Paint Me a Picture
Got back yesterday from a whirlwind trip to Manhattan with Oldest Daughter. We had a fabulous time . . . we walked all around the city, holding hands, and talking. She is too thin! No Freshman 15 for her. So I tried to stuff her with good food and pretzels from the sidewalk guys. It is so wonderful to know she is pursuing her musical dreams. The bonus, of course, is that I was in New York City.
So we were on 5th Avenue watching the Columbus Day Parade. During parades, cars can periodically cross at even streets, pedestrians at odd. We were at 54th. This old couple, well-dressed, comes up and wants to cross and the cop near us tells them no. They start arguing. They tell him he's an idiot . . . they go on and on about having to go out of their way ONE block. Cars are RUSHING through the intersection during a break in the marchers, and they are whipping awfully close to them--and the cop--as only Manhattan drivers can. Finally, the cop told them if they didn't move they would be hit by a cab (which came PRETTY close), and they shuffled off, CURSING him under their breath. The cop looks at me and says, "Nice old lady." I was reminded for the thousandth time that my hometown isn't like any other hometown.
Living where I do in Virginia, I dislike how homogenous it is. I hate that my kids have the ONLY Hispanic surname in their classes. When they occasionally stumble on a Gonzalez or a Martinez, I am practically giddy! In NYC, because all the cops were directing parade traffic, I saw every cop's name on his or her badge. Irish, Vietnamese, Italian, Spanish, and every possible enthnicity of last names under the sun. I saw many, many hajibs (Muslim head coverings) as I walked along, I saw several Siekhs in turbans and long beards. I heard every possible language I think, as people walked past us chatting in their native tongues on their cellphones. The guy who sold us Oldest Daughter's pretzel was Lebanese--and very funny.
But if you have never lived in New York, you might not know. You might guess at this melting pot, but the rainbow is really astounding. So bringing it back to the writing . . . my opening scene in Freudian Slip has a siekh driving a cap with a Buddha bobblehead on his dashboard and a picture of Pope John Paul II paperclipped to his viser. I tried to paint my city the way I see it. Oldest Son has an English teacher. He had to write an essay and he mentioned candy canes in it. The teacher, for Oldest Son's rewrite, said, "Add more description. Don't assume I know what a candy cane is or what it tastes like." So the essay was turned in again with glowing description of peppermint.
My trip to New York was a writing reminder that you shouldn't assume. Paint a picture--not back story, don't drown it with boring details--but slip it in there. You know, come to think of it, that's why Travis's My Town Monday blogs are so fun.
So tell me a detail about where you live. Something you'd have to be observant or an insider to know.
So we were on 5th Avenue watching the Columbus Day Parade. During parades, cars can periodically cross at even streets, pedestrians at odd. We were at 54th. This old couple, well-dressed, comes up and wants to cross and the cop near us tells them no. They start arguing. They tell him he's an idiot . . . they go on and on about having to go out of their way ONE block. Cars are RUSHING through the intersection during a break in the marchers, and they are whipping awfully close to them--and the cop--as only Manhattan drivers can. Finally, the cop told them if they didn't move they would be hit by a cab (which came PRETTY close), and they shuffled off, CURSING him under their breath. The cop looks at me and says, "Nice old lady." I was reminded for the thousandth time that my hometown isn't like any other hometown.
Living where I do in Virginia, I dislike how homogenous it is. I hate that my kids have the ONLY Hispanic surname in their classes. When they occasionally stumble on a Gonzalez or a Martinez, I am practically giddy! In NYC, because all the cops were directing parade traffic, I saw every cop's name on his or her badge. Irish, Vietnamese, Italian, Spanish, and every possible enthnicity of last names under the sun. I saw many, many hajibs (Muslim head coverings) as I walked along, I saw several Siekhs in turbans and long beards. I heard every possible language I think, as people walked past us chatting in their native tongues on their cellphones. The guy who sold us Oldest Daughter's pretzel was Lebanese--and very funny.
But if you have never lived in New York, you might not know. You might guess at this melting pot, but the rainbow is really astounding. So bringing it back to the writing . . . my opening scene in Freudian Slip has a siekh driving a cap with a Buddha bobblehead on his dashboard and a picture of Pope John Paul II paperclipped to his viser. I tried to paint my city the way I see it. Oldest Son has an English teacher. He had to write an essay and he mentioned candy canes in it. The teacher, for Oldest Son's rewrite, said, "Add more description. Don't assume I know what a candy cane is or what it tastes like." So the essay was turned in again with glowing description of peppermint.
My trip to New York was a writing reminder that you shouldn't assume. Paint a picture--not back story, don't drown it with boring details--but slip it in there. You know, come to think of it, that's why Travis's My Town Monday blogs are so fun.
So tell me a detail about where you live. Something you'd have to be observant or an insider to know.
posted by Erica Orloff at 6:57 AM
39 comments
