about them.
I’m walking around the gym pushing a little blue cart full of sweat-drenched towels. I always do that. It’s my job. People of all ages, shapes and sizes get off the treadmill, wipe the beads of perspiration trickling from their brow and then toss the towel into a bin.
I don’t mind. It’s not a bad job, and I get decent pay. But it’s not what I want. I graduated from college eight months ago with a degree in art education. I thought an education degree of any kind would surely land me a job straightaway.
It hasn’t. I’m trying to be patient, but it isn’t as though I have all the time in the world.
Some of the people in the gym are kids. I love kids. I love art. That’s why I chose the degree I have. Perhaps I shouldn’t grumble when others don’t have any employment. Sometimes I give myself that speech my mom used to spout anytime I refused to eat dinner. You know “There are starving children in China who would be happy to eat that.” But when I’m not doing what I love, I don’t feel fulfilled.
It doesn’t feel right.
On my way to work I saw someone walking their beautiful, fluffy Husky. “In this heat?” I thought. How could someone bring a dog like that who is used to cold climates, down to Texas? And that’s how I feel. Like that Husky who’s not in his environment, but trying to make the best of things.
Ugh, I really feel for the protagonist here, Karoline. Graduating and not finding a job hits close to him. So close that I don’t think I could fictionalize it. Well done.
Sigh I am quite sure that I will be in this situation myself in a few months, I really hope I can have your characters positivity! I also like how they are not complaining, yet not rolling over and feeling committed to their passion still.
A timely story that has a lot of impact because of the current financial situation. I also love the comparison between the Husky dog out of his environment and the MC.
Great insights, Karoline! I love the way you got into this person’s head.
The street in front of our house has no sidewalk, so people walk on the street. Every day at the same time, this old lady walks past my house and down the way. About an hour or so later she walks back. I got really inspired and wrote an entire 2K-word story about this. However, I will only post the first few paragraphs.
ONE STEP AFTER THE OTHER
by Sandra Bell Kirchman
Head down, one step after the other. The snow is deep and the biting wind is icy. She shrugs into her black coat, out of style for decades, but still in good shape, no patches or tears that I can see.
Every day except Sunday, she walks down the road, head down, one step after the other. Always at the same time…3pm. I wonder where she goes and why. She walks in the rain or in the blazing sun. Snow and wind can push against her, but still she walks.
I know she lives in the little wood house across the road and down a block or so. It is neat, but a little on the shabby side. The paint is still good, but I would say it is at least five years, maybe more, since it was painted that pale blue that’s almost white, until you see the white trim and then you realize it’s blue. The matching white picket fence is missing a picket near the corner. It has been like that ever since I moved in here. I guess I’m finding it hard to figure out my life, so I find it easier to concentrate on others.
I could probably go to her house with a casserole or something, as a neighborly gesture, but I hold back. I’m not that much of a cook, although Ben used to eat everything I made. We also ate out a lot, but that caused problems.
Here she comes back again, head down, one step after the other. I can see her
face when she comes back from wherever she goes, even with her head down. She is a frail little thing, maybe 5 ft. tall, and maybe 95 pounds or so. Her face is pink, but that could be just from the cold weather. She has a fringe of very curly white hair sticking out from beneath her black hat. The hat is almost like a Salvation Army bonnet, but it doesn’t tie under the chin and it doesn’t come down over the ears. It is as out of date as her coat. It is also in good shape, although a little faded.
It’s like this every day…did I mention except Sunday? In the winter, spring, and fall, she wears her black coat. In the summer, she wears a fuzzy white sweater that is newer looking, always spotlessly white. And she wears white, orthopedic shoes, instead of the black galoshes she wears in winter. In summer she almost looks like a nurse. Almost.
One day, I was watching for her as I usually do. Don’t ask me why? I’m curious. It’s not a sin to be curious. And it’s not like I had a whole lot to do or a whole lot of people to talk to.
Anyhow, I’m watching and watching. By the time it gets to be 3:30pm, I’m getting worried. By 4pm, I’m really worried. I phone an acquaintance on the other side of town and tell her.
“Tammy, that old lady that lives near me? She’s late for her walk,” I say.
“So?” she says.
“She’s as punctual as clockwork,” I say.
