The Three Monkeys
see, hear and say nothing but writers? We use all our senses to absorb
everything and anything that would add
to our stories and articles. Traditionally, we have five senses—See. Hear, Taste, Smell, Touch, that stimulate memories and spark our
ability to compose a piece of non-fiction or tell a tale. Wherever we go a small notebook is tucked in a pocket or purse, another rests on the night-table next to our bed. The notebook at the ready for a description of the leaves you watched flutter and fall as a sharp breeze blew. We all see things differently and objects change with the light. One person may see leaves tremble, another believes the the leaves are dancing their way towards earth. Sometimes when we sleep, dream, walk, wash the dishes or brush our teeth, our brain remains busy gathering fragments of information formed by our senses that lead us to tell our story.
to our stories and articles. Traditionally, we have five senses—See. Hear, Taste, Smell, Touch, that stimulate memories and spark our
ability to compose a piece of non-fiction or tell a tale. Wherever we go a small notebook is tucked in a pocket or purse, another rests on the night-table next to our bed. The notebook at the ready for a description of the leaves you watched flutter and fall as a sharp breeze blew. We all see things differently and objects change with the light. One person may see leaves tremble, another believes the the leaves are dancing their way towards earth. Sometimes when we sleep, dream, walk, wash the dishes or brush our teeth, our brain remains busy gathering fragments of information formed by our senses that lead us to tell our story.
We hear many
sounds that occur at the same time, but how many do we listen too? It’s thought
to be one or two at a time. A sound offers delight to one person, concern to
another. A skinny limb from a nearby tree falls and startles. Sprightly music
on your smart phone lifts your spirit. The crunch of a cucumber refreshes and that
leads to the purple tomato, and the thought of its tartness awakens an appetite
and you think of the pungent tang of sour pickles, the aroma of rich Colombian
coffee.
The day turns cold
and sends shivers racing up and down your bare arm. You rise from the bench and
hear a sound—could it be a strange bird you had never heard before—drops of
rain wet your face, you look up; the sound comes from a baby squirrel, perched
on the skinny limb of an oak tree. You hear the music and but you no longer
listen; your concentration is now on the squirrel. Is it hungry, lonely,
afraid? The light changes as the sky darkens, you can smell the damp and it
begins to drizzle.
Nerve endings
that enable us to feel hot and cold, textures or pain are complex. The rain grows
stronger; soon it begins to pour. Your sweater is soaked and you race for the
exit, slip into a pool of stagnant water that steeps your sneakers, your socks,
your feet in cold, wet, dank liquid and all you think about is standing under a
hot shower.
Home—you step into the shower stall and under
the water’s warmth, you day dream and begin to think of all the sensations that
bring the right line, the new facet of a character, the time and place where
the story must happen.
