The Writers are Always Watching

After George Orwell, but before a camera-in-every-pocket, my house was electronically bugged. It was the early 70’s and concerned a business to business lawsuit. I know I was heard singing to my children as we rocked in the rocking chair because after they attached a listening device to the chair, it squeaked. I would not have wanted to be the man in the van listening to, “We’re gonna see Jack—squeak—we’re gonna see Jill—squeak…” but everyone has bad days at work. 

They were also listening in on my conversations with my mother. It was not as subtle as they hoped. When I told mother we were bugged, she said, “Look out and see if you can see the van.” I saw the van, right as it shot by my house at full speed!

I was even followed, something that freaked out my best friend when we met for lunch. 

“That man is watching you,” she said.

“I know,” I replied. “Wherever I go, he follows.”

I suppose it should have been more disconcerting than it was, but it was good training for today when everyone over the age of eight has a viewfinder on you and my grandchildren can track my every move with a quick click.

However—I am going to disclose a closely guarded secret—as long as there have been storytellers, people have been closely monitored. A storyteller, oral or written, is an observer. We must truly be subtle; people avoid you if they think you are watching how they raise an eyebrow or purse their lips.  So, we develop “writer’s face.” Our eyes say, “How interesting,” while our hearts are thinking, “Oh, that was good—that phrase will definitely make the book.” 

We hope that when we actually capture someone for the retelling or the page, they do not realize they are the character who is too slow, too obnoxious, or worst of all, killed off before the story ends. 

I will give you an example. Our family gathered in Indiana for a funeral.  My youngest daughter came from North Carolina. A cousin asked how things were in the south. My daughter said she was currently busy with the annual Girl Scout cookie drive. The cousin loves the Lemonades cookies, but, alas, she had done without them for years because they are not sold north of the Mason-Dixon line. 

“Oh,” my daughter said, “I have cases of them in the van.”

The cousin was interested. Could they possibly steal just a few packages out of the van? No one would even notice. Quietly, they opened the back of the van. 

The crackle of a package of Girl Scout cookies is not something you can hide. Others quickly gathered, holding out their money. Pretty soon, we had something of a cookie mart going on, my flummoxed younger daughter popping open fresh cases to hand cookies to people dressed in their funeral best.

My older daughter, fellow writer J. A. Busick, said she was stealing the scene for a book because “my sister sold cookies out of the back of a van at a funeral” was too rich to go unwritten.

Garage cams might put you on the neighbor’s bad side, but mess up in front of a writer and you could end up as that relative in a story.