A habit I have is pacing about when ideas, events, stories, and scenes are stuck in my head. A friend suggested I write about how I write stories and my habit. I do take requests by the way, and if it’s just a suggestion, I’ll still probably take it after I’m out of ideas.
So anyways, scenes stick ferociously in my mind, and pacing about helps. Back at home, I would pace about every room in tight circles, and perform laps around the house while I thought about my thoughts that I like to thought so much.
But here at the dorms, there’s just a single hallway. Actually it connects to two more corridors but I usually don’t take them.So I just pace back and forth in that single hallway.
Sometimes people leave the hallway window open. I can see why; I leave my window open too since the outside air smells so much nicer than the air inside.
There’s a large, heavyset iron door at the end of the hallway. I described it a lot more cooler than it really is. Just imagine a normal, metal door.
So when I was typing this story and pacing about in the hallway, I realized I felt a breeze. I checked the window, but it turns out, it was iron door. A refreshingly sweet but old draft wafted out of the door (if that smell makes any sense at all).
I approached the door, and an old man, who assumed to be the janitor was inside, was refilling a bottle with soap.
I stepped into the dark room, and my foot hit something on the floor, which created a weird echoing chime.
The old man spun around and shouted, “DIGDOGGER HATES CERTAIN KIND OF SOUND.”