“Maybe she had a visitor, or a phone call, or she’s not feeling well. You worry too much, Karen.”
“Maybe,” I mutter. We chat about something trivial and hang up.
I look at Spitspot. “She’s late today, Spit. What should we do?”
I enjoyed reading this. That she turns to the dog at the end helped me to understand this characters paralleled loneliness. There are times for her and all of us when our concerns are thought to be exaggerated. It’s interesting to me that they live so close to one another but know so little about each other.
Thanks, Li. I was hoping it would underscore her loneliness. This factor is important to the end of the full story.
I’m so glad the practice was inspirational for you, Sandra. I hope the lady is ok!
Often, I’ll go into a bar, pull up a stool, order a drink, whip out my journal, and people watch. My journal is a sweet leatherbound book with a lion engraved on the cover, it’s badass. I sit by myself, sip my beer, and look mysterious. I’ll look around the room and describe everything I see, from the people and their body language, to their conversations, to the bar’s decour. Here’s a recent entry:
The music is too loud for 5:45. The back of the bar is covered with hardwood and littered with alcohol-themed decorations. One man sits by himself, surrounded by people but unnoticed by all. His cap is backwards and he’s wearing a cheap sports sweatshirt. He’s watching the game on television like he cares, but he really just wants someone to talk to. Preferably a beautiful woman, but he knows it won’t happen. Even the younger guys next to him would be welcome.
There’s a big red flag in the corner of the bar that says, “Bloomfield” in big white letters. It’s the most boring flag I’ve ever seen.
It’s funny how similar sports fans are. They bicker and argue statistics and freak out over every play. That’s why the Olympics are so awesome, you’re uniting a whole country of angry sports fans, who temporarily forget that they hate each other.
Someone is eyeing me. Maybe he’s caught on. He sees me looking around and jotting things down. He’s got a beard. He wants to know what’s in this book.
That’s a great habit/hobby, Jack. I want to know more about that man with the backwards baseball cap. I also love how you describe the Olympics because they’re so true!
Dr Robert Romanowski set up his practice in a very old fashioned way. The front room to his house was the waiting room and the room adjacent was his office. Most doctors in his area owned shops and paid rent… He dressed it up in a way that it looked less homely and more sterile. He even donned on a white coat and wore a stethoscope around his neck during his work hours, something slightly too formal for doctors who worked in Australia. His receptionist was however, his mother – a very sweet old lady with a thick Polish accent. His patients called him Dr Robert because he gave up on teaching people how to pronounce his last name correctly.
A young girl in her twenties sat inside and looked through the magazine collection. She seemed to be dissatisfied when she discovered that most of the magazines were about celebrity gossip or fashion. Her eyes were covered in a dark pair of shades and she wore a large scarf snugly around her neck. The shades gave her the appearance of a blind person but she seemed to be aware of her surroundings so it was clear that she wasn’t blind. She sat down and looked around. She didn’t look sick, her face wasn’t a pale sickly colour, her nose and throat wasn’t congested with mucus. Her issues might have been mental… but on the outset they didn’t look physical. Her name was called out –
“Samantha Jones, Samantha Jones”
She followed the doctor through the corridor. Dr Romanowski opened his office door and sat down. She took off her shades and her scarf and smiled at him. It turned out to be his daughter. His daughter Maria. He couldn’t recognise her because of her change of clothing and hair style. It had been six years. She looked more mature.
“Maria, where the hell have you been?!”
“Melbourne, it’s quite nice there, you should visit sometime, my partner Lizzy lives there…”
A look of disgust pained across his face. He stared deeply into her eyes and when he discovered that they were in fact his eyes – the eyes she inherited from him, he looked away.
“Lizzy would love to meet you … although I know that you’re an old conservative who’s against black people, brown people, Chinese people … Hell I wonder why you’re still a Jew. And I know how ignorant you are, you wont even treat a person with AIDS, in spite of all the literature out there… it’s a pity though, a man of your intelligence, a doctor who still chooses to be ignorant. You probably think my girlfriend and I have some kind of mental illness. We’re not interested in any treatment thanks… Should you choose to accept my invitation, here is my number, was nice to see you again.”
With that, she lifted herself off the patient chair and left.
