Here's how it works. I start writing, and just put down everything that pops into my head without editing or going back and changing things. When this exercise is done as a warm-up for writer's block, you don't even include punctuation, but I'm going to use punctuation and formatting, especially since I'm typing instead of writing on paper. I'm going to start with the following paragraph and see where it goes.
Olivia Marcham was the kind of girl that everyone sort of liked. She was nice, friendly, pleasant to be around. However, that was all she was. She tended to fade into the background and observe people; sometimes they forgot she was there.
Like one time she was sitting in the corner of class, before class started, and there was a group of people standing in front of her gossiping. She listened and learned, all about their friend Steve who had just had a colonoscopy. The doctors found a polyp that they wanted to test because it looked a little suspicious, and they were worried. Another group, a pair of girls, were talking about their high school crushes and the outcomes of said crushes. One of them was still dating her high school sweetheart, and the other was single and loving it. The first hadn't dated much through most of high school, and the other had dated a lot and was burned out on it. Olivia didn't spend more than a few minutes listening to either group; it was interesting, but not that interesting.
Eavesdropping is generally frowned upon, but to a writer or even just a reader or an actor in particular, it is fascinating. People's lives begin to unfold and reveal themselves, the lives of strangers. It's a character study, to learn from, but it's also just extremely interesting in itself. It's amazing to see how much we have in common with other people, and how much we don't. Olivia didn't consider it to be rude, simply because the people she eavesdropped on were strangers to her- she wasn't going to see them ever again. Yet, by listening to them, she sort of got to know them. She listened without judgement, for the most part, and contemplated where the part of the story she hadn't heard came from, and where it would go when she walked away. She contemplated what kind of people these strangers were, and what their personalities and lives were really like. She guessed their fears and dreams, what professions they would most like, what kind of music they probably listened to. And then when she was done, she walked away or turned her attention to someone else.
This would go on for hours or minutes, depending on what she was doing as she listened. Sometimes she would sit in the coffee shop reading a book, and would become distracted by the conversations around her and read the same sentence over and over again without really understanding what it said. She was really listening.
Strangely, Olivia never made any use of these experiences, and that was the strange thing. Most people eavesdrop on strangers because they're bored, or they want inspiration for creating a character or a story. Olivia just liked to listen to people; it made her feel connected to the universe, as if waves of voices were crashing all around her, one right after another. It was not a feeling of zen, because she could not always remain neutral in her private reactions. She could not always prevent herself from judging people. However, when she did judge, she would try to take a step back and re-evaluate. After all, she had heard everything out of context. She didn't know these people- she didn't know what had happened in their lives to make the decisions that they made.
One day she was sitting inside the coffee shop on a hot summer day as usual, drinking an iced coffee and doodling shooting stars all over a napkin, when a man sat down at her table.
"Excuse me, ma'am."
"Yes?"
"Well, I hope I'm not being too forward, but I've noticed you in here a lot. You're a listener, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. What are you talking about?"
"You sit here every Saturday afternoon from 2 to 4:30, doodling on napkins and listening to people talk"
"Um...it's getting a bit late, I really need to go to my appointment-
"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be creepy. I promise, I'm not stalking you. I just wanted to talk to you. I noticed you listening, because I do it too. Except, instead of listening, I watch people. I watch their body language, and their little ticks and habits. I'm not stalking you, it's just that I've been in here a few times and noticed you listening. I wanted to talk to someone who might understand why I do what I do. Does that make sense?"
"I guess it does..."
"Good. When you listen to people, what are you trying to do?"
"I'm not trying to do anything, I'm just...listening. Thinking. Absorbing, I suppose."
"Exactly! It's the same for me! Do you know, everyone has certain movements- body language- in common, but then they have their own little quirks as well?"
"Yes...I mean, it seems a bit obvious. Especially in a place where everyone has a fairly similar cultural background"
"Well yes of course, but-- it's like everyone has their own...signature. Their own special way of doing things that makes them who they are, even though they're still doing exactly what everyone else is doing."
"Okay..."
"But that's a bit of a simplification. Different personalities respond differently to situations. They're still homogenous groups, but there are multiple groups split up into different categories, and those categories sometimes overlap."
"Okay. Where are you going with this?"
"You're different. Special. You fit into a rare category. You're...an observer."
"An observer? I think we established that at the beginning of the conversation."
"No, I mean...you pay more attention to most people. You really see things. You see things exactly as they are. That's not to say that you don't have your own human interpretation of them. But when you listen, you listen more carefully, and you understand subtle nuances that most people miss. I'm telling you this because I'm the same way."
"So? I don't see how this is a big deal. Artists do it all the time."
"Yes, but you aren't an artist. You're different. You don't do anything with it, you just let it go. Why?"
"Well...I suppose I've never felt a need to. It's already there. Anytime I want, it's there, and I can either remember an observation or make a new one."
"But why not share those observations with the world? Try to help other people see what you see?"
"Because...what I see isn't that special. It's just...life."
"That's what art is, though. You show people why it is or isn't special."
"Right. But I don't feel any need to. I don't know what I would do. And anyway, there are plenty of starving artists out there already without me."
"But they're not you."
"Yes, we've already established this."
Olivia was starting to get annoyed.
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Okay that's my brain dump. I wrote until I was tired (I was already kinda tired, now I'm more tired). I know that didn't go anywhere and didn't really say anything. But I wanted to post something, and I wanted to tell a story but I didn't know what to talk about. Eh. I'll see if I can make it something worth reading. I might give up, I might not. But first- sleep.
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