Read on to discover the benefits of being invisible (or just cut to the end for other news):
When I was about twelve or thirteen, my mum told me about a man who became invisible. She said it involved becoming very still, very quiet, and altering his body language in very particular ways. He got so good at it that soon, he could make the people he was out with forget he was there. I mean essentially he just reinvented being a ninja, but whatever... To say that this idea gripped me is an understatement. In fact I was awe-struck. A child prone to living with one foot in my own fantasy world at all times (and with a good 80% of my weight resting on that one foot), and at an age where I seemed to be becoming visible in ways I wasn’t comfortable with, I decided that this was for me. That I would learn the art of invisibility too.
Now, there are a number of downsides: more than there are upsides, in fact. Those I’ll probably come to in another post. But it’s a great skill to have as a writer, because I find being a writer is also a lot about being an observer. When people – and things – forget you’re even there, you can discover A LOT. Let me show you what I mean.
In the summer holidays my family and I went to the seaside and stayed in a caravan in one of the many ageing holiday parks. It’s a beautiful place close to Ilfracombe that we’ve been to before, with some amazing rock pools. People love to go up to the rock pools with their buckets to see how many creatures they can catch, leaving shrimp and crabs and fish to swim in endless plastic circles while they hunt around eagerly with nets for more. I don’t have anything against this, as long as those creatures aren’t left doing circles in the bucket for too long and eventually get put back where they were found. But I’d suggest it has less to do with the creatures caught, and is more an exercise in ‘how many things can I get in my bucket’. Which, like I said, is fine.
We went up to the rock pools too, except without the buckets – my son and husband prefer just wading around, lifting the corners of rocks to see what’s under them. I like to do this too, watching the critters scuttle off in a plume of sand as soon as their hideout is disturbed before carefully putting the rock back. But mostly on this holiday I sat or squatted by the rock pools, being still and invisible. While everyone around me waded, fished and hunted, I waited. And after a few moments the first blemmie popped its head out and shimmied by, oblivious to me. Soon the rock pool I sat next to was teaming with life, all of it bumbling around, interacting with the environment and each other, eating, fighting, cooperating, and it was fascinating.
I’m not being snotty about how people should or shouldn’t go rock pooling, by the way. More saying that not consciously inserting yourself into an environment or situation gives a very different insight into whatever you happen to be observing. For a start you see how things live and what they do when you’re not a factor in their world. And I find it’s these sort of observations that are gold dust when you’re a writer.
This works with humans too, and this is where it can get very interesting. On the same holiday I took my son down to the on-site cafe/bar to decompress. It was just us and the people who worked there, who were sitting around looking pretty bored when we walked in. I ordered a drink and they were cheerful and polite, as you’d expect, but I had a sense that I’d interrupted something, and that this was part of the professional facade that anyone who’s worked in the retail or service industries will recognise as just that: a facade. I decided this could be interesting, so I made myself scarce. And soon, things got juicy. Either forgetting I was there or thinking I wasn't listening, or not caring either way, the people who worked there started talking loudly about all the things they were angry about at work. “I feel sorry for [owner of the holiday park chain] if he can’t even afford a dishwasher for the restaurant,” spat one, in his tirade.
So when I was visible, ordering my drink, I got one impression of life in the holiday park cafe/bar. And when I wasn’t, I got to learn about the bubbling discontent and resentment of the staff, got to learn that they weren’t being treated in the way they thought they should be – and also about some possible financial trouble for the owner, too, which the emptiness of the bar and boredom of the staff also pointed towards. In short, there was trouble in paradise (spoiler: there usually is).
A lot of our culture now, especially online, encourages extreme visibility – constantly doing, and be seen to be doing; the chasing of likes, follows, and engagement for its own sake. It’s the ‘how many things can I get in my bucket’ approach again. That’s all well and good, but I feel there’s a limit to what you can learn by pushing yourself to the constant fore – by being relentlessly observed. By wading, hunting, chasing. I’m not saying don’t be visible. I’m not saying don’t put yourself at the centre of your personal whirlwind or enjoy every moment of being your true, glorious, extroverted self, or don’t nurture interest in yourself or your work. I know it’s often fun, necessary, or both. But here’s what you can learn by being invisible every now and then:
You can learn who people are and what they really think. How they feel about other people and things. How they feel they’re being treated. How they behave when they don’t feel scrutinised or judged. How they behave when they aren’t performing. How they exist within the environment they’re in. Who fancies who and who’s been in trouble for what. Whose friend’s uncle is currently in prison and whether or not they did the thing. The possibilities are endless. (And you can do the same with non-humans too – in fact if you want to go that far it even works with non-sentient or non-living things, and you can learn a lot about how these things exist, function and interact with what’s around them). All of which can make great material for writing.
For me, I like to turn on the invisibility switch every now and again to see what I can discover. Usually I come away with a few surprises, and more than a little inspiration.
In other news:
I finished redrafting my manuscript last week – it’s another children’s book, this time with a non-human protagonist, which is not something I’ve tried before but have loved writing. I’m just waiting to hear back from my agent to see what she thinks – so keep your fingers crossed for me. Since then I’ve been thinking about starting something totally different and have been thinking a lot about structure. So a friend recommended this YouTube series by Ellen Brock on Advanced Story Structure, and it’s brilliant! Check it out if story structure is something you’re interested in too.
I’ve also been reading a lot of un-child-friendly non-fiction recently, including Unnatural Causes by Dr Richard Shepherd all about his career as a forensic pathologist. Seriously grim and deeply sad at times but also somehow oddly funny and also touching, I found it absolutely fascinating and un-put-downable. And back in the land of fiction, I’ve just started (funnily enough) The Invisible Life of Addie La Rue by V E Schwab. A rush of lyrical language and swirling mystery so far.