My problem with morning commutes is the time spent in my head. Give me forty minutes to an hour on a densely packed train, where the primary task is suppressing the mild anxiety that kicks in when surrounded by people, and there’s a good chance my internal monologue will go in all sorts of negative directions.
Like most commuters, I rely on distractions to get me through it: reading comics on my phone; flicking through a book; watching the scenery. Spend some quality time observing the other passengers, figuring out how to render the as fictional characters.
That kid with the brolgas on his three-quarter pants becomes an antagonist in whatever I end up writing next, probably showing up as something supernatural; the middle-aged couple who board the train home every day and immediately stand together, face to face, locking the rest of the world out…well, who knows what they’re going in, but they’re logged and ready. A nice little metaphor that will show up in some character’s world while they’re processing their larger conflicts and figuring out why they do what they do.
