It seems that every day I learn a new way in which a writer (or artist) views the world as apposed to everyone else. A large difference is this: everything has a story. Everything.
You see a man walking down the street drinking coffee with a vexed expression on his face. Most would glance at him and his presence wouldn’t even register in the forefront of their mind, or he would be dismissed immediately afterwards. For a writer, there is a story behind that man.
He’s walking brusquely because he’s trying to distance himself from the café that has been the latest in a series of unfortunate experiences. The coffee is good, but the wait and the prices expend time, energy, and finances he never need worry about until lately. The strain of the waning economy has not only caused him to rethink his morning ritual of the visit to his favorite café, but it has also robbed him of the enjoyment he used to take from his simple cup of Joe.
His thoughts are inward, knitting his brow as the unobservant world passes him by. Now, walking the short distance to his job, sipping the satisfying sweet and bitter draught that used to add a spring to his step, he contemplates how necessary this simple indulgence is to his continued existence. It’s not as important as new socks, or another ream of fresh printing paper, surely. But would giving up the simple pleasure of his morning coffee be just the loss of an unnecessary expenditure? Of course not. It would be one more highlight gone from his day, one more sacrifice among many. So he stubbornly indulges in this tiny luxury, though the pleasure has been robbed from it by that ever-mounting awareness of the impending doom of his financial security.
Before you ask, yes. Every day is like this. Everything has a story. Every mysterious smile a coworker hides behind their work... every whisper exchanged between two people walking too near... everything. Everything has a story and I can’t help but imagine what it is.
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