What Do You Write About When You Don't Know What To Write About?

Go outside, you will get your answer.

Stephen King says I’m not a writer if I don’t write every single day. He demands lots of writing, too! A single paragraph scratched out in a journal somewhere is woefully inadequate. I see him now, arms folded, his fearsome stare glaring down at me as I desperately cast about, searching the corners of my blank mind for something, anything, that I can put down on paper.

Of course, the news cycle has been popping for the last couple of weeks. Surely the tragedy of Charlie Kirk’s murder, the censoring of Jimmy Kimmel and the continued polarization of American politics give me more than enough material to galvanize my pen into action. Truthfully, I did write A LOT on these subjects, but as the ink dust settled, and the sun faded beneath the horizon of my writing, I squinted at my pile of words in the growing darkness and realized with demoralizing sadness.

“There is nothing here.”

I have all these words, carefully crafted and neatly organized, ready to be launched into the world, and I’m sitting here with a crinkled-up face, lips pursed, arms crossed, head moving left to right. I’m not happy with what lies before me. Then there’s that sinking feeling. All that time, all that effort and into the waste paper basket it goes. Oh well. It’s an occupational hazard. Stephen King will understand.

I could try writing chapter 2 of my fiction book. Does anyone want to know how Aardark got his name? Maybe that’s what I should write about. My mind probes deep into the recesses of my imagination. Alas, my fiction well is dry! When I wrote chapter one last week, I laughed right out loud. I thought it was hilarious. I’m not so sure this week. As I re-read my material, it sounds lame to me. I’m as moody about my writing as a teenager without WiFi.

I sit and think, but nothing comes.

A homeless dude rolls up to my bench on the seawall. He is riding a bike with a flat tire, a second bike is slung around his neck, and he guides a third one precariously with his right hand. He stops and lies to me.

“I’m a bike mechanic, I’m going to be fixing my friends’ bikes, say, do you have a bike pump?”

I am surprised by how easily I fib right back at him.

“Nope, I don’t have a bike pump.”

I actually do in my pannier.

He’s not satisfied with my answer.

“Are you sure? That’s a nice bike, and it looks like you might have some gear in your saddlebags.”

“Sorry, no, I think there’s a gas station near here.”

“Yah, they don’t have the type of pump I’m looking for.”

He takes off the bike, slung around his neck, like a man takes off a dirty shirt. He dismounts the bike he is riding and leans all three against the back of my bench.

As he comes around the front, I see that he is carrying a metal stick sharpened on one point and has a big knife strapped to his side. He empties the contents of his pockets right beside me. A couple of old cell phones, a fidget spinner, a rag, and two or three butane lighters clunk and clatter out.

“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a lighter, would you?”

This time, I tell the truth while planning my exit strategy

“Sorry, no, I don’t smoke.”

He tries in vain to squeeze a flame out of one of those butane lighters; he curses under his breath about how his cigarette had gone out while moving his train of bikes.

Just then, his buddy lumbers up, body bent from too much fentanyl use. He holds something in his hand and raises it triumphantly in the air.

“Bro! I got a pump.”

Not only that, but the newcomer, who is clad all in black, also has a lighter. Things are looking up!

I slowly pack up my things as animated conversation and cigarette smoke fill the air around my quiet space.

They don’t notice me leaving, and I’m okay with that.

I move a football field’s distance away from them and resume my writing. I’m writing about them now, maybe this will turn into something. About 30 minutes later, the same dude drifts by. He’s dressed in red and has his baseball cap cocked gangster style. Even though it’s overcast and not yet eight in the morning, he wears sunglasses. He crosses the plaza behind me, his necklace bike is gone, he left it with the man in black.

I’m not thrilled that he’s gone behind me. Only my mom has eyes in the back of her head, so I’m forced to turn and watch. He dismounts and slips into what looks like a small fitness room. He’s out of sight for only a minute, then I hear shouting, then he is outside the door, a well-muscled young man is chasing him.

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Now “F-bombs” reign down fast and furious from both sides.

Red Shirt Gangster pulls that knife I saw earlier, and muscle boy makes the wise decision to retreat inside the building and bolt the door.

Red Shirt mocks him for being a coward. Then he turns his attention to a couple of bikes locked up in front of the fitness centre. It isn’t long before an even bigger man comes out of the building.

“Get the fuck away from my bike.”

The dust-up repeats itself,

Now, Red Shirt turns and walks straight towards me.

“Hey, laptop guy, do you have a cigarette lighter?”

“No, sorry, I don’t,” I tell him for the second time. He is oblivious that we’ve already had this conversation.

He finds a light for his cigarette from the next guy over to me. Red Shirt plops himself down and forces unwanted conversation. I learn that Red Shirt likes Steph Curry and the Golden State Warriors, and maybe something about a conspiracy.

After a couple of minutes of awkward conversation, Red Shirt grabs his two bikes and heads off down the seawall.

He doesn’t get far before the police arrive on the scene, so he ducks down a side street.

“He’s over there,” I yell and point.

A minute later, the Red Shirt Gangster comes flying back out of the side street at top speed. He is down to only one bike now and pedalling it for all he is worth. A cop is trying to chase him down on foot, and for a short second seems to be gaining ground on him.

As Red Shirt approaches, I hear the police man yell at the top of his lungs.

“Stop, you are under arrest!”

I have a brilliant idea to assist the sprinting policeman; a well-timed backpack throw could do just the trick, but the thought doesn’t harden into an actionable plan until the knife-wielding biker bandit is out of range.

To the great relief of the huffing and puffing cop, a police vehicle, sirens blaring, joins in the chase. A drone appears overhead, and cops come out of the woodwork.

I don’t know if they caught him, but I know I caught a story.

My advice:

When you don’t know what to write about, go outside, watch, wait, listen; the story will come every time.