So, this guy walks into a bar...
Feb. 26th, 2015 03:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gridloreAn exercise I enjoy doing when I’m not feeling particularly creative is to come up with a simple scene and rewrite it from multiple perspectives. This both keeps me writing and also forces me to use different narrative styles. In this example, we have a nearly empty bar. Only the bartender and one regular are there at the beginning. Then a strange man enters, orders a drink, pours it over his head, pays, and leaves.
First Person
I was sitting at my usual place in one of the booths, nursing my whiskey sour. Jake, the bartender, had been cleaning the same glass for an hour as the afternoon sun peeked through the blinds on the windows. Then the door opened, and in came a guy I’d never seen before. He was pretty stout, and had wild blond hair sticking out in odd tufts and spikes. He was wearing an orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers.
Jake put down the now very clean glass and straightened his suspenders and bowtie. “What’ll you have?” he asked.
The stranger didn’t answer, but instead looked around the bar, taking in the old framed photos and newspapers, the tacky lights, a long look at the mirror behind the bar, and finally looked at me. “I’ll have what he’s having.” the guy said in a high-pitched voice. Jake got right to work, although I noticed he left out the egg whites. You have to ask for that. Also the bar was out of orange slices. Soon enough, the stranger was presented with his drink. He grabbed it pudgy hands, and immediately dumped it over his head. “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” While Jake and I stared in confusion, the stranger, now with whiskey and lime juice dripping off him, fished a battered wallet out of his trousers and handed Jake a twenty. Then without a word, he turned and left.
Second Person, No Dialogue
You’re sitting in your usual place in your usual dive, drinking your usual whiskey sour. You don’t need to look up to know that behind your head is the New York Post’s sports page from the day the ‘68 Mets won the Series, next to a signed photo of “Marvelous” Marv Throneberry. At the bar Jake is wasting time cleaning one glass. You know the owner is upstairs, and Jake will catch hell if the boss finds him loafing. Aside from the murmur of traffic outside, it’s a typical quiet afternoon.
Until the door opens, and the guy comes in. You stifle a laugh, because this clown must be color-blind. He’s dressed in a orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers. The clothes do nothing to hide that his was carrying a lot of bulk, and that hair hasn’t met a barber in some time. Jake, as always, straightens his bowtie before asking what the guy wants.
The new guy doesn’t answer, but instead looks around for a bit before staring at you. In a weird high-pitched voice, he says he’ll have what you’re having. You cringe, hoping this weirdo doesn’t want to be friends. Jake pours the drink, leaving out the egg whites; you learned long ago that was reserved for regulars like yourself. The oddly-dressed dude then dumps the drink on his head and declares that it was refreshing. You stare in disbelief as he fishes a twenty out of his wallet and leaves.
Third Person, subjective
The bar was almost empty, as it was was most afternoons during the week. Beside Jake the bartender the only other person there was Killer Joe in his usual spot along the wall. Jake was polishing the same glass he had been working on for an hour while keeping an eye out for his boss coming down the stairs. The bastard loved to sneak down to catch him not working. Killer Joe was nursing his second whiskey sour, a drink he had learned to love in his halcyon days as a boxer.
Then the door opened, and a very odd man came in from the street. He was dressed in mismatched clothing: an orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers. Jake thought that his dirty blond hair either hadn’t been washed in ages or that it took an hour each morning to get it to look like that. Either way, he was a customer. Out of habit, Jake adjusted his suspenders and bowtie before addressing the newcomer. “What’ll you have?”
Rather than answer, the odd customer took his time looking around, noting the yellowing photos and newspapers, the scuffed bar and torn upholstery. He stares for a time at the old mirror behind the bar before turning to consider Killer Joe. “I’ll have what he’s having!” the new guy said in a strange, high-pitched voice. Relieved to have something to do, Jake sprang into action, pouring whiskey, lime juice, and syrup into the shaker. This guy, Jake thought, doesn’t rate the egg white. Shake, pour, garnish with a maraschino cherry. No orange slice, they were out.
Jake slid the finished drink to the stranger. He took it with a grin, then dumped it over his head as both Jake and Killer Joe looked on in shock. “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” was all the stranger said, as he fished a twenty from his battered wallet and left. Jake stared after him, and all he could think was that at least the guy was a good tipper.
