The power of observational writing
An essay on why observation is the most underrated and potent tool in a writer's arsenal
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“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”
― Arthur Conan Doyle
I’ve read many books in my life, but there is a particular, otherwise ordinary, excerpt from a Sherlock Holmes’ short story, “The Scandal of Bohemia”, that has left an indelible mark on my literary conscience. I won’t give away why just yet, but the answer would soon become self-evident. So stay with me.
(Sherlock) “Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an arm-chair. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”
(Watson) “Frequently.”
(Sherlock) “How often?”
(Watson) “Well, some hundreds of times.”
(Sherlock) “Then how many are there?”
(Watson) “How many? I don’t know.”
(Sherlock) “Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. ”
There are several online compendiums on writing well. They are typically focused on the technical craft, providing readers with breezy summaries of how to develop a mastery of the written word. Whilst these guides serve a well-intentioned purpose, they are often based on the assumption that to become a good writer, one has to acquire, through some sort of pedagogical exercise, a specific set of skills.
“Read widely”, “Write simply”, “Shadow great writers and their work”, “Find your voice”, are some of the common aphoristic mantras that resonate in the writing community. These points are valid (although I could pick holes in them if I really tried) but there is a fundamentally more crucial tool that often gets forgotten; a tool that has achieved a certain synonymity with the Sherlock Holmes mythology.
Observation.
The raw power of observation allows one to freeze moments retrospectively, to breath in and process its majestic complexity, before articulating it with razor-sharp precision. Observation frees the writer to infuse reality with a distinct flavour of subjective perception.
Put in another way, as a writer, you aren’t just describing what you see. You are reassembling every external smell, taste, sensation and emotion on to a page through your own interpretive lens. That is your value proposition. Good writing can be inspired by emotion, but first and foremost it must be underpinned by clear-sighted observation.
Somerset Maugham, one of the greatest literary ‘observers’ to have graced readers minds in the 19th century once said; “I had an acute power of observation…It seemed to me that I could see a great many things that other people missed,” with his characteristic understatement.
As a prose stylist, Maugham had few equals among his contemporaries. The devastating conditions of the poor in London slums, the quirky and outlandish characters populating remote colonial outposts of the South Pacific, the hypocritical upper class: Maugham set their stories down—sometimes virtually unaltered from his own life observations—in his singularly unemotional and yet hauntingly realistic style.
Maugham often luxuriates in taking time to explore his protagonists. He painstakingly builds his characters through a variety of observational snippets; on occasion integrating his own real life observations as building blocks and at other times using second-hand accounts through other peripheral characters in the narrative.
In one of Maugham’s lesser known novels, The Razor’s Edge, a young American, Larry Darrell, is so affected by his experiences in the war that he sets off across Europe in search of spiritual enlightenment. Although Darrell is the main protagonist, we are not passengers in his spiritual odyssey. Instead we are invited to peer into his progress through the eyes of those he leaves behind – the emotionally fragile fiancée who struggles to reconcile her beliefs with her lived experience, and her uncle, one of Maugham’s classic expatriate snobs whose generosity of spirit is matched only by the size of his character defects.
Poignant narrative observations often have the capacity to interrupt the lulling rhythm of life. They jolt you out of the mundanity and take you on a journey through the beauty, torridness, urgency and uneasiness that reality has to offer. Perhaps my greatest enjoyment as a reader is when observations and descriptive insights are used to highlight instances of self-perceived emotional and social deficiency - experiences that we can all relate to at some level through the prism of human vulnerability.
T.S Elliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” is one such example of writing that thrives on observations of the human condition.
Published in 1915, it is the earliest of Eliot’s major works. It offers a no-holds barred examination of the tortured psyche of the modern man—overeducated, eloquent and emotionally stilted. Prufrock, the poem’s main orator, seems to be addressing a potential lover. But Prufrock is too well-versed with life to “dare” an approach to the woman. In his mind he hears the comments others make about his inadequacies, and he chides himself for presuming any interaction could be a possibility at all.
Take the following stanzas for example as Prufrock engages in a monologue of self-doubt.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse
The reader is thrown into the very real world of Prufrock’s piercing insecurity over his physical appearance. We get a glimpse into the deep introspection that goes on in Prufrock’s mind - a persistent and maddening internal audit of the soul. The description is thick and yet simple just with enough detail to capture the subtleties of the situation that is unfolding - each stanza prefacing both the end and start of the protagonists ever increasing sense of nervousness. The caustic and damning judgements of his subconscious thoughts, of what other people would say, are bracketed to suggest its unwanted but unavoidable gnawing presence (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”).
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” is a masterclass in observational and descriptive prose because much of what it says is premised on simple imagery. T.S Elliot’s conservative use of adjectives, adverbs and other linguistic devices prevents any smothering of meaning - keeping the reader focused on the intricate details of the unfolding scene.
How to observe?
Having a healthy sense of worldly curiosity is imperative for observing. From a personal standpoint, since starting this newsletter 3 months ago, I’ve realised how my curiosity in the seemingly mundane aspects of life are crucial drivers to my literary exploits.
Every observed moment in life has a story waiting to be told. It takes a level of curiosity and a dose of opportunism (with some practice) to be able to translate an observation onto a page.
In an effort to show you how my observations have emerged as a potent writer’s tool for me, here are a selection of past essays and the ‘observation(s)’ that spurred its creation.
The problem with 'being authentic'
This piece was inspired by a conversation I overheard (ok, eavesdropped on) between a mother and her primary school-going son in the train from work. The mother spent a good 15 minutes chiding her son for not ‘being himself’ at band practice and being too self-conscious - a view she arrived at based on feedback from his music teacher. Whilst her laments seemed to fall on apathetic ears, their conversation struck a chord in me on the curiousness of authenticity as a concept that we often take for granted in understanding despite its complexity.
Part of this essay served as a recounting of a particularly awkward experience I had with small talk at a parents social meet-up organised by my son’s school. The setting lent itself beautifully for a cathartic blow by blow re-telling of how informal and casual conversations have an ironic profundity about them.
This essay was motivated by my almost surreal experience in entering the office in the midst of a global pandemic. The experience was akin to walking in to a time-capsule - a sobering reminder of the day when everything just paused and people headed home in to their respective lockdowns. The dystopian vibes and tangible reminders of what used to be (“half-eaten mouldy sandwiches”) provided me with enough material to conceive an essay on the subject of flaneury.
So the next time you find yourself perusing Twitter (or insert social media of choice here) for some writing inspiration, stop and ask yourself if you’ve looked at the most obvious place - around you.
Great essay, Josh! Very inspiring, especially the last sentence. Turning observations into text is why I started writing. Before I stopped caring about "what to write" and "where to get inspiration" I was struggling to write regularly, but once I started putting my experience and thoughts into the work, things got much better.