Noticing is a real art.
a writers perspective
I don’t want to write what’s already written. I would write a great novel if I try to write… maybe I’ll get one gold out of it, from the amass of my mediocrity.
Maybe I’ll be exposed to the story of that rustic man with a beautiful face but an annoyed expression driving or rather sitting next to the driver in peculiar clothes; flimsy white banyan, a thick white chador draped on the shoulders, coming back from God knows where or driving to God knows where, if I caught his story I’ll write a stupendous novel on the perplexing life of absurd men
or I’ll write about a village girl, who tends to sheep with her father in the mountains, or that women who owns two companies and three food chains and drives around by herself
or a young boy in the deserts, a child of the nomads, a nomad moving his house of few things. All these lives, writing about all these lives because I can only live one.
“theres ache in my heart for all the imagined beauty of a life I hadn’t had”
I’ve caught myself many times forgetting, some things that I noticed on my drive from somewhere, I always try to notice and catch a story, I’m not sure if great writers went out looking for stories in overheard conversations, in expressions, in laughter, though I think they ought to. At least if I got stories from the side of roads and the head of tall trees, I’d write a book titled Noticing is a real art.
