Ever since I started freelance writing, I’d tried using different environments to inspire me. I’d tried writing in my pajamas and lounging around all day, waiting for my sleepiness to wear off. I usually ended up watching marathons of different TV series and wonder late at night where the time went. I’d tried hanging at office lobbies and making use of their WiFi for my personal needs. It was a little weird to be typing away at my laptop wearing jeans and a shirt while corporate robots walked around in spiffy business suits.
My favorite place to write ended up being coffee shops—any coffee shop. Aside from the fact that I am in a long-term relationship (that’s still going strong) with caffeine, I liked sitting outside and ignoring the world, hacking at my keyboard while they passed. Sometimes when I have nothing left to type, I just sit there, alone, and people-watch.
I used to hate sitting alone at public establishments—it made me feel like such a loser. But eventually I realized it was something I really enjoyed. It had a relaxing influence on me, to sit alone and just watch people go by as I thought up of my next lines. I sound like such a stalker, now don’t I? But I swear, I love the calming effect that coffee shops have on me when I write. It’s almost therapeutic. Don’t get me wrong, I like writing when I’m irate or emotional—my fingers type out my feelings even before my mind begins to process them. But since I think my slew of passionate articles from November 2013 to date has pretty much dried up my emotional toothpaste (Shawn Hunter, BMW), I am more than willing to take my coffee shop therapy.
Earlier as I was writing an article on RF Treatment, I was sitting at a table across from this girl who was watching some movie on her phone. She sat there for 2 hours, sniffling loudly the whole time. Every time I glanced over, I saw her wiping tears off her face—huge, copious, unbelievable amounts of tears. And a fictional story that I would (probably not) write someday began to unfold in my mind, of a girl who had her heart broken, sat in a coffee shop and cried over The Notebook. She sat there so she wouldn’t feel alone, even though every moment felt so lonely. Ooohhkay, that’s hitting a little close to home, circa 2012.
I continued writing and glanced to my left. There was a group of freshmen college coeds there, studying for their finals. Don’t ask me how I know they were freshmen—they just had that fresh meat smell to them. Also, they were small. I wasn’t that tiny when I was a frosh, was I? Their time was spent alternating between reading their textbooks and making googly eyes at each other. One was apparently the 11th wheel or something. Wonder how many of those cutesy relationships will last.
I went to sit outside once my battery finished charging. Beside me, two businessmen were arguing about figures and manpower. No way would I pretend to make sense of that. Three feet way, a group of girls were gossiping about their boss. Now I know this because I could hear them. Poor suckers. Wonder if they realized someone was watching them and listening from a table away. Well, they were pretty loud. And they were at a coffee shop right outside their office building (as I assumed from their attires). Did they want to be overheard?
A lot of people passed by in the eight hours that I sat there (I know, I need to get a life). A girl rushing off to school, a gigantic foreign businessman who had a weird strut, a balding janitor with a kind smile, a hipster (complete with glasses) in a tight checked polo on his phone, scowling (argument with the girlfriend, maybe?) and taking huge puffs from his cigarette every other sentence. There were also ordinary people just walking by, people I didn’t really try to notice, but maybe should have.
My point is this: I get a lot of inspiration just sitting a coffee shop and watching the people go by when I have nothing left to say.
Everyone has a story to tell, a story that they might not want to speak about in the first place. I looked at their faces, from the smiling eyes to those dripping in tears, from the gossipy smirks to the worried set of their lips, from their suitcases to their stilettos , there’s always a story you can try to tell. Or someone’s expression that sets off the next line of your piece, telling you with their faces what you should have been saying.
It’s weird, I know. But give it a shot. You want to learn about people? Find a coffee shop, order their largest drink, and sit there for a few hours. You’d be overwhelmed at how many stories your mind begins to tell you.
And for a writer, that’s a damned good problem to have.
Also: if you try sitting at some coffee shop and find yourself glancing at an oddball with messy hair and a beat-up laptop in front of her, do yourself a favor and look away. I think she’s told more than enough stories to the world.
No comments:
Post a Comment