Tuesday, July 15, 2008

the exquisite joys of peoplewatching

People themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever.—Jane Austen

I am writing this from a coffee shop in Saint Louis, where I’m trying to get a lot of work done. Rewrites are definitely underway for part two of my novel: I’m trying to completely rewrite ninety pages of mediocre first draft, while adding to my original cast and crew. I’ve found a new sub-villain, a buffoon, two terribly arrogant men, and a cynic. Very fabulous characters, and they all have a lot to say.

So. Plenty on my writing plate. And today I need to rewrite two scenes, have to get them done… but the real, living, breathing, tangible, audible people around me are so fascinating that I abandon my imaginary characters, drop my pen, and let their words and actions catch my attention.

It’s amazing what you’ll hear and see when you give yourself over to peoplewatching. Perhaps it’s my profession that makes it endlessly amusing… I’m tempted to cast half the people I see into my novel. Their mannerisms, laughs, turns of phrase… I almost can’t help using them.

(Though other people just won’t fit. Like the group that sat beside me for a while, planning a high school reunion, singing songs from the 80s… that didn’t go in the novel.)

But I’d love to use the scraps from other nearby conversations, as they float over the booths and around corners, merging into a sort of nonsense conversation between everyone: Good tea makes for a good spirit. Where’s your other half? Guilty by association. Salmonella. We don’t have time for this. Springfield. Nobody’s going there. Take away my nourishment. I should have done it years ago. Look hot. Don’t even waste your time…

And then I realize I’ve spent twenty minutes listening to strangers and laughing quietly, rather than working with my host of characters.

Peoplewatching! I’m addicted.

The airport is another fantastic place for it—so many different faces, voices, movement. And since most people are very focused on something else (anxious about connections, security, and how much liquid can be in your carry-on), I’m free to watch more openly than I can in a coffee house.

Sitting outside security one night, as passengers swarmed past, Mom leaned over and whispered the perfect writerly challenge: The next twelve men who pass—what if they were Arthur’s knights of the round table? (I had been reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, so this was fabulous.)

I was transfixed. Almost by magic, each man’s face transformed: First, a college student shuffled past, plugged into an iPod. Before my eyes, he sprouted a dark, pointed beard, and his stare became piercing, challenging. I handed him a sword and off he went, to prove himself against dragons. An older man in a navy suit was next: blue eyes, grey hair, tanned face, imposing walk. All he needed was a suit of armor and he was ready. On and on they came, until I had Camelot fully outfitted.

So if you see me, look out. I may be placing you in a children’s story, alongside the cats of Paris; or tucking your comments into a poem about homesickness; or teaching my protagonist’s best friend to copy that unusual twitch in your walk.—jl

Posted by Jenn Langefeld on 07/15 at 03:42 PM
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