As you wait for a bus or stand in line at the grocery store, imagine that later you will be asked to describe the people and setting surrounding you. Keep a notebook in your pocket and jot down the mannerisms of the cashier or customers beside you. Far more interesting than a person's height or hair color are a person's nervous tics. Body language speaks volumes about character, and like a signature, it is a distinguishing feature. Most importantly for writers, this kind of detail allows us to simultaneously engage our readers' imaginations and reveal truth through our observations. Record the sounds and smells, the feelings and sights in your notebook then tuck it away until you have to time to savor and immortalize them in scene.
Peabody Park speaks through yelling fans + screeching tires + booming (hot) box + shrieking children.
Tracksuit Mama tugs the leash of Reluctant Puppy; he won't leave the parking lot. When she lifts him by his front legs, he looks both miserable and stunned.
Sport, is that any way to carry a football? It falls to the yellowed grass.
Dad meticulously wipes down the minivan's interior windshield. Folds the rag. Little circles. He exits, one long headphone cord draped over his shoulder, forgotten, and reaches to scratch the place where it bounces against his back.
One-handed, Lipstick Mama pushes an empty stroller, Big-Bow Baby on her hip, walking westward, eyes squinted against afternoon sun, intent on the nearest picnic table. Baby starts crying.
"Take me home"
Sport walks pressed against Coffee Dad, travel-mug in hand and phone to ear.
Moms wave, but don't talk. An intermittent squeaking from the rusty swingset.
"David! Up! Look up!" Lipstick Mama calls towards the horde of children scuttling along playground equipment. None of them is looking up; she says it straight: "Airplane! Up!" and back to changing BBBaby.
Social Butterfly, tired of the younger kids, spots an opportunity. He deftly runs to the field, not-so-deftly attempts a cartwheel, and positions himself hopefully in a triangle with Starbucks+Son. They manuever south.
Car Dad again wipes the windshield, a green rag this time.
"Nice catch!"
Puppy doesn't wanna leave. Tired Mama leans against the gazebo.
Butterfly returns to the fray with a freshly donned facemask. Again, Sport tackles the ball and won't get up.
The hot-boxers turn down the music and the window. Above the tint, all I see is a red cap.
A garbage bag waves like a flag, dangling from the veiny Oak. Ellie takes my picture from a distance.
Tracksuit Mama tugs the leash of Reluctant Puppy; he won't leave the parking lot. When she lifts him by his front legs, he looks both miserable and stunned.
Sport, is that any way to carry a football? It falls to the yellowed grass.
Dad meticulously wipes down the minivan's interior windshield. Folds the rag. Little circles. He exits, one long headphone cord draped over his shoulder, forgotten, and reaches to scratch the place where it bounces against his back.
One-handed, Lipstick Mama pushes an empty stroller, Big-Bow Baby on her hip, walking westward, eyes squinted against afternoon sun, intent on the nearest picnic table. Baby starts crying.
"Take me home"
Sport walks pressed against Coffee Dad, travel-mug in hand and phone to ear.
Moms wave, but don't talk. An intermittent squeaking from the rusty swingset.
"David! Up! Look up!" Lipstick Mama calls towards the horde of children scuttling along playground equipment. None of them is looking up; she says it straight: "Airplane! Up!" and back to changing BBBaby.
Social Butterfly, tired of the younger kids, spots an opportunity. He deftly runs to the field, not-so-deftly attempts a cartwheel, and positions himself hopefully in a triangle with Starbucks+Son. They manuever south.
Car Dad again wipes the windshield, a green rag this time.
"Nice catch!"
Puppy doesn't wanna leave. Tired Mama leans against the gazebo.
Butterfly returns to the fray with a freshly donned facemask. Again, Sport tackles the ball and won't get up.
The hot-boxers turn down the music and the window. Above the tint, all I see is a red cap.
A garbage bag waves like a flag, dangling from the veiny Oak. Ellie takes my picture from a distance.
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