He would have normally refuted those accusations but he sat there in shock, ashamed … he wasn’t sure about what he was ashamed of – her newly discovered sexual orientation or his bad parenting.
Wow, she really knows how to rekindle a relationship… Thanks for sharing, Rebecca. I love the image of a doctor working from his home. To me it seems so Central American, but I guess Australian works too.
It’s late and the meeting is almost over when we hear banging at the front door. As I approach the door I see the familiar face of one of our “girl,” an addict who lives on the streets. I open the door and she comes in thanking me for being there, for opening the door.
Her hair is all matted and she is dressed in very little clothing on this very chilly Florida night. Her latest story begins to spill out…she has an infection in her arm which she claims is from a bite and needs me to wrap her arm as it is oozing. I look at her arm, fiery red with an open sore and know that wrapping will only make it worse, but I wrap it loosely in toilet paper which is what she wants.
I invite her to have a seat at the table and I fix her a bowl of cereal…how I wish that I could “fix” her instead. The tears begin to flow …her child, the child she was forced to walk away from due to her addiction turns 3 in a couple of days and her heart is broken because she cannot celebrate with her.
My heart breaks for this young woman who has now lived on the streets for the past five years. She has a raging infection and needs to go to the hospital, but refuses to go because she knows she will not be able to get the drugs that her body has learned to crave.
We sit and talk wihich is difficult because she is just coming down from a high. She feels alone, unloved and is in horrific pain from the cancer that is eating away at her body. I assure her of our love, of God’s unconditional love for her and once again offer to take her to the hospital.
Suddenly she gets up and tells me she will go and get her clothes at the house she occasionally stays at and then will come back so I can take her to the hospital…but she doesn’t come back. And now it has been four days and I wonder if she is still alive and will I see her again.
I feel like I’ve been Ina similar situation, and this was how I felt. I’m glad you opened your door to her. These stories also need to be told.
What a tough situation. Thanks for sharing it with us, Cindie.
“Jesus, what a day. Just, can you get me a few logs, or a bottle a Jack, either way, something to keep me warm.” He stood about 6 ft and wore a starched flannel shirt. His voice bubbled above the volleying complaints and a screaming child in the social service room. He pressed his face flat against the plexiglass to privately recount the various ways his wife attempted to kill him; by shovel, axe, and he assumed poison. He wanted to “apply for everything”. He peeled his face back,turned to us, and smiled awkwardly. His nose had obviously been pressed more than his chin.
She wanted to laugh but her hunger was distracting. Her vow to abstain from eating until she was hired resulted in the loss of 12 pounds. She missed avocados and eggplant the most. It had been 21 days. Almost everyone around her was overweight and slumped, like old moppets, limp and stained. Her thinness made her better than them. And her black wool coat, Columbia, 195.00 from the overstock warehouse gave the impression that she was there on accident or that perhaps something really gruesome, and not at all her fault, had happened. Either way she was not to be confused with the regulars, in fact she was why the system existed.
He sat beside her despite the array of perfectly vacant seats. She knew he would. In bars she spoke to strippers, drunks, liars, and Bob, who had a love child with Marylyn Monroe and wrote every one of Nixon’s speeches. She knew more about the others than she wanted, before they shared three words. He rearranged his limbs, sighed, coughed pitifully and finally sank into a great snore. She waited a few more earth moving vibrations, then crumpled the blue paper tab stamped 71 and walked home.
She and William lived together sometimes. Mostly he lived in Boston, she in NY. Four hours by train, 6 by bus, sometimes more, and nearly 1 by plane, though neither had the money for something so convenient. He warmed plates and ground whole seeds and chopped fresh herbs. Her frailness inspired him to create something warm and light on the digestive system. Ginger would give her fever. He settled for for a thin stew of brown lentils with mint, sea salt and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice ladled into each dish. It ywasn’t the way he liked to cook. He recalled her past hunger and added a few more pinches of salt. He frequently turned the kitchen into a sticky spicy mess and left it to ferment. She of course would scour in his absence the bits of burnished onions and braised carrot recalling these were once her favorite parts. Now what she loved most was the feeling of control it gave her to to clean these cold unsavory bits into the sink and down the drain. They had no power over her. She ate out of curiosity. Hunger had become so commonplace that it had little effect on Her appetite.
