How a story is made in my mind

While walking down Summit Avenue to visit an old friend, I stumbled upon a scene that touched me deeply.
It wasn't a romantic scene with a dashing woman swept off her feet by a gentlemen fully drunk with love and admiration for her. Nor was it a devastating scene that would scare me for life, well maybe, but it wasn't gory or brutal. The truth is, this was an ordinary scene that would probably impact the masses had it occurred in Haiti or any poverty-stricken nation. But this happened right here in the USA!


Perhaps my reaction was exaggerated, but here it goes: While walking down the street as I noticed the wonderful afternoon sky and felt the cool breeze along with the sounds and conversations of any small city. It was the perfect evening...until I noticed the boy. He was small, a bit chunky, and he was probably age eight or nine. He was struggling to walk down the street and although I could only observe from behind, his body expression seemed to hint he was looking up to the sky in frustration and a bit sad. The child was carrying three book bags and as he passed people on the street he was looked upon by them. To some people it was the look of sympathy and to other people it was the look of contempt; they had a lot of contempt for his parents, at least, that was what I could gauge from their looks. 


After seeing this for a good thirty seconds, I could not stay there and become one with the crowd. I was determined to help this child carry the burden. No sooner had I decided when the kid dropped all the bags on the street, clearly tired from carrying the burden. I approached him and asked if he needed help. When he looked at me, I saw his face change from a kid who was tired and frustrated by his situation, into a child with a huge smile and renewed strength. He gave me the heaviest one but was determined to carry the other two and we set out towards his destination. 


During our walk towards his home, I insisted numerous times to allow me to carry one more if not all the bags so he wouldn't get tired. He simply smiled and said, "it's ok, I can do it." so we kept walking. Once we got to his destination he simply took the heavy bag, put it on his shoulder and ran the stairs and once he was at the door, he turned around and thanked me.  I was very happy I could help make someone's day, even if that someone was a child. 


So, how does this explain how I make a story? Writers, as a close friend of mine once said: "Observe life through a different lens and then writes about it."  I believe this is part of what we do. Whenever I write a poem that describes an emotion like a mother towards her only son, for example, I try to imagine how I would feel as the mother or father of that child. When it comes to story telling, especially short stories, the challenge is conveying a story and a message that will reach the reader and hopefully create a lasting impact on the reader. 


Get a strike with a fuzzy decorative dice...or with hard work and dedication


To that end, whenever I write a story I try to make it interesting and like most writers, I do research. However, there are some things that happen in our everyday lives that can create an impact and are in reality, simple things. This situation with the boy I encountered can be interpreted in many ways and with each interpretation there will be those that like it and those that don't. I hope this post gives everyone an insight as to how it is writers work.


Juan

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