I’m trying to listen to people, not just their words

I find that I have one fault, one among many, that I have for a long time tried to correct, but that flaw that gnaws at me persists. Many times, when talking to a friend or maybe just an acquaintance, I find that I hear the words they are saying, but I am, in fact, not truly listening.

There are all too frequent moments when I might go so far as to smile when appropriate or even nod my head in agreement, but I’m just biding my time. I’m waiting for a break in their comments or observations so I can speak. I suppose my egotistical side comes to light as I think my words are more important than theirs.

For fifteen years, I worked as a police officer. As a detective, I knew that one of the best pieces of evidence which could be introduced in court was a confession. It was during those years that I conducted hundreds, if not thousands, of interviews.

Hearing what someone said, the answer they might have given to a question, was important, but important in that the response might lead to the gathering of the truth. Pronouns, adverbs, and verbs used by the person being interviewed were important.

I recall one particular interview involving part of an investigation into the armed robbery of a convenience store. The store had been held up by two men, and I was interviewing a man suspected of being involved. I used some of the tried-andtrue verbal tricks, but the man had been around and admitted nothing, nothing until his unsolicited comment. “I wasn’t with him when we did it.”

“When “we” did it?” I repeated his words back to him. He grinned and put forth a brief laugh. That laugh indicated that his mind was thinking up a response. He needed a few seconds to create a lie. A brief laugh or a repeat of the question were indicators of deception. There was much more truth behind the words than the words themselves.

I needed to hear the exact words which were spoken because I could analyze those words and the context in which they were used. I could use those words against all those people suspected of committing criminal acts. I didn’t care much about the rest of the conversations because those words were of little or no use to me.

Looking back on those days of solving crimes and those interviews, I’m not sure I even considered those being questioned to be people. They were, at least to me, not much more than repositories of facts and information, those facts that were needed to solve the case.

I brought those interrogation skills home with me each day and I recall that, on several occasions, my wife told me I was using those skills on her. There are some things between husbands and wives better left to trust rather than proof.

Those analytical traits followed me throughout my entire life, even after my retirement. It was then that I began writing as a pastime and, as I have mentioned before, as a means of therapy following the death of Robin.

I now realize that when talking to folks about a potential story, those old tendencies were coming to light. I was analyzing the words being spoken more than listening to the feeling behind the words. Something needed to change if I was to become anything more than just someone repeating information passed on to me.

So, I worked on and forced myself to listen to the words and yet try to find the passion and feelings behind those words. If I were to give advice to someone contemplating writing a story, it would be to find the emotions behind the words.

Those telling me their stories were other living things, they were people just like me and, as such, they deserved my attention. Those stories which were passed on from the storytellers to me, then to you needed to be written in a manner that not only provided details of the events but also described the feelings and emotions of those involved.

When Gary talked about floating his Volkswagen in the waters of Elk River between the two bridges near Noel, there was humor behind the words. He talked about the astonishment on the faces of his friends as the car passed near Noel’s Main Street bridge. I knew I needed to somehow convey those emotions.

Larry told me how he and his wife stood motionless as the dynamited fragment of rock passed above their heads, eventually coming to rest in the river. The words were clear, but the unpredictable calmness they felt as they watched the stone was something not said but surely felt.

Susan told me about the brutal attack she endured and the hours of pain inflicted upon her by the heartless attacker. Somehow, I needed to pass along to the readers of the story how terrifying those hours were, yet how courageous Susan was. How could I truly write about the idea that she had forgiven the monster who forever changed her life?

As my grandfather described his plan for telling the reporter that the string of bass had been pulled from Shadow Lake rather than from a Maysville, Arkansas pond, there was logic in his words. But there was also a feeling of guilt as he tried to convince his young grandson that there was really nothing wrong with that little white lie. I tried to let folks know how he truly felt about his scheme born of innocent intentions.

It is my hope that I have changed the way I listen. Oh yes, there are still times, and more than I care to admit, when those analytical juices begin to flow, and I take each noun and verb apart. I’m trying so hard to feel the emotions behind the words, for I believe that if I can combine written words with emotions, the stories I write will be much better.

I suppose that I try to relate the sorrows and joys of my own life to those of others. Maybe, when a widowed woman talks about the loss of the love of her life, her departed husband, my own similar experience allows me to better understand her feelings. I don’t know if that’s true, but how could I be expected to understand the feelings of another if I had never experienced something similar?

One thing has become clear to me. There are other living things all around me. They are not merely the creators of carelessly spoken words. Rather they are people with feelings, frailties, passions, and emotions. Going forward, it is my sincere hope that I can talk to you about those intangible yet wonderful qualities.

For all these past many years, life has been talking to me, but I haven’t been listening.

Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel.Stan’s connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents, who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. The opinions expressed are those of the author.