Her bouncy laugh carries through the walls to the neighboring offices, like a leaf flitting around in the wind with no particular destination. She has gotten complaints about it before, her laugh. It’s too loud, it woke up the baby, you must be drunk to laugh that obnoxiously. Others compliment her on it. How fun she must be, what a heartwarming sound, you resonate happiness. Those that love her do so because she brings them happiness with her own. Those that hate her do so because they cannot bear so much happiness that is not their own. She understands this. It’s a battle, really; the fight between allowing someone else’s happiness to positively affect your own and allowing someone else’s happiness to create a jealous rage inside of you. She’s used to the fight. She can see it in their eyes, even. She can hear the seething questions in their mind like the echo of muttering through a closed door. “What makes her so special?” “Why is it so easy for her?” “Does she ever stop smiling?” Secretly, she responds to these questions in her own mind, wishing to telepathically transfer the message. “I choose to set myself apart as someone special and worthy of happiness.” “Practice makes perfect.” “Yes, you can’t utilize the muscles necessary to smile for the duration of a night’s sleep.” She always giggles at the last thought, visualizing a night where she smiled throughout the entirety of her sweet dreams. For the most part, she ignores the stabbing attempts others make to affect her happiness. Sometimes, on a rare occasion, she spits fire back at them, though. Not aloud. She’d never use harmful words against another. She allows the fireballs to bounce back and forth against the edges of her skull, hoping to burn their way into another’s mind. To set the straight, she always tells herself. Her most common rebuttle is that happiness is a choice and that she should not feel sorry for one who chooses to abstain from such happiness. It’s an appropriate rebuttle for the argument. For, why should she have sympathy towards those who are not willing to put forth the constant effort as she does? Her final question is always, “What are you willing to do to maintain constant happiness, you poor, lost soul?” Of course, it remains but a whisper in her thoughts, never uttered to the necessary recipient.
I love your description and mulling, Jac. It’s very realistic. I hope you protagonist keeps laughing.
Thank you! It is an argument I have in my own mind at times, so I’m glad I could bring it to life. The protagonist is actually a lady that works next door to me that I can always hear laughing through the wall of my office (yes, it’s that loud) and she still laughs every day, loud and bubbly! :]
Here it is: my little stretch of hall. Right by the nursing station, off to the side where my wheelchair isn’t in the way and I can still see the television at an angle (I can’t hear the show or tell what it is, but that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone). Dinner means fish and French fries–the same every Friday. I remember how Vernon used to fry fish, fresh caught from the Great Lakes. He never cooked but when he cooked fish, and I always stood beside and smiled.
The food gets cold if I don’t eat it right away, but it’s usually cold by the time the nurse brings it out. I don’t mind. I just watch the hallway. It’s more interesting than eating or watching TV. Shelly and Wanda talk at the nursing station, loud, as though I can’t hear them, and I enjoy listening. Old Mr. Franks wheels himself to the dining hall and tips me a wink on the way, the sisters hobble across on their walkers, and Genevieve Donohew squeals a few doors down.
And then a fresh face–one I’ve never seen. A girl in a blue coat walking down the hall. I have to say “hello.” She smiles, and says “hello” back. Then she’s gone.
Terrifying existence, but this character has a life like resilience. I enjoyed this.
Thanks, Li 🙂
Wow. Thank you for taking us to the hallway that many have forgotten.
You’re very welcome, Katie. It’s easy to forget those hallways, isn’t it? If you’re interested in reading a bit more in this vein, check out my blog post: http://differenthomeschoolgirl.blogspot.com/search?q=old+people
Thanks!
Jesus, what a day. Just, can you get me a few logs, or a bottle a Jack, either way, something to keep me warm.” He stood about 6 ft and wore a starched flannel shirt. His voice bubbled above the volleying complaints and a screaming child in the social service room. He pressed his face flat against the plexiglass to privately recount the various ways his wife attempted to kill him; by shovel, axe, and he assumed poison. He wanted to “apply for everything”. He peeled his face back,turned to us, and smiled awkwardly. His nose had obviously been pressed more than his chin.