Third Person, objective
The bar only has two people in it, the bartender who is methodically cleaning a glass, and a customer in a corner booth who is slowing sipping a drink. A third person enters from the street. He is dressed in a orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers. The bartender straightens up and asks what the newcomer will have. Rather than answering, the newcomer instead looks around the bar, taking in the decorations and state of repair. He looks at the one customer and states “I’ll have what he’s having!” The bartender makes the drink, leaving out the egg whites and orange slice. The new customer dumps the full glass over his head and says “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” while paying for the drink with a twenty dollar bill. He then leaves without waiting for his change.
Really Detailed, First Person
Sam’s Bar, three in the afternoon, and I was sitting at my usual place in one of the stained and faded booths nursing my second whiskey sour of the day, watching as the dust motes danced in the sunlight peaking through the battered Venetian blinds. The tacky wall lamp with its cracked shade gives just enough light to see some of the hundreds of faded and yellowed photographs and newspapers lining the walls, tributes to New York’s sporting triumphs. My photo was up there; down the hall, past the broken ice machine, near the restrooms. That’s what a 12-16 record as a Light Heavyweight earns you, I guess.
Jake, the bartender, had been relentlessly cleaning the same Old-Fashioned glass for an hour, wiping away imaginary smudges with a not-overly-clean bar rag while casting furtive glances towards the stairs that led to the boss’ office. Then the bar’s door opened with a squeal of unoiled hinges, and in came a guy I’d never seen before.
He was dressed in a collection that would make the Salvation Army renounce their faith and quit - a hideous orange and brown plaid jacket almost worn through at the elbows and what used to be neon lime green trousers that had faded from horrific to merely tacky. His clothes did nothing to disguise that he was carrying some pretty good weight on his frame, but it wasn’t fat. I mentally pegged him as a Cruiserweight, about 5’9” and 190lbs. Topping it all off, the guy had wild straw-colored hair that was sticking out in odd tufts and spikes, as though he’d styled it with the help of the nearest electrical outlet.
Jake quickly stored the now very clean glass and rag under the bar. He straightened his old black suspenders and his bright red bowtie before speaking in his ‘You’re new, I’ll be nice’ voice. “What’ll you have?” The stranger didn’t answer, but instead looked around the bar while breathing deeply. He took in the old framed photos and newspapers. He stared at the dusty, broken lights, his gaze lingering for an uncomfortable time on the old mirror on the wall above the bar. Finally, he turned and looked at me with his piercing gaze. “I’ll have what he’s having,” the guy said in a squeaky high-pitched voice that didn't match his body at all.
Jake got right to work, bottles clinking as he added the ingredients to a silver cocktail shaker, although I noticed he left out the egg whites. You have to ask for that. He also left off the orange slice, but I knew that was because the bar had run out. Soon enough, Jake pushed the drink across the bar. I wondered if that was the same Old Fashioned glass he had been cleaning for so long.
The stranger grabbed the glass in one of his thick hands and immediately dumped the contents over his head. “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” While Jake and I stared in confusion, the stranger, now with whiskey and lime juice dripping off him, fished a battered leather wallet out of his trousers and handed Jake a crisp twenty. Then without a word, he spun around with an almost military turn and left the bar, leaving a trail of of whiskey sour drops behind him on the worn wooden floor.
Horror, Third Person, subjective
The old bar was almost empty, the cracked leather barstools and worn tables coated in a fine layer of dust that drifted down from the ceiling every time a truck rumbled by outside. Jake the bartender was polishing the same glass he had been working on for an hour with jerky movements. He kept stealing glances at the old iron staircase that led to the second floor where the boss kept his office. The old man loved to sneak down to catch Jake not working. In his usual spot in one of the booths, Killer Joe was carefully nursing his second whiskey sour while studiously not looking at the rows of faded newspapers and yellowed photos on the walls.
With a protesting creak of unoiled hinges, the door opened. Standing there, framed by the harsh sunlight, was the silhouette of a man neither Jake nor Killer Joe had ever seen. He was dressed in tawdry, mismatched clothing: a stained orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers. The clothes couldn’t hid the stranger’s oddly lumpy bulk. Jake thought that his dirty blonde hair either hadn’t been washed in ages or that it took an hour each morning to get it to look like that. Either way, the effect was disturbing.
