A writer rarely enters a room without quietly taking notes. Not with pen and paper; that would be too obvious, but with something far more instinctive. I find myself observing what is going on around me, and the potential for a story forms in my mind.
A writer notices the way a conversation develops or stalls, the glance that lingers too long, and the sigh that says more than words ever could. The looks on the faces of everyone in the room, friendly or grumpy, hostile even, every room has its own look and character.
I was in one such room last Friday, when I had to pay a visit to a local hospital. A hospital waiting room is not a place where most people would want to be. Uncertainty about our health takes most of us there, unless you were in support or there to assist someone.
The hospital was busy; they always are, but the first thing I had to do was find the waiting room. Report to Ward 34, I was told by my local surgery. I diligently wrote down the details, including a long abbreviation that must have been code for something. It was the only writing that I had done for a few days.
Ward 34? I began to wonder about all the other wards (33 of them), and then how many more there were after 34. The hospital was a big place. I arrived at the main reception, where I noticed someone, who looked like he might be a volunteer, advising others on where to go.
“Do you know where you need to go to?” He asked.
“Ward 36.” I replied, without realising that I had given the wrong number.
“I’ll take you to the lift. From there you go to the second floor and turn left, and the waiting room for Ward 36 is at the end of the corridor.”
I thanked him and made my way to the wrong floor. I only recognised my mistake when I saw that Ward 36 was for something different from what I had originally written in my notes for Ward 34. I checked them and realised that I was in the wrong place. The only good thing was that Ward 34 must be close to Ward 36.
I tried again. Fortunately, when I exited the lifts, there was a notice board directly ahead of me that gave directions. I had walked past it without even noticing as I made my way to the wrong ward.
Finally, in the right place, a young nurse, short and jovial, directed me to the waiting area. I was there with several others, all of whom looked far more ill than I. Having booked in, I sat down and waited.
I found myself watching the activity going on all around me. Listening, just taking in what was happening. The waiting area had its own entertainment in a flat, widescreen television fitted to the wall that was showing Deal or No Deal, the British version of a luck-based game show with millions of viewers. Not that I would normally watch it, but it worked at distracting the mind, as the contestant tried to guess which box had all the money in.
Is observation the writer’s superpower?
From the smallest of details, a hospital is a place of uniforms, nurses, doctors, and support staff; they all wore different colours. Of course, they were busy. The patients waited patiently: the woman with a daughter (I assume) clutching her side, an older couple, the man a little slow in movement, and the parents with a young child. She was happily ignoring Deal or No Deal as she played her own games on an iPad.
These fragments of ordinary life become the raw material for stories, essays, and memories. Nothing is too small. In fact, it is often the smallest things that work best. Writers may feel like an outsider. I doubt anyone else there that day was thinking of writing about their experience.
But there is a tension here. A hospital visit can turn out well, or not so good. I know that many there today will have their own personal demons to deal with.
Writing adds a record to memory. All the things that I have forgotten in the past, the memories that are somewhere filed away in the back of the mind, most of which will never surface again. Writing about them is a reminder.
The story is out there.
The writer as an observer is not detached out of coldness but out of curiosity. I write this because in part what I want to say is that the NHS in the UK, and all those who work in it, do a great job; we are fortunate to have such a public service.
To be a writer is to walk through life with open eyes, with a mind that never quite switches off.
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