To be a writer is to pay attention.

To write demands that a writer, first and foremost, notices things. This is such a baseline rule many want-to-be writers forget it. In order to write, you must observe the world around you. You need the little details to fill in the world you’re creating on the page. You’re searching for the one telling little aside, the small bit of reality, that can breathe life into a story.

The converse of this, of course, is that everything becomes material. I’ve written before about a car accident I was in a few years ago, which ended up with the truck upside-down in a ditch. (Next time, honey, the State Trooper said, just hit the damn deer.) There I was, hanging in my seatbelt, and part of me was panicking. The part of me that functions as a mother on a daily basis was calm. (First thing to do is get out of this seatbelt. Then kick out a window. Get moving.) The writer in me was taking notes. (So this is what it feels like. That’s what it smells like. Don’t forget this.)

And of course it could be argued that as a coping mechanism, taking notes for a later story does help to keep one calm.

But I am amazed at the number of want-to-be writers who just don’t take the time to look around. When I ask them, “What does this look like in your story? What does it feel like, smell like? What color are the walls?” they do not know. And it shows, it shows. A necessary part of writing a story is being able to envision it, the other part is the craft to express one’s vision clearly (always a different blog post, that.)

So, this being a Friday, and me being me, I thought I’d share a few exercises I came up with to help my writing students learn how to use those mental muscles. It takes a little bit of time to get into the habit of noticing things, and like all mental skills, it needs to be practiced. The mental muscles can get just as flabby as the physical ones without use.

* People Watching. Not only is this good for your observational skills, it’s also fun and cheap. Go to a public place–a mall, a park if the weather is nice, any crowded public place. I like casinos, actually. (There is no aspect of human behavior you can’t find at a casino.) Settle down with a coffee or a beverage in one hand. (The price of the beverage is your “rent” on the chair you’re settled in. Note: in casinos, don’t get anything alcoholic. It dulls the senses, and you might end up gambling.) You can have your journal in the other hand, in fact, I recommend it.

Now, watch. Watch the people going by. Don’t ogle, just observe. Write down snippets of conversation you overhear. Start making up little stories. That woman just had a brush with death. That guy is actually a secret agent. That couple is about to slip through a dimensional portal. Just play “what-if.”

Don’t be rude or obnoxious. Eavesdrop with politeness. If someone asks what you’re writing, tell them it’s a diary entry or that you’re on a school project. The key to this exercise is just to observe people unobtrusively. You won’t believe what you begin seeing after a few sessions sitting and watching and making up what-ifs. Public transport is also a carnival for the writer, but you may have to keep your observations inside your head instead of getting them on paper, since it’s tricky and possibly dangerous to write while on a bus/subway.

* Get a mini tape recorder and record things that strike you while you’re driving. Driving is part left-brain logic and right-brain spatial perception, so it massages the Muse like nobody’s business. Those awesome ideas that strike you while you’re stuck in traffic? Record them. You can get a cheap voice-activated tape recorder or Palm-Pilot-esque thing that does the same thing. Just be careful–for God’s sake, don’t try to write while driving, and use appropriate care while doing this. The last thing you need is to record a car wreck. No matter how much “good” material I found in such an event, I really don’t recommend it.

* Practice paying attention to all your senses. Try this: set your trusty kitchen timer for five minutes. Now, close your eyes and listen. Try to turn your whole body into one big sensitive ear. Spend a week just listening for five minutes, then spend five minutes really tasting a piece of chocolate or your lunch for a week. Close your eyes and savor the food, notice its texture. Spend a week just smelling five minutes a day. (Careful where you practice THAT one.) Spend a week laying in bed for five minutes, moving your awareness around your body–into your toes, into your fingers, into your belly, into your knees, into your scalp.

Save the visual part of this exercise for the last week. Go around a familiar room for five minutes and really look at things–knickknacks, books, decorations, shelves, files, whatever. Examine them closely. It is amazing what you can notice about the Old Familiar Things that you never saw before.

* Go to an antiques mall or a thrift store. Wander around. Window-shop, and make up stories about the items you encounter. Story ideas may bite you during this one, so keep your notebook/journal handy. Note down the story ideas and keep moving. (As a side note, I have recently fallen in love with ThriftHorror.)

All these exercises serve two purposes: they teach you to pay attention and observe, and they fill up the artistic “well.” The well is the stock of experiences and sensations you draw on as a writer. It needs to be wide and varied, and like any creative well, it can run dry if you don’t tend it and feed it. And the habit of paying attention is a valuable life skill as well as a writer’s working tool. Who knows what trouble one can avoid just by keeping one’s eyes and ears open?

Yet another side note, I’ve noticed that only a small fraction of what I see in my head goes on the page. What ends up in the book is only the tip of the iceberg; but it’s everything underneath that tip that keeps it afloat and provides nourishment for the tip to draw on. The bulk of the story in my head, the sensory experience of writing a story and seeing through a character’s eyes, never makes it out, but hopefully it informs the rest and provides a solid “bulk” for the story to rest on. It is there to be mined for the telling detail, the single little thing that can make a story. You can’t mine, after all, if there isn’t something to mine for. It’s better to have a choice of telling details rather than none at all.

And of course, writing is a sensualist’s dream. We live in a wide, varied, wondrous world, and paying attention is one way to enjoy it to the hilt so one can share the wealth. There’s a reason why writers tend to love research. New experiences, sensations, sights and sounds trigger the kid in all of us–the child who notices things before other considerations crowd out observation. I’m just grateful it takes so little to relearn the wonder.

Have fun, dear fellow writers, and enjoy the world.