Nervously, Jake fiddled with his suspenders and bowtie before addressing the newcomer. “What’ll you have?”
Rather than answer, the odd customer just stood there silently, wheezing slightly as he slowly looked around, spending long seconds staring at the old mirror stretching the length of the bar . . . He finally turned and stared at Killer Joe, who had turned a nasty shade of white. “I’ll have what he’s having!” the stranger cried in a piping, high-pitched voice.
Swallowing hard, Jake sprang into action, pouring whiskey, lime juice, and syrup into the shaker with trembling hands. Jake tried to ask if the stranger wanted egg whites, but couldn’t get the words out. Shake, pour, garnish with a maraschino cherry. No orange slice; they were out. Jake cautiously slid the finished drink to the stranger. He took it with a disturbing grin, then dumped it over his head as both Jake and Killer Joe looked on in horror. “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” was all the stranger said, as he fished a brand-new twenty from his battered pale leather wallet and left. Killer Joe gulped the rest of his drink, wondering how he was going to tell Jake that when the stranger had been in front of the bar, there was no reflection of him in the mirror.
***
Another thing I’ll do is write a simple sentence, then work to expand it into a short piece. The idea is to take a very simple beginning and work it into something better. This is a technique I do in re-writing if I feel a passage is too bland. As I wrote this, the dog across the street started barking.
The dog was barking.
The dog was barking furiously.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach. The cat didn’t seem to notice.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach. The cat didn’t seem to notice. Fact was, all the neighborhood cats knew exactly how long the dog’s leash was, and delighted in tormenting the dog.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach. The cat didn’t seem to notice. Fact was, all the neighborhood cats knew exactly how long the dog’s leash was, and delighted in tormenting the dog. Cats are jerks like that.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach. The cat didn’t seem to notice. Fact was, all the neighborhood cats knew exactly how long the dog’s leash was, and delighted in tormenting the dog. Cats are jerks like that. Someday, someone is going to lengthen that leash by two feet. Won’t that cat be surprised?
First Person
I was sitting at my usual place in one of the booths, nursing my whiskey sour. Jake, the bartender, had been cleaning the same glass for an hour as the afternoon sun peeked through the blinds on the windows. Then the door opened, and in came a guy I’d never seen before. He was pretty stout, and had wild blond hair sticking out in odd tufts and spikes. He was wearing an orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers.
Jake put down the now very clean glass and straightened his suspenders and bowtie. “What’ll you have?” he asked.
The stranger didn’t answer, but instead looked around the bar, taking in the old framed photos and newspapers, the tacky lights, a long look at the mirror behind the bar, and finally looked at me. “I’ll have what he’s having.” the guy said in a high-pitched voice. Jake got right to work, although I noticed he left out the egg whites. You have to ask for that. Also the bar was out of orange slices. Soon enough, the stranger was presented with his drink. He grabbed it pudgy hands, and immediately dumped it over his head. “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” While Jake and I stared in confusion, the stranger, now with whiskey and lime juice dripping off him, fished a battered wallet out of his trousers and handed Jake a twenty. Then without a word, he turned and left.
Second Person, No Dialogue
You’re sitting in your usual place in your usual dive, drinking your usual whiskey sour. You don’t need to look up to know that behind your head is the New York Post’s sports page from the day the ‘68 Mets won the Series, next to a signed photo of “Marvelous” Marv Throneberry. At the bar Jake is wasting time cleaning one glass. You know the owner is upstairs, and Jake will catch hell if the boss finds him loafing. Aside from the murmur of traffic outside, it’s a typical quiet afternoon.
Until the door opens, and the guy comes in. You stifle a laugh, because this clown must be color-blind. He’s dressed in a orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers. The clothes do nothing to hide that his was carrying a lot of bulk, and that hair hasn’t met a barber in some time. Jake, as always, straightens his bowtie before asking what the guy wants.
