Mordecai
destractivegodofdarkness
Registered: Jan 2001
Location: library
Posts: 19584 |
quote:
Originally posted by plum
Maybe I need to get more into the personal psychology behind it. That way, my stories could mean as much to others as they do to me.
You are correct, and it might make it more interesting.
And you don't have to write fiction to make it interesting, though fictionalizing small bits doesn't hurt either. I don't mean adding ninjas or anything, but making up a bit of dialogue that you may have forgotten the exact details of isn't going to ruin the story. Also, toss in more details to make the scene come alive, and again, a little bit of fiction doesn't really hurt.
For example:
As a newly minted 'adult' at the age of nineteen, I was bitten by the travelling bug, and bitten hard. I had decided to get the hell out of Toronto and head to the east coast. Rather than cross through Quebec with it's plague of french speaking nuisances, I decided to head into America, through New York and Vermont.
As luck(and the rides I could get) would have it, I found myself crossing at the teeming, touristy Thousand Islands crossing on a holiday weekend, July first.
I'd just been dropped off by an obese redneck from Florida. I didn't ask what he had been doing in Florida, in fact I tried to ask as little questions as possible, since the man would hardly shut his mouth without my prompting. Despite the constant stream of chatter from his blubbery lips, I didn't really learn anything from him other than the fact that he liked to drink a lot, play poker and get in bar fights.
My fine fat friend dropped me off about a quarter mile from the border, as he didn't want any 'excess baggage' when he crossed, I suppose he might have thought I would cause him trouble, though I'd never thought of myself as the type to be taken for a criminal.
The sun beat down on the long lines of vehicles waiting for their turn at the customs gate, reflections from bits of chrome sending sharp little darts into my eyes, and I was already sweating. I stuck my thumb out, again and again, but people simply fixed their eyes on the road ahead and drove past. In a moment of inspiration, I made a typical hitchhiker sign reading, "USA," but after an hour or so, it was apparent that I was stuck with my own two feet.
Being a polite sort of fellow, I didn't want to simply walk to the front of the line, so I simply moved into a space between to cars, walking forward whenever the line inched up a car length. I'm sure I looked an odd sight, standing in that queue of cars, but the few reactions I did get were that of mild amusement, a smile here, a nod there.
After about twenty minutes of imitating a car, an irritated customs officer stepped from his booth and demanded I return to my vehicle.
"I don't have a vehicle," I said. He looked exasperated and gestured off to the left side of the line.
"Pedestrians cross through over there for christ sake!"
I shrugged and wandered off in the direction he had indicated. Getting closer to the buildings, I realized this was a large complex and I was a bit confused as to where to go, so I simply headed to the nearest booth and handed my ID to the fellow sitting inside. He merely glanced at it, handed it back and said, "Okay."
I was a bit nonplussed at this apparent disinterest in my person, but I assumed that this was the Canadian side for Americans entering Canada and walked on.
A short walk past the main office there was another set of gates, smaller than the first. Here as well there was a line of cars, idling in the summer heat, waiting for their turn. I stepped up to a booth at the gate, but the customs officer inside obviously had more than enough to do dealing with people in cars.
I heaved a weary sigh and simply walked onward, into the U.S. while trying to re-settle my heavy backpack onto a part of me that wasn't chafed already. I had little success in this venture, but I did succeed in thumbing a ride.
The car that skidded to a halt on the shoulder ahead of me was a big black thing, with the type of wide tires only a person who likes big block engines buys. The exhaust had a deep rumbling tone that seemed to add a counterpoint to the heavy, dissonant music pouring from the open windows. I trotted up the car, taking off my pack as went. I opened the door and hopped inside, gear on my lap. Deafness was immediate.
"YOU HEADING ANYWHERE IN PARTICULAR?" shouted the man behind the wheel. He was about my age, with long straggly hair, a pale complexion and a Metallica t-shirt that had been washed too many times. About a thousand washes ago.
"EAST," I shouted over the din. He nodded, pulled back into traffic and with a small screech of the tires we were off. I'm not generally a nervous passenger, and one can't be choosy when you're hitching rides, but this time I was wondering if I should have passed on this one. He drove with an intense expression on his face, head bobbing in time to the beat. His lips twisted into a snarling smirk any time traffic forced him to remove his foot from the accelerator, and he dodged through gaps with mere inches to spare.
I adopted a policy of staring at the floorboards to keep my heart rate down to a normal level, and if I hadn't been afraid of being rude, I'd have plugged my ears. After an hour of sonic assault and being jerked about by G forces, I felt the car slow and then stop. I looked out the windshield and then at the driver. He merely looked back at me expectantly, head still bouncing up and down. I gathered my ride was over, opened the door and stepped out. The moment I closed the door, he was gone in a cloud of dust. He hadn't spoken a single word after the initial question.
Looking at the roadsigns, I discovered I was outside of a town called Plattsburgh. Shortly thereafter I was picked up by a large van with fantastic designs painted on the sign. When I opened the door, smoke came wafting out, redolent of marijuana. Inside sat a group of young men wearing bright colors, bloodshot eyes and broad grins. The music was different this time, and they spoke a bit more, but the head bobbing thing continued. I was beginning to think I was in the land of marionettes. Conversation was light, and every other lines seemed to be, "'Ey Mon, Ja mon." I rode along in silence and soon they dropped me off in Plattsburgh.
I wandered about the town for a while, and stopped at a small diner as I was hungry and my feet were complaining a bit. Inside the air conditioning was a welcome change from the brutal reflected heat of asphalt and concrete. I sat at the counter, my pack beside me. A large woman with bottled blonde hair approached and handed me a menu, and inquired as to what I'd like to drink. I asked for an iced tea and turned to the menu. The menu choices were simple plain fare and I settled on a simple ham sandwich with french fries. Setting the menu down I glanced around my surroundings.
The diner was fairly non-descript, white linoluem floors, faded brown tables, chipped ashtrays on the counter. In a corner booth a young woman wore a harried expression on her face as she attempted to ride herd on three young children. In the kitchen was a surly looking short order cook whom I could only catch glimpses of through the window, but judging by his milk curdling expression, he hated everyone, everything and if the world ended tomorrow, he'd consider it a good thing. I watched him snatch the ticket with my order off the wheel, glare at it, and then set it aside. I hoped he wouldn't spit in my food for having the temerity to order food in a diner.
A burst of crying interrupted my study of the angry fellow. One of the children in the corner was crying and another looked a bit afraid, it took little imagination that the one had struck the other and now feared punishment, and rightly so, as it was swiftly administered. Now two of them were crying and the third looked to be about to join in just for the sake of completing the harmony.
The large woman with the brassy hair hustled around the counter and over to the table. In the interest of keeping of the peace, she bribed the children into silence with offers of free icecream, then hustled back just in time to prevent my sandwich from falling on the floor after the belligerent cook had flung it up on the window. She set the plate, a bit more gently in front of me, said "There you are sweets," smacked her gum and moved off to the freezer.
-----------
Ok, I've got things to do, and if I'm going to be writing like this, I should be doing my own stuff, but I think you get the point, it's probably better to bring the reader there, so they can experience what you did, and maybe gain an understanding.
-m
__________________
Exercise caution when the drug enforcement agent gets breast enhancement surgery
Report this post to a moderator |
IP: Logged
|
![[new thread]](/images/vb/button_newthread_off.png "Post New Thread")
![[post reply]](/images/vb/button_newreply_off.png "Post A Reply")
09-22-2004 07:00 PM
