"Eliot has, like all great novelists, a genius for imagining the inner lives of other people." ~ from Felicia Bonaparte's introduction to Middlemarch by George Eliot.
Imagining the inner lives of other people. Every writer does it. We also imagine their histories. We can't help it. Curiosity and Imagination are the twin engines of the writer's mind, winging us to all sorts of worlds unknown. We may never be as great a novelist as George Eliot, lauded as geniuses for our insights into human nature and motivation, but anyone can exercise the imagination muscles and help them grow. And what better place for exercise than at your friendly neighborhood gym?
My favorite elliptical machine is on the far left in the last row at the very back of the large central room, affording a view of just about everyone and everything going on. Like many gyms, they have banks of TVs tuned to various stations, but I don't watch the TV. I like to watch the people.
Even though we live in a smallish town, I see a lot of folks there I don't know. Or, at least, I don't know their real stories. But I do know the stories I've invented for them. Today I want to introduce you to one of my characters.
I call him the singing Marine. He always wears a tee shirt with a USMC logo or slogan, and a number of the shirts mention Viet Nam in a light that reveals fierce pride in his service there. I won't go into specifics, but let's just say a pacifist would cringe at some of the images and messages. He's clean cut with ramrod straight posture and walks with a swagger, but often appears to be wandering somewhat aimlessly. The impression is that he's boldly and deliberately going nowhere. He stops often to talk to other patrons, his body language one big gesticulation, like multiple exclamation marks punctuating his words. These conversations are almost completely one sided, and I usually can't tell if the person he's talking to is a friend or stranger.
Occasionally he wanders into the free weights area, and once or twice I've seen him attempt to bench press far too much weight. His arms shake then give out, and the barbell crashes back into the cradling frame, drawing attention from every corner of the room. He mumbles something, gets up, and moves on, maybe attempting a few chin ups before resuming his militant meander. Mostly he just walks, chin up, chest out, striding around the jogging path that corrals the exercise equipment into the center.
And that's when he sings.
I've never been able to make out the words, but the melodies and the gusto suggest something in the robust drinking song vein. It's a bit unnerving when one of these ditties erupts full volume as he's rounding the corner right behind me. But I don't think he means to startle. I'm not even sure he realizes he's doing it.
This is what I see. And this is where the questions begin, question leading to question, curiosity fueling them, and imagination filling in the blanks.
I've never been in the military. Never seen the horrors of war first hand. I've never been branded as a part of history that many in our country look back upon with shame or disgust. Never poured my life into serving a nation that would avert its eyes when I limped back home.
I don't know the thoughts of the Singing Marine. Don't know what motivates him to keep wearing those tee shirts all these decades later. Don't know how he perceives himself as he swaggers around a gym occasionally bursting into song, or how he supposes others perceive him. Of if he does.
I don't know what he's seen, felt, endured, loved, lost, and still carries. I don't know, but I can imagine. And so can you. And when we finally get to the place where curiosity becomes love and imagination becomes understanding, we're ready to write.
Jeanne Damoff meets all sorts of characters at her gym. Where so you meet yours?
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