Here’s a little writing exercise: write about someone you spot, anywhere, any time, start crafting a background that could sustain a story.
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He walks through teh halls of the college, clutching an artist’s portfolio. It’s too large for him, but he holds onto it still. He’s fancies himself a fashion model, and he walks with his head held high, eyes partially hidden in the shadow the brim of a newsman hat casts. But the whites still show, still catch the light even in the shadow. And he walks on, his steps long and hard, full of the purpose and hope of someone still clutching his dreams.
He wears a scarf, green with black stripes. It’s cold outside this morning. And he manages to avoid the stares at this inner-city school, full of Wal-Mart knock-offs and Sunday suits. This is the land of the lost, and he is a pilgrim in this land, not meant to last. This world is not his home, he’s only passing through, and he doesn’t expect any of them to understand. He’s a man with a mission.
Fashion design, the sketches in his portfolio, the ones he hopes will land him an internship next fall. That’s a year from now, a year of Texas weather that changes frequently enough to give him whiplash. A year with his mother, a single woman, the proverbial strong black woman, who never quite understood his interest in anything at all. First comic books, and the drawing of them, and when he grew out of that, the graduation to fashion design. The endless hours with the television on, droning in the background as he worked at the small tray that he’d used as a desk since childhood. It’ll be worth it, he tells himself in his week moments. It will all be worth it soon. He just has to last long enough.
