Worldbuilding
A fictional city tells on itself through the rubbish.
Anyone can describe the grand square or the palace façade. More revealing is where the bins go, who empties them, which streets get deliveries at dawn, and which ones seem to have no visible way of getting rid of anything at all. Waste is a map of habit and class. It shows what a place expects to hide, and who is expected to deal with it.
A world feels oddly thin if nothing ever has to be carried away.
Anyone can describe the grand square or the palace façade. More revealing is where the bins go, who empties them, which streets get deliveries at dawn, and which ones seem to have no visible way of getting rid of anything at all. Waste is a map of habit and class. It shows what a place expects to hide, and who is expected to deal with it.
A world feels oddly thin if nothing ever has to be carried away.
The trouble is that rubbish can become too neat a symbol. Sometimes it tells you more about municipal competence than social truth.
What tends to feel more alive, to me, is the awkward in-between stuff: the back alleys where deliveries happen, the smell of fish near the market, the broken step behind the inn that everyone uses anyway. A city is often revealed by what it half-manages, not just what it fails to hide.
What tends to feel more alive, to me, is the awkward in-between stuff: the back alleys where deliveries happen, the smell of fish near the market, the broken step behind the inn that everyone uses anyway. A city is often revealed by what it half-manages, not just what it fails to hide.