Where Do Ideas Come From?

I awake in the darkness the same way each night. For a moment I do not know where I am, who I am, what I am. For that brief span of time--no longer than a single, sorrowful second--I am as I once was: normal, mortal. The faces of my once beloved flash across my eyes like the silver lightening on the plains of my homeland, left behind so long, long ago The faces dance like ghosts, splintered fragments of warmth gone cold. I wish, I do not wish, they could be with me now.

And then, just as my nostrils fill with the sweet smells of life, it is gone. It is crimson time, once again. My pale hand pushes up, filled with lingering anguish and throws back the black, lacquered wood. The lid slides open, and in the dim hiding place I smell raw earth and hear the sounds of the others stirring from their graveyard sleep.

Crimson time. It fills my eyes with the vision of blood and washes away the last reminders of my former humanity. It fills my senses with the hidden lust of the night, the lust for eternal life.

I now stand with the others, communicating without words, acknowledging the need that can never be satisfied and never stopped by the sweet offer of death. And as the last grip of protection the sun offers the world slowly fades away, into the night we fly....

            "Crimson Time", a very short bonus story from my upcoming short story collection “unexpected pleasures”.

So as you can see from my previous posts, as a child I had a rich fantasy life. I didn’t write stories, I lived stories. There are many more examples of this—my childhood was filled with them—but I won’t bore you with more examples. Suffices to say that the imagination was there, I just never took idea to pencil.

 Where do story ideas come from? This is a question civilians like to ask writers. How do you think this crap up? Well believe it or not with a little practice thinking this crap up is a relatively easy thing to do. For me it starts with an image. It might be something I see in the course of my day. It might be from a song. It might be from the fears that are always lurking within me. It might come from nowhere.

Years ago, I wrote a series of short stories. I wrote these stories while I was writing my first novel, A Matter of Time. It was a time of great discovery. My abilities were coming to fruition and the ideas came like an open flood gate. They came one after another like glorious storms invading my mind.

Some ideas are slow in coming. For example, I’m writing a four volume series, The Land of Dreams. The first idea came to me maybe ten years ago as a single image: a young woman with flowing golden/red hair riding a bicycle around a translucent wall. At the time I had no idea what was on the other side of that wall, but eventually it came to me, a scene from the fourth novel. It percolated in my subconscious for years, and when the time was right, I started to write it down.

Sometimes something very odd happens. A complete story comes out of nowhere and is downloaded into your mind. It’s a very odd and somewhat frightening experience. It would leave me nauseous and unsteady for hours. My novella, Payday, from my upcoming collection, unexpected pleasures, was such an experience. Twenty thousand words appeared in my mind, a whole and complete story. All I had to do was right it down. It came out smoothly and without hesitation, and the experience still haunts me today.

I write because I have to. Once an idea comes to my mind, it will not go away until I bring it to life. If I don’t do it, the story will just sit there rattling around my brain, demanding attention.

Writing is a lonely life. If I played the guitar and sang, all I would have to do is play in front of people to get the instant feedback all artists crave. Writing is all internal. You have no idea what people will think of your efforts until it’s read by someone, and if you don’t sell many books that internal itch to be recognized is never really fulfilled.

So what’s the solution? You write for yourself. You write for the pleasure and the blissful release of endorphins when things are going well. You write because it’s the only thing that makes you feel mentally whole. It’s a wonderful/horrible thing.