About Observing Moments

What do you notice? Your voice may feel like it comes from inside your head, but the world outside strengthens your perception, anchoring it in reality. 

In this lesson, spend time in nature – studying a weed, an ant, a creek bed – to develop your descriptive skills.

 

A Note About Sensing and Observing

Observation lessons like this often emphasize sight or hearing, but people have other senses for processing the world. Use whatever abilities you rely on – touch, smell, taste, proprioception, synethesia – to evoke sensory details in the moment.^[1]

Your Observing Eye – and “I”

Good details matter. Students often nod when I tell them this writing rule, but agreeing is not the same as doing. They still turn in drafts with no specific details. They don’t trust their own observations, apparently believing the details they notice will sound silly or strange or won’t matter to anyone else.

The point of description in first-person storytelling is to convey the individual quality of being alive. We share many things, but we’re all different, too, and those differences make the most prosaic actions unique. A description of going to work can be captivating or eye-glazing, depending on the details. So, don’t just tell me you hate your job. Describe the broken elevator, losing the heel of your shoe as you run to the bus, your baby crying when you leave her at daycare.

Your way of observing the world is what makes your voice distinctive.

Good details matter. In descriptions of the natural world, minutely observed specifics take center stage. They put the first-person writer in the role of observer: describing moments that may have little to do with human interaction. You stand back, yet your voice comes through in the details you choose. Your way of observing the world is what makes your voice distinctive.

Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, a nature writing classic, illustrates such intent observation as well as introspection. In her 1974 personal narrative of a year spent “in a valley in Virginia’s Blue Ridge,” she positions her “I” as a watcher, in the moment, sticking to the specifics of what she sees:

“I like to go north. There the afternoon sun hits the creek just right, deepening the reflected blue and lighting the sides of trees on the banks. Steers from the pasture across the creek come down to drink; I always flush a rabbit or two there; I sit on a fallen trunk in the shade and watch the squirrels in the sun.”^[2]

You can see this moment — it’s evoked visually. Indeed, Dillard’s second chapter is simply titled “Seeing.” As she puts it: “I’ve got great plans. I’ve been thinking about seeing. There are lots of things to see, unwrapped gifts and free surprises.”^[3]

Your details matter. If there’s a mantra to embrace in first-person storytelling, it’s that. Avoid generic descriptions like “The bird was interesting.” Describe what you see and otherwise sense specifically (name, number, color, smell, comparison to something else). You have permission to write about the most ordinary things in the world as long as your details evoke that world.

Q. How does this lesson build on the previous lesson?

The previous lesson explores how your “I” voice can change, depending on the situation and the details you include. In “Observing Moments”, you’ll practice describing what you notice in real time. You’ll work on standing back, noting down details in the world around you rather than relying only on your inner world of thoughts and feelings.

Q. Do I have to write about nature?

Yes, for this lesson, much as I don’t like forcing anyone to write against their will. Remember: these are exercises meant to spark new ways of thinking. As part of the process, give “green time” a try and see where it takes you.

Stay in the moment.

One reason to observe the natural world is that it encourages a different kind of attention. Stay in the moment, attending to small details that are often ignored in busier settings. Unlike cityscapes packed with people where your attention scatters, observing, say, a blade of glass for a fixed period of time can help quiet the noise

Such attention is a form of mindfulness and, for some, a route to the sacred. Many writers and poets, from Li Po (a poet during China’s Tang Dynasty) to Thomas Merton (a twentieth-century Trappist monk) to Annie Dillard, have made the connection between immersion in natural spaces and prayer or meditation.^[4]

Q. What if I’m stuck in a city with no time to observe a natural place?

If you don’t have a backyard or easy access to the woods, this lesson may seem daunting. However, it doesn’t have to be. First, expand the definition of natural place: anywhere you see bits of green or non-human life making its way.

You don’t have to go outdoors to find nature. Here’s Terry Tempest Williams, describing herself as a child studying dust motes in her house:

“I would lie in a sun puddle on our living-room floor, staring at dust particles dancing in the column of light streaming above me. Using my field guide to air, I tried to differentiate flakes of dried skin from specks of dirt, sand, or salt from the sea.”^[5]

Look for nature everywhere.

Even urban landscapes with lots of tall buildings and no trees usually have parks tucked in or grass sprouting next to curbs. Arguably, rats in an alley constitute nature, although I’d never suggest exploring unsavory or unsafe places for the sake of a writing activity.

Look for nature everywhere. You may be surprised by what you observe in a puddle of rainwater, a flock of pigeons, or a gecko running up a wall.