The new guy doesn’t answer, but instead looks around for a bit before staring at you. In a weird high-pitched voice, he says he’ll have what you’re having. You cringe, hoping this weirdo doesn’t want to be friends. Jake pours the drink, leaving out the egg whites; you learned long ago that was reserved for regulars like yourself. The oddly-dressed dude then dumps the drink on his head and declares that it was refreshing. You stare in disbelief as he fishes a twenty out of his wallet and leaves.
Third Person, subjective
The bar was almost empty, as it was was most afternoons during the week. Beside Jake the bartender the only other person there was Killer Joe in his usual spot along the wall. Jake was polishing the same glass he had been working on for an hour while keeping an eye out for his boss coming down the stairs. The bastard loved to sneak down to catch him not working. Killer Joe was nursing his second whiskey sour, a drink he had learned to love in his halcyon days as a boxer.
Then the door opened, and a very odd man came in from the street. He was dressed in mismatched clothing: an orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers. Jake thought that his dirty blond hair either hadn’t been washed in ages or that it took an hour each morning to get it to look like that. Either way, he was a customer. Out of habit, Jake adjusted his suspenders and bowtie before addressing the newcomer. “What’ll you have?”
Rather than answer, the odd customer took his time looking around, noting the yellowing photos and newspapers, the scuffed bar and torn upholstery. He stares for a time at the old mirror behind the bar before turning to consider Killer Joe. “I’ll have what he’s having!” the new guy said in a strange, high-pitched voice. Relieved to have something to do, Jake sprang into action, pouring whiskey, lime juice, and syrup into the shaker. This guy, Jake thought, doesn’t rate the egg white. Shake, pour, garnish with a maraschino cherry. No orange slice, they were out.
Jake slid the finished drink to the stranger. He took it with a grin, then dumped it over his head as both Jake and Killer Joe looked on in shock. “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” was all the stranger said, as he fished a twenty from his battered wallet and left. Jake stared after him, and all he could think was that at least the guy was a good tipper.
Third Person, objective
The bar only has two people in it, the bartender who is methodically cleaning a glass, and a customer in a corner booth who is slowing sipping a drink. A third person enters from the street. He is dressed in a orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers. The bartender straightens up and asks what the newcomer will have. Rather than answering, the newcomer instead looks around the bar, taking in the decorations and state of repair. He looks at the one customer and states “I’ll have what he’s having!” The bartender makes the drink, leaving out the egg whites and orange slice. The new customer dumps the full glass over his head and says “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” while paying for the drink with a twenty dollar bill. He then leaves without waiting for his change.
Really Detailed, First Person
Sam’s Bar, three in the afternoon, and I was sitting at my usual place in one of the stained and faded booths nursing my second whiskey sour of the day, watching as the dust motes danced in the sunlight peaking through the battered Venetian blinds. The tacky wall lamp with its cracked shade gives just enough light to see some of the hundreds of faded and yellowed photographs and newspapers lining the walls, tributes to New York’s sporting triumphs. My photo was up there; down the hall, past the broken ice machine, near the restrooms. That’s what a 12-16 record as a Light Heavyweight earns you, I guess.
Jake, the bartender, had been relentlessly cleaning the same Old-Fashioned glass for an hour, wiping away imaginary smudges with a not-overly-clean bar rag while casting furtive glances towards the stairs that led to the boss’ office. Then the bar’s door opened with a squeal of unoiled hinges, and in came a guy I’d never seen before.
He was dressed in a collection that would make the Salvation Army renounce their faith and quit - a hideous orange and brown plaid jacket almost worn through at the elbows and what used to be neon lime green trousers that had faded from horrific to merely tacky. His clothes did nothing to disguise that he was carrying some pretty good weight on his frame, but it wasn’t fat. I mentally pegged him as a Cruiserweight, about 5’9” and 190lbs. Topping it all off, the guy had wild straw-colored hair that was sticking out in odd tufts and spikes, as though he’d styled it with the help of the nearest electrical outlet.