She wanted to laugh but her hunger was distracting. Her vow to abstain from eating until she was hired resulted in the loss of 12 pounds. She missed avocados and eggplant the most. It had been 21 days. Almost everyone around her was overweight and slumped, like old moppets, limp and stained. Her thinness made her better than them. And her black wool coat, Columbia, 195.00 from the overstock warehouse gave the impression that she was there on accident or that perhaps something really gruesome, and not at all her fault, had happened. Either way she was not to be confused with the regulars, in fact she was why the system existed.
He sat beside her despite the array of perfectly vacant seats. She knew he would. In bars she attracted strippers, liars, and Bob, who had a love child with Marylyn Monroe and wrote every one of Nixon’s speeches. She knew more about the others than she wanted, before they shared three words. He rearranged his limbs, sighed, coughed pitifully and finally sank into a great snore. She waited a few more earth moving vibrations, then crumpled the blue paper tab stamped 71 and walked home.
William smelled delicious. They lived together sometimes. Mostly he lived in Boston, and she in NY. Four hours by train, 6 by bus, sometimes more, and nearly 1 by plane, though neither had the money for something so convenient. He warmed plates and ground whole seeds and chopped fresh herbs. Her frailness inspired him to create something warm and light on the digestive system. Ginger would give her fever. He settled for for a thin stew of brown lentils with mint, sea salt and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice ladled into each dish. It wasn’t the way he liked to cook. He recalled her past hunger and added a few more pinches of salt. He frequently turned the kitchen into a sticky spicy mess and left it to ferment. She of course would scour in his absence the bits of burnished onions and braised carrot recalling these were once her favorite parts. Now what she loved most was the feeling of control it gave her to to clean these cold unsavory bits into the sink and down the drain. They had no power over her. She ate out of curiosity. Hunger had become so commonplace that it had little effect on Her appetite.
They sat opposite one another on the window seat beside the stove, slurping soup, and sharing stories.
Good job, Li. I know this is just a practice but be careful with your point of view. Sometimes I found your head-hopping made it hard to follow along.
Thanks Katie. This is a major reoccurring problem for me. I wonder if there is a way to make use of this problem in some sense?. I appreciate your feedback.
As i sit here, nervous with regret of what i might say next, i look into is eyes. The eyes that are glaring at me through the face I’m convinced i love. He nods as if he understands, but yet a glare fills his face. My hands tremble as i wipe them on my fitted jeans to reduce the sweat, i feel my eyes tearing up yet i refuse to let water spill. I open my mouth to talk and what comes out i do not know.
The coffee date ends with me, sitting alone, eyes wide. Him, gone. I realize when the Batista informs me that they are closing, that i have been sitting there now for hours. Trapped inside my mind. I felt afraid to let him go, but afraid to be with him. Was letting him go the right choice or will i fall tomorrow and pick up my phone to dial, once again, the voice I’m so familiar with.
The idea of not have my comfort zone hurts the inside of my chest, but the realization of the truth hurts even more. If he had realized that i truly felt trapped, and was unwilling to change, then he truly did not love me, and i am no longer trapped. But to overlook my mind lying to me, the mind that has been lying to me for two years now, is truly the struggle, and is truly what is trapping me.
As i sit here, nervous with regret of what i might say next, i look into
his eyes. The eyes that are glaring at me through the face I’m convinced
i love. He nods as if he understands, but yet a glare fills his face.
My hands tremble as i wipe them on my fitted jeans to reduce the sweat, i
feel my eyes tearing up yet i refuse to let water spill. I open my
mouth to talk and what comes out i do not know.
The coffee date
ends with me, sitting alone, eyes wide. Him, gone. I realize when the
Batista informs me that they are closing, that i have been sitting there
now for hours. Trapped inside my mind. I felt afraid to let him go, but
afraid to be with him. Was letting him go the right choice or will i
fall tomorrow and pick up my phone to dial, once again, the voice I’m so
familiar with.
The idea of not have my comfort zone hurts the
inside of my chest, but the realization of the truth hurts even more. If
he had realized that i truly felt trapped, and was unwilling to change,
then he truly did not love me, and i am no longer trapped. But to
overlook my mind lying to me, the mind that has been lying to me for two
years now, is truly the struggle, and is truly what is trapping me.