The writer watches

One of my favourite pastimes is watching people, I do that everywhere. I watch how they move, how they talk, what they do.

I observe strange things, like the guy I saw in the underground once, with the word “fate” written on his forehead.

I observe others, and give them stories.

The guy with fate on his forehead becomes a guy who is in the underground to meet up with a wizard, who will take him to a different world so he can find his father.

The woman running through the train station is late because her mother is in the hospital, dying. The man shouting at a street vendor, gesticulating, is mad because the street vendor refuses to leave the man’s wife alone.

I don’t often write those stories down.

That is because they are practice. They are me training my writer mind, observing.

Sometimes they slip into stories of mine, these characters I build in fleeting moments, and I know exactly where I saw them and when, as if they become full-grown characters in the back of my mind, somewhere.

It’s one of the things I love the most in my writing practice, those random moments born from observation.

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