A simple exercise to never run out of stories to tell
By: Jonas Konstantin
Tags: Writing, Life Lessons, Poetry, Life, Writing Tips

Or why a writer´s greatest tool is compassion.

The man is clinging on the door handle as if he´d drop into the abyss. He´s panting. Sweat runs down his cheeks. I can hardly tell sweat from tears, but I guess it´s the former. His sonjust called him, that his wife Anne is in labour and home alone. He knows she never liked him too much, his strong smell and his scruffy look. He reminds her of her father, a boozer who dropped in and out of her life at his own convenience. Crashing on the couch and leaving before dawn. Nothing remaining but the stench of alcohol and cold cigarette. The man across me is innocent of his transpiration but he must admit, the similarity is striking. The grey beard, the uncombed hair, the tilting way he stands. Anyway, now is his time to show his daughter in law he is not that man. He hurries as the train comes to a halt and disappears into a crowd of strangers.

Next to me sits Caroline. She is scrolling through Instagram. But hardly noticing the images flashing before her eyes. Her eyes glance across the wagon to Sascha who runs his hand through his hair. He does it, whenever he is nervous. Or when he tries to impress. He puts his hands into the pockets of his torn jeans. Pulls them out again. Crossing his arms. From the corner in his eyes he longs for these flashes of Caroline´s glances. He wonders if he could risk winking at her, but her reticent dress tells him, she wouldn´t like it. He wonders if he should ask her out for a drink. But why should she go with a stranger? He´s a washed-up skater boy with beautiful blue eyes and no self-esteem. Caroline wrings her hands and imagines what his lips would taste like. Seconds later a group of craftsmen push Sascha out of sight by . The two will never see each other again.

I don´t know if the shabby guy has a son. Mabye he is the drunk who crashes at his daughter’s couch. I don´t know if that woman´s name is Caroline. If she even noticed the blue eyes of Sascha or whatever his name might be.

But in MY story, they are. What used to be a faceless biomass packed in a rolling container transforms into a narration. Strangers become people, nobody’s turn into somebody´s son or lover.

I used to ride trains listening to podcasts and reading books. Now I listen to their untold stories and read in their faces.

I see anger, and I tell the story about the lost son. I see joy and I recall that afternoon under the pines in the arms of the girl with the chocolate stain on her dress.

If you are lacking inspiration for your next novels protagonist, look at the beggar in the street. Her face will tell you a story of anger, flight, faith, hope and forgiveness.

Everyone in this world has a story to tell. Ask their children and grandchildren and you´ll find the most mundane life is full of wonder. My grandmother was a humble human being, content with feeding her children. Once you sat down, her mouth and eyes would tell you of the first car rolling through her village. She told you about the longing for my grandfather fighting in the war. How a steak tastes after years of potatoes and canned food.

Naturally, we don´t have the means to listen to a lot of stories in our life. If the story of humankind was sunny day, we´d hardly get a glimpse of the last drop of the sunset. But look around. The world is bursting with stories.

Every gesture is a poem. The broken posture of your old neighbour is a war story. The laughter of two girls in the cinema behind you is a love tale. It´s yours to explore it. Take their lead, it´s in their eyes, in their hands. Everything about us tells stories.

Soon enough you´ll wander the streets meeting none but friends. The nameless kebab vendor becomes Stan. A die-hard Marvel fan who collects merch with his father, who owns a comic store.

When your world shines in new colours something changes. There is a new, wonderful companion sneaking into your stories:

Compassion.

We can only leave the homeless freezing in the cold, because we deprive him of his story. Only if he is no one, we don´t feel responsible for him.

If he was an old friend, even a classmate we hardly talked to, would we leave him to starve? We wouldn´t. Because we know him, and he is part of our story.

Once your story includes humans apart from friends, you can´t help but feel compassion.

Characters in stories matter, even if they only play a minor part. We want them to find redemption.

We must make the humans around us into characters of stories. Once we tell their stories, they matter again.

Only one thing doesn´t matter. Whether the story is true or not.