Jake quickly stored the now very clean glass and rag under the bar. He straightened his old black suspenders and his bright red bowtie before speaking in his ‘You’re new, I’ll be nice’ voice. “What’ll you have?” The stranger didn’t answer, but instead looked around the bar while breathing deeply. He took in the old framed photos and newspapers. He stared at the dusty, broken lights, his gaze lingering for an uncomfortable time on the old mirror on the wall above the bar. Finally, he turned and looked at me with his piercing gaze. “I’ll have what he’s having,” the guy said in a squeaky high-pitched voice that didn't match his body at all.
Jake got right to work, bottles clinking as he added the ingredients to a silver cocktail shaker, although I noticed he left out the egg whites. You have to ask for that. He also left off the orange slice, but I knew that was because the bar had run out. Soon enough, Jake pushed the drink across the bar. I wondered if that was the same Old Fashioned glass he had been cleaning for so long.
The stranger grabbed the glass in one of his thick hands and immediately dumped the contents over his head. “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” While Jake and I stared in confusion, the stranger, now with whiskey and lime juice dripping off him, fished a battered leather wallet out of his trousers and handed Jake a crisp twenty. Then without a word, he spun around with an almost military turn and left the bar, leaving a trail of of whiskey sour drops behind him on the worn wooden floor.
Horror, Third Person, subjective
The old bar was almost empty, the cracked leather barstools and worn tables coated in a fine layer of dust that drifted down from the ceiling every time a truck rumbled by outside. Jake the bartender was polishing the same glass he had been working on for an hour with jerky movements. He kept stealing glances at the old iron staircase that led to the second floor where the boss kept his office. The old man loved to sneak down to catch Jake not working. In his usual spot in one of the booths, Killer Joe was carefully nursing his second whiskey sour while studiously not looking at the rows of faded newspapers and yellowed photos on the walls.
With a protesting creak of unoiled hinges, the door opened. Standing there, framed by the harsh sunlight, was the silhouette of a man neither Jake nor Killer Joe had ever seen. He was dressed in tawdry, mismatched clothing: a stained orange and brown plaid jacket and lime green trousers. The clothes couldn’t hid the stranger’s oddly lumpy bulk. Jake thought that his dirty blonde hair either hadn’t been washed in ages or that it took an hour each morning to get it to look like that. Either way, the effect was disturbing.
Nervously, Jake fiddled with his suspenders and bowtie before addressing the newcomer. “What’ll you have?”
Rather than answer, the odd customer just stood there silently, wheezing slightly as he slowly looked around, spending long seconds staring at the old mirror stretching the length of the bar . . . He finally turned and stared at Killer Joe, who had turned a nasty shade of white. “I’ll have what he’s having!” the stranger cried in a piping, high-pitched voice.
Swallowing hard, Jake sprang into action, pouring whiskey, lime juice, and syrup into the shaker with trembling hands. Jake tried to ask if the stranger wanted egg whites, but couldn’t get the words out. Shake, pour, garnish with a maraschino cherry. No orange slice; they were out. Jake cautiously slid the finished drink to the stranger. He took it with a disturbing grin, then dumped it over his head as both Jake and Killer Joe looked on in horror. “Aahhh . . . Refreshing!” was all the stranger said, as he fished a brand-new twenty from his battered pale leather wallet and left. Killer Joe gulped the rest of his drink, wondering how he was going to tell Jake that when the stranger had been in front of the bar, there was no reflection of him in the mirror.
***
Another thing I’ll do is write a simple sentence, then work to expand it into a short piece. The idea is to take a very simple beginning and work it into something better. This is a technique I do in re-writing if I feel a passage is too bland. As I wrote this, the dog across the street started barking.
The dog was barking.
The dog was barking furiously.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach. The cat didn’t seem to notice.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach. The cat didn’t seem to notice. Fact was, all the neighborhood cats knew exactly how long the dog’s leash was, and delighted in tormenting the dog.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach. The cat didn’t seem to notice. Fact was, all the neighborhood cats knew exactly how long the dog’s leash was, and delighted in tormenting the dog. Cats are jerks like that.
The dog was barking furiously and straining at the end of his leash, trying to reach the cat sitting just out of reach. The cat didn’t seem to notice. Fact was, all the neighborhood cats knew exactly how long the dog’s leash was, and delighted in tormenting the dog. Cats are jerks like that. Someday, someone is going to lengthen that leash by two feet. Won’t that cat be surprised?
