How Being a Writer Changes Your World
When I began writing novels, I noticed my perception of things began changing. I no longer saw or listened the way I formerly had. Actually, my awareness of the world around me became enhanced.
For instance, in a restaurant, I began noticing how people talked to each other; their body postures; their use of cell phones (or not); their voices; the restaurant’s ambiance; the music; the bar scene; and the people who bellied up to the bar; the tone of the waiter and of people ordering dishes; how the food smelled, and its taste. I made a mental inventory of how a particular wine felt on the tongue, how it blended with the food, and many other sensibilities that were formerly not particularly within my conscious awareness.
On a train, I studied people’s faces—-their facial expressions, the sizes and shapes of their heads, their ears, noses, hairstyles, skin tone, wrinkles, their clothing, the materials they read, whether they looked fatigued, or bored, or content. I tried to guess what they did for a living based on their appearances.
When walking by a river in my town I stood on a small footbridge and watched the water, wondering how I would describe the look and sound of the roiling water as it neared a bend. I noticed how the sun reflected off the water’s surface and how the changing angle of light altered the river’s appearance. I asked myself how I would describe what I was seeing in words.
I began watching, listening, and feeling things more carefully, and made a mental inventory of these sights, sounds, smells, and perceptual qualities, sometimes consciously and at other times, without being particularly aware of this enhanced awareness.
It was clear that the demands of a novel--of putting thoughts, feelings, descriptions, sights, sounds, and smells directly onto the page--forced me to become more perceptually aware of the world around me. It’s a good thing.
So in a very real way, when you’re a novelist in any genre, your perceptions become greatly strengthened, and hopefully, become part of your craft.
Mark Rubinstein
Author, “Mad Dog House” (October 2012)
For instance, in a restaurant, I began noticing how people talked to each other; their body postures; their use of cell phones (or not); their voices; the restaurant’s ambiance; the music; the bar scene; and the people who bellied up to the bar; the tone of the waiter and of people ordering dishes; how the food smelled, and its taste. I made a mental inventory of how a particular wine felt on the tongue, how it blended with the food, and many other sensibilities that were formerly not particularly within my conscious awareness.
On a train, I studied people’s faces—-their facial expressions, the sizes and shapes of their heads, their ears, noses, hairstyles, skin tone, wrinkles, their clothing, the materials they read, whether they looked fatigued, or bored, or content. I tried to guess what they did for a living based on their appearances.
When walking by a river in my town I stood on a small footbridge and watched the water, wondering how I would describe the look and sound of the roiling water as it neared a bend. I noticed how the sun reflected off the water’s surface and how the changing angle of light altered the river’s appearance. I asked myself how I would describe what I was seeing in words.
I began watching, listening, and feeling things more carefully, and made a mental inventory of these sights, sounds, smells, and perceptual qualities, sometimes consciously and at other times, without being particularly aware of this enhanced awareness.
It was clear that the demands of a novel--of putting thoughts, feelings, descriptions, sights, sounds, and smells directly onto the page--forced me to become more perceptually aware of the world around me. It’s a good thing.
So in a very real way, when you’re a novelist in any genre, your perceptions become greatly strengthened, and hopefully, become part of your craft.
Mark Rubinstein
Author, “Mad Dog House” (October 2012)
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