So, the other day, I had one of those weeks, you know? Just non-stop, back-to-back, felt like my brain was running a marathon it didn’t sign up for. Finally, Friday evening hit, the metaphorical “bell” rang, and everything just… stopped. I was absolutely drained, completely spent. You know that feeling when you’re just a husk?
I got home, flopped onto the couch, and just stared at the ceiling for a bit. Usually, I’d just zone out with some mindless TV, but this time, something else was stirring. I’ve always been a fan of Raymond Carver, his way of cutting right to the bone of things, no fluff. And the idea sort of trickled in: what if I tried to do a little “Carver after the bell”? A bit of quiet observation, a few simple words, now that the noise had finally died down.
Getting Started with My Little Carver Session
It wasn’t about trying to be him, ’cause, let’s be real, that’s not happening. It was more about capturing a bit of that stillness, that unvarnished look at things that his stories always give me. So, I dug out an old notebook, the one with a slightly battered cover, and a pen that actually worked. There’s something about pen and paper, isn’t there? Feels more deliberate.
My first thought was, what do I even write about? My day was a blur of emails and meetings. Not exactly Carver territory. But then I remembered, he wrote about the small stuff, the quiet desperation, the everyday moments. So, I decided to just sit and think about the day, not the big tasks, but the little interactions, the things I barely noticed at the time.
Here’s what I tried to focus on, kind of like my own little Carver rules for the evening:
- Keep it simple. No big words, no fancy sentences.
- Show, don’t just tell. What did I see? What did I hear?
- Focus on the feeling underneath. Even if it’s just tiredness.
I started writing about the commute home. The way the bus smelled faintly of damp coats and exhaust fumes. The tired faces of other passengers. It was clunky at first. My sentences were too long, too explain-y. I kept wanting to add my opinions, to dress things up. It’s a hard habit to break, that one.
The Process and What I Noticed
I wrote a few lines, then scratched them out. Then a few more. I tried to describe the silence in my apartment, which wasn’t really silent at all if you listened closely – the hum of the fridge, the distant traffic. It was tough, trying to find the right words for simple things without making them sound boring or overly dramatic.
I remembered reading somewhere that Carver revised endlessly. That made me feel a bit better about my own clumsy attempts. This wasn’t about producing a masterpiece; it was about the act of trying to see things clearly, after the bell, when the usual rush was over. It was surprisingly hard to just state what was there, without injecting myself too much.
After about half an hour, I stopped. I hadn’t written much, maybe a page of scattered observations. Some of it was pretty bad, honestly. But the process itself? That was interesting. It forced me to slow down, to actually notice things again. The way the light fell on the dusty windowsill. The sound of my own breathing.
What I ended up with wasn’t a story, not really. More like a collection of fragments. But looking back at it, there was a certain quietness to it. A feeling of having paid attention, just for a little while, to the small, often overlooked details of an ordinary evening after a long week.
It was a good exercise. A way to sort of decompress and reconnect with a simpler way of seeing. Maybe that’s the best kind of thing to do “after the bell” – find a quiet corner and just observe, just be. It’s something I think I’ll try again. Just a little practice in noticing.
