Observational Writing

I'm back! It's been a second, but I come to you with a writing prompt from my days as a creative writing student. I suppose I'll always be a creative writing student, but that's beside the point. If you take a look on the Writing Prompts page, there is a prompt titled "Honing Your Observational Skills" under the Warmup Writing prompts column. I was introduced to this exercise in college; we were tasked with finding a single location, outside or indoors, and were told to write at least three pages of in-depth descriptions. We would have to go back week after week, and stay there until we filled our pages.

Now, this may seem straightforward or even boring. But as a middle child, being asked to use my observational skills felt like a perfect opportunity. I grew up soaking up everything I possibly could, watching and listening to all the adults around me, disturbing them with the information I regurgitated later. Not only do I enjoy leaning into every tiny detail I can find, but I was also given a beautiful opportunity to sit quietly, by myself, in a consistent routine. By going back to the same spot over the course of a few months, I got to watch my spot change over time. I chose an outdoor location, a small spot, just off the path, at Stroud Nature Preserve. I had to walk through overgrown grasses and flexible interlocking twigs to claim my fallen log next to a small brook, which fed into the river. And there was where I began my writing and continued until the course ended.

I will publish those observational writings here on my blog. I have not seen these in years, but recently uncovered the old journal in which they live. Below is my very first entry.

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Saturday, February 4, 2023

I haven't even begun, and my hands are going numb from the cold. I wonder if there are weather conditions in which a fountain pen won't work. Before I got the ink flowing, there was speculation that it had frozen on contact with the below-freezing temperature.

I'm sitting at the side of a creek, which burbles and bubbles towards a river. A river that people stop to look at until they get bored and move on. There are sheets of ice partially covering the surface, already beginning to melt. The water flowing beneath it reminds me of liquid mercury or the inside of a lava lamp. It travels in globules, the trapped air ebbing and flowing with it, only visible once beneath the ice.

There are clusters of bubbles, stolen and entombed in the ice. The cold air snatched them away, and they huddle now, close together, waiting for the warmth that will free them.

The edges of the melting ice mimic the look of snowflakes, small branching arms of ice, reaching out over the gently flowing water. Reaching and reaching until they meet at the center, enclosing the water in a tunnel.

There's one bubble beneath the surface. The water flows around it, but it cannot break into the stream. It reaches out to the moving stream of trapped air, but it seems like it loses its nerve and hesitates, backing away. Some reach out to greet it, but the pull of the stream carries them away.

I sit on a dead branch of a dead tree, a bridge for something much smaller than me. Its bark has turned grey, and most of its own limbs are broken. I cannot feel my feet under both layers of socks in my wellies.

The breeze is smiling at me, brushing against my exposed face and daring me to go back to my car, to go get warm.

There is a piece of bark peeking out from the ice, half in the moving water, protruding past the ice barrier, and into the frigid air.

There is some green. Stubborn moss and a weed I do not know the name of. There is green under the frozen mud and dead leaves. There is always.

A tuft of what looks like deer hair lies at my feet. It is mostly white, with a faint hint of brown towards the ends. I think about a bird using it for their nest. They won't be able to use it if I'm sitting here, though; no bird would land at my feet, not that close. Unless they were one hell of a brave bird.

A group of people, all talking at once, passes over the bridge. I couldn't tell the ages until one threw a rock, loudly announced it, and received an excited "hey!" in response. Highschoolers.

A man now crosses and stares at me the whole way. He walks like he doesn't eat well.

The men's voices carry more than the women's. They speak without fear of being heard. When I'm out in nature, I get agitated if I come across a person. It's like "Dammit, they're here too?"

Everything looks the same on the smaller scale. This small creek could look the same as a river. All of their roots that dip into it could be giant trees that lead to exotic caverns.

What the hell am I talking about?

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I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading. I'll be back on a regular posting schedule in the upcoming weeks.