The Professional Stickybeak and the Train of Thought
By Sophie Masson | August 17, 2011 |
Writers are professional ‘stickybeaks’, as we say in Australia: amongst crowds of strangers we go about eyes on stalks, ears flapping, mind whirring, sniffing out the telling vignette, the odd detail, the weird seed that might one day flourish into a full-grown literary plant. We don’t need to know everything about a real-life situation or person—in fact I think that often too much knowledge stymies things: we just need the intriguing glimpse that might fire the creative brain. And nowhere do you get more intriguing, diverse, fertile and unmediated glimpses into the rich, sordid and simply weird potential of human life and human nature in the all-too often-antiseptic modern Western world than on public transport—particularly on trains. Commuters in a hurry to get home complain of the overcrowding, the discomfort, the slowness of our city rail transport, especially in Sydney; but for a writer, such short rail journeys can be a positively Dickensian cornucopia of bizarre and tragi/comic delights. (And as I’m from the country and only make it to the city sometimes, I’m even less jaded by the experience and so really notice things.) These are just some of the micro-stories I’ve collected along the way.
One day, a man got on my subway train and stood swaying just before me. ‘Can you move over, please, love, I’ve only got one leg?’ I looked at him–he seemed to have two–but moved over, thinking, hey, he looks like he could easily get angry. He was big, burly, with fierce spiked hair, eyes black and still as stones, tattoos on powerful arms. He sat down with a grunt, squeezing in next to me and another person. Then he leant down, rolled up his trouser leg–and there, quite plainly, was an artificial leg. With another grunt, he proceeded to hoist the leg out of its socket, where it joined the stump of his lost limb. He fiddled with it for an agonisingly long time. Fiddled and prodded and poked, adjusting the leg, then finally strapped it on properly., rolled down the trouser, and sat back. His face was grey with strain. I was ashamed of my shrinking-away, ashamed of the complexity of emotions..especially when he closed his eyes then and almost fell over, his eyes rolling in his head. People were not sure whether to be sorry or embarassed or fearful..Was he stoned or drunk as well as legless? Oh dear, the dreadful puns you think of..though you try to push them away! He got up for his station, leaving his bag behind; when the person on the other side of him, called out, look, your bag, and handed it to him, the one-legged man said, with a grin, ‘Hell, mate, I’d lose me head if it weren’t screwed on. Already lost me leg–really be a shame if I lost the head too, eh?’ And the whole carriage burst into nervous yet relieved laughter.
Another time, on comes this old lady. All dressed in black, with a tight grey bun, faded shoes, several plastic bags variously hung about her, frantic eyes. She sits down next to me and begins fussing around too, looking in her various bags–then brings out two brown paper bags. One has a heap of tissues rammed in any old how–the other a neatly folded little white mountain of tissues. She proceeds to spend the rest of the trip taking the untidy tissues and very carefully, very neatly, folding them and refolding them and stowing them in the other paper bag. I can’t take my eyes off what she’s doing; I think she sets about it as briskly and practically as though it were some capricious fairytale task imposed on her by an ogre, a task she’s determined to finish..No-one else however is game to look, just in case she howls at them or something. But she doesn’t look up, not once, and keeps folding and folding. It is like she has been set a fairytale task, one of those absurd conditions you must fulfill before a wish can be granted. But I don’t see the end of it. I’ve reached my stop.
Another day, another journey, another train. Several stories: here, a pair of young bloods eye off two uniformed off-duty cops sitting calmly in one of the seats, chatting amiably together. The young bloods desperately want the cops to watch them, to notice them, but they don’t look, their casualness is so calm as to be almost studied. The cops are talking of holiday plans, of beach flats, of families; the businesslike revolvers in their holsters speak a different language. Put these guys in a T shirt and jeans and no young blood would notice them; a uniform, a gun, makes them quite other. The young bloods are getting impatient; their voices are rising, they’re talking wildly, of vaguely illegal activities, just to get a reaction, any reaction. The cops don’t care. They pay no attention at all.
