Where do ideas come from?
Every now and again I see questions from budding writers asking the more experienced; ‘Where do you get your ideas from?”
Of course those that have the ideas talk about reading anything they can lay their hands on, watching people around them or on TV, or just sitting quietly and thinking up things.
And the budding writers sigh and curb their jealousy and try to emulate those that know.
Well I want to know where do I get my ideas from. Because I want them to @&*^%#@^&^&(* stop!
So there I was lying in bed, still in that ‘I’m not awake yet’ place. Hubby had got up and the shower was running, soft soothing water sounds. His side of the bed was still warm and my cat was content to stay curled in the hollow of my back. It’s school holidays and my boys had slept over a friend’s place, so whilst I did have to get up, the normal rush to get three people ready for school/work would be replaced by a leisurely waltz of just me getting ready. Life was good.
Title: Soul Sculptor.
Story: woman follows a rarely used path through the woods to a cottage. She is tentative and wonders if she is doing the right thing, but she reaches the cottage garden, over grown and weedy. The cackling laughter from inside nearly sends her home, but she is doing this for her family.
She knocks on the door. Another woman opens it, she is expected. Into the dark but warm room she steps. The other woman, Anisa, gets her a cup of tea, but although she holds it she never drinks.
“So you’ve come to see my sister?” The woman nods, still unsure. “And you know what she does?” Another nod. “You know she’ll take away the hurt, the pain. Take away a bit of your soul. She takes and then moulds the rest till its whole again.” Anisa looks at her, questioning without words.
“I need to. My daughter, she died. She was five day ...” No more words are said, just tears and sobs. Anisa holds the woman.
When her tears are just gentle droplets Anisa talks.
“You don’t need to see her. You could just talk, come up here when you need to and talk to me.”
“I have a family, a husband, other children. I can’t live like this. I can’t be angry, depressed, silent. They need me. They can’t live like that.”
Anisa sighs. She stands and opens the back room door. The woman hesitates in the doorway then she steps through.
So what happens next. I know *grins*. And I want to write this. But why is it there to write? What will I do with it? And why has it come to me? What part of my imagination dragged this up and shaped it, almost whole and complete?
Lying in bed I ‘saw’ the cottage, the woman, Anisa, the soul sculptor. I ‘heard’ the conversations. Now I just have to get those visions on to the page.
It should be a short, 5k maybe. If I’m lucky. If Acoloti and Paptal, if Joshuah, if Cindy, Stinker and ‘boy’, even Kilarney can wait.
*Sigh*
*Opens a new word document*
Of course those that have the ideas talk about reading anything they can lay their hands on, watching people around them or on TV, or just sitting quietly and thinking up things.
And the budding writers sigh and curb their jealousy and try to emulate those that know.
Well I want to know where do I get my ideas from. Because I want them to @&*^%#@^&^&(* stop!
So there I was lying in bed, still in that ‘I’m not awake yet’ place. Hubby had got up and the shower was running, soft soothing water sounds. His side of the bed was still warm and my cat was content to stay curled in the hollow of my back. It’s school holidays and my boys had slept over a friend’s place, so whilst I did have to get up, the normal rush to get three people ready for school/work would be replaced by a leisurely waltz of just me getting ready. Life was good.
Title: Soul Sculptor.
Story: woman follows a rarely used path through the woods to a cottage. She is tentative and wonders if she is doing the right thing, but she reaches the cottage garden, over grown and weedy. The cackling laughter from inside nearly sends her home, but she is doing this for her family.
She knocks on the door. Another woman opens it, she is expected. Into the dark but warm room she steps. The other woman, Anisa, gets her a cup of tea, but although she holds it she never drinks.
“So you’ve come to see my sister?” The woman nods, still unsure. “And you know what she does?” Another nod. “You know she’ll take away the hurt, the pain. Take away a bit of your soul. She takes and then moulds the rest till its whole again.” Anisa looks at her, questioning without words.
“I need to. My daughter, she died. She was five day ...” No more words are said, just tears and sobs. Anisa holds the woman.
When her tears are just gentle droplets Anisa talks.
“You don’t need to see her. You could just talk, come up here when you need to and talk to me.”
“I have a family, a husband, other children. I can’t live like this. I can’t be angry, depressed, silent. They need me. They can’t live like that.”
Anisa sighs. She stands and opens the back room door. The woman hesitates in the doorway then she steps through.
So what happens next. I know *grins*. And I want to write this. But why is it there to write? What will I do with it? And why has it come to me? What part of my imagination dragged this up and shaped it, almost whole and complete?
Lying in bed I ‘saw’ the cottage, the woman, Anisa, the soul sculptor. I ‘heard’ the conversations. Now I just have to get those visions on to the page.
It should be a short, 5k maybe. If I’m lucky. If Acoloti and Paptal, if Joshuah, if Cindy, Stinker and ‘boy’, even Kilarney can wait.
*Sigh*
*Opens a new word document*