I went to Starbucks today to get a latte, read the script of the movie Bound (which I haven't seen, but I'd like to), and maybe do some outlining on my current project.
What I did instead, because it was immediate and inspirational and there, was do some writing practice. That is, put to paper exactly what was floating through my mind at the moment. I try to emphasize tactile facts at the beginning -- sights and sounds rather than feelings, so that I focus myself in the present.
And this is what I wrote.
A black man, with a slight dusting of grey in his hair and moustache, wears a clean, unbuttoned navy blue and white plaid shirt, black shorts, and black tennis shoes. He listens to his portable CD player. And dances. He has been dancing in place for the half hour or so I've been here. Wiggling his butt, sometimes clapping his hands.
He took out the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and with it a Polaroid photograph. He looked at the photo, then stuck it back. Took a cigarette, put the pack back. He hasn't lit the cigarette yet, but he's dancing. The cigarette bobs up and down, perched at the very end of its filter on his lip.
Everyone who passes stares, either openly or after they've passed him. Most of the ones who stare after passing give looks of disgust.
He's rocking out, in place, and I can't tell what he's listening to -- he has several CD cases spread out on his table. One is The Bodyguard, but I can't imagine dancing this much to that.
I can't hear what he's listening to, because I'm inside the Starbucks, where something or other is being played on the speakers.
(He lit the cigarette I missed that part.)
I don't know this guy -- who isn't bothering anyone, doesn't make any noise except the occasional handclaps -- has riveted my attention.
I stopped there, before getting any further. One thing I like about writing like this is that it gives me a mental image and immediately reminds me of the scene and setting.
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