And finally: a beggar, a young man passing a slip of paper around to passengers. It reads, ‘Please help. I am deaf and I need $2 to get home.’ People snort and turn away; but further up the carriage, I catch sight of a woman who’s been conducting a vigorous sign-language conversation with her friend. I watch to see what will happen…but the beggar sees them in time. The look on his face is comical. Of all the carriages on all the trains, and he had to come into this one! Quickly he scuttles off the other way before they see his sign. I wonder what new cover story he’ll invent for himself now.
Born in Indonesia of French parents, and brought up in France and Australia, Sophie Masson is the award-winning author of over 70 books for children, young adults and adults. Her latest books include Sydney under Attack (children’s historical novel, Scholastic Australia, 2022) A Hundred Words for Butterfly (adult novella, ES-Press, 2022) and Cock-a-doodle-doo (children’s picture book, (illustrated by Kathy Creamer, little Pink Dog Books, 2022). In 2019, Sophie received an AM (Member, General Division) award in the Order of Australia honours list.
What fun, Sophie, and, yes, the stories are all around if we have eyes to see. I tire of those who fret over their ‘blockage’. I want to yell, ‘Open your eyes, for Christsake. It’s right in front of you.’
You seem to be a real ‘Professional Stickybeak’.
It’s an interesting and wonderful post.
Thanks for sharing your inspiring Train of Thought.
Lol! The legless man was my favorite, but they were all quite amusing. Thank you for sharing, and for reminding us that stories are everywhere!
Great post, Sophie! Love the stories.
I like to people-watch at the mall. And as a fun writing exercise, I’ll pick out someone interesting and write a short scene off the top of my head. (ie, the tiny old woman wearing a crocheted hat and carrying a JCPenny’s bag is really an assassin, and the man posing as a janitor is her mark…)
I agree with Alex…inspiration is everywhere!
This was so fun to read this morning! Your writing was a nice start to my day. And I loved the stories… the legless man was funny, but the tissue woman was surprisingly fascinating. And I chuckled out loud at the scammer!
Sophie, I love your eye for a scene and your marvelous ability to write it so succinctly. Nicely done. Thanks.
People-watching, no matter where you are, is one of the best ways to take notes of all the little details and oddities that people possess, and that can make your stories/characters more convincing. You seem to have quite an eye for it, and an attention to detail! I carry around a Post-It pad in my purse, so I can write down things that catch my eye or snippets of story or dialogue that come to me throughout the day.
What characters! I am intrigued by the woman folding tissues. :)
Terrific post. People watching is a favorite thing of mine, too.
What fun, Sophie! I think I’d greatly enjoy a train ride with you.
Love the term “stickybeak” as well. I don’t think we have anything that’s poetic and yet neutral.
FYI, the Share button isn’t working for me.
What great stories! When we were in DC this summer, I was the same, watching and listening on the metro — a perfect “stickybeak”. Truth be told, that’s me all the time!
People do this regardless if writing is their hobby, it’s inevitable and part of human nature. What is interesting to me is what people notice.
My old roommate would always comment on shoes; a friend who was a physician’s assitant on toes and elbows, my sister who is a beautician on hair, and an acquaintance who did rolfing would notice people’s posture. My boyfriend (who works in technology), will always notice an Ipad or electric car. And so on and so on. Just a fun part of life to people watch.
Sophie,
After that, I’ll read whatever you write – that was wonderful!
Each one cut me off – I wanted to know more (especially the tissue-lady!)
Thanks so much for reminding me what good writing does to a person.
I think the stories we don’t get to see the end of are often the most inspirational. Thanks for the fun post.
All I can say, Sophie, about the leg incident is OMG!! In large capitals and fluorescent colours!
Fascinating stories, Sophie! The tissue lady is truly inspirational, I think I’d have missed my stop (or talked to her) just to find out what was behind it all. How could you stand not to know – and yet, as you say, the unknown is what triggers the imagination and leads us into stories. This is a timely reminder to stop living in my imagination and be more observant! Well done, flick.
This was such a great post to wake to this morning. Terrific stories & terrific storyteller.
Delightful. My next free day I think I’ll ride the trains and take notes.