Photos, quotes, movie titles, you never know what you’ll get on a random Thursday list. Come join us in seeing what’s up:
Where Do All Those Ideas Come From?
Not long ago, I participated in a group experiment: several of us wrote a series on our creative processes, each from our own point of view. I have since taken that blog down, but wanted to present them here for your enjoyment. Over the next two months, I will be examining both the creative and physical processes of writing – everything from idea generation to getting the words on the page and polishing them up into a final draft. These posts will reflect my process, how I do it, but one thing is certain – there is no one way to write a story. You’ll find as many different processes as there are writers, and different types of writing might come with different processes. I hope this series will help spark your own process, whatever that may be.
First a little bit about me. My favored genre is paranormal, though I am currently in the final leg of a contemporary romance draft. I’ve also written science fiction and horror extensively, as well as some historical stories set in the Victorian period and 15th century France. My stories tend to be longer, novel length, which means anything from 50,000 words on up. And while that is considered a novel, my friends like to smile and say it means I am long-winded. I’ll take that. I have a yearning to try a novella, however, and have a few ideas waiting in the wings. It should be a challenge, but I am curious to see if I can do it.
Speaking of ideas, that is the subject of the beginning of this series. How do I think up all these story ideas? Where do they come from? Do I write about people and things I know? Well the short answers are: all sorts of ways, from all over, and yes and no. Clear as mud?
The more complete answer cannot be split up into separate questions. Storytellers, and that is what writers are when you get right down to it, find inspiration all over. Sometimes a word or phrase overheard starts the wheels turning. A lady walking by the window in a funny hat could stir an idea. Sometimes a snatch of song turns on the creative light bulb. Perhaps a dream has us waking up and running for pen and paper, or the computer, to make notes before we forget.
This last bit happens often to me. The paranormal I was writing last fall is a good example. I knew all the characters that were to be in the story and was already off to a great start. I woke up one morning with a character sitting in my head. She had a face I could see clearly. She had a name and a whole backstory ready, and informed me that she was supposed to be in this story and what was I doing lazing about instead of in there writing her in? I did as directed. Who am I to argue?
Do I write about things I know? Here is that yes and no answer. The people and places I know may spark ideas, but I don’t write them as they are. They start as the first glimmer of an idea. I make a note of it so I don’t forget and think ‘Hey, that could be cool!’. Then I let it simmer. That’s my highly technical term for tossing it into the primordial soup that is my brain, letting it swim around with everything else lurking in there, and see what eventually bobs to the surface. Sometimes the idea is too small and I throw it back to simmer some more. Some ideas sink to the bottom never to be seen again. But some of them appear shining with the light of inspiration. And what may have begun as a lady walking by the window in a funny hat has become a prince of some unknown land, wearing a large crown, who is the subject of an assassination plot. See what I mean?
The point is this: ideas can come from anywhere at any time. I learned early on to carry a small notepad with me for this very reason. I got tired of pulling notes from pocket and purse that were scribbled on paper, gum wrappers, bar napkins, take-out menus, etc. People always think writers are so much more creative then they are. I don’t think that is true, I think we just are more tuned in to the random ideas that float through our brains every moment of the day. We are more likely to grab hold of them, shine a light on them, and see if they squirm to life. People are natural born storytellers. All of us. It’s just a matter of looking a little more closely at the world around us. You may find, in doing so, that instead of too few ideas, you have too many. I’ll take that any day.
Thursday Thirteen
Stopping to Smell the Roses
My pause along the side of the road didn’t actually involve flowers. All the same, the analogy fits and I can’t resist sharing.
The other day I watched a hawk practically fall out of the sky. Without anyone driving behind me, I literally pulled the car over to see what the creature would do as it obviously alighted upon some prey.
Sure enough, the bird used its talons to strangle the life out of something. That sounds harsh, but the savage beauty completely captivated me.
As I stared the creature leaned back, lifted shoulders shifting its wings, and appeared for all the world like a person stomping on something. Then the bird used that wicked beak to lift the now-limp form, flipped it in the air, and swallowed the mole with one gulp.
Still with no cars coming up behind me, I nonetheless resumed my drive as the hawk took flight. We matched speed at around twenty-five miles per hour for several yards before the majestic creature settled on a perch, presumably to digest.
So, that was my minor brush with nature’s raw beauty. Have you seen anything amazing lately? I’d love to hear about it.
It’s Thursday!
Come check out a random read…
Show Instead of Tell
I recently saw a close-up photograph of roses that allowed me to virtually smell their fragrance and feel the thick silk of their petals. At that moment, I realized it defines a goal for my writing.
When readers honor me with a read, I’d like to take them on a journey. I want him or her to smell the air and feel a lover’s touch as the page is turned. The notion hearkens back to the popular and wise adage to show the reader as opposed to telling.
While not as easy as it sounds, this is something to think about and something to work upon. Now, I’d better get back at it and try to improve my craft a little bit more.
Thursday Thirteen
Take a breather and enjoy a list of the random. Happy Thursday!
Gearing Up for NaNoWriMo
National Novel Writing Month sweeps in with the autumn air of November. Are you getting on board with this worldwide event? For the first time, having only heard of it last year, I’m jumping in feet first.
To help put participants in the right (write) frame of mind, regions are hosting all sorts of local events. I’m already looking forward to one this Thursday at a local library. It sounds like it has everything I need just in the title alone: The Courage to Write.
A gentleman by the name of Ralph Keyes will address many challenges. Among them is just sitting down and getting started. That’s the all-important first step. Then there’s looking within for ideas, confronting procrastination, and dealing with anxiety about the reaction of others to one’s work. The whole thing is supposed to be a lively, good humored presentation ending on a positive, motivational note. This sounds like just the ticket!
Are you inspired yet? Click on the link and read all about it. Better yet, join me and register today: NaNoWriMo Registration
Thursday Thirteen
It’s that day of the week again. Please join us for random reads:
It’s Sunny again!
No, silly, not the weather! (It’s Washington state, it’s NEVER sunny lol) Here is the next (first?) chapter in the story I shared earlier this month. Hope you enjoy!
When I woke up the next morning I was in bed with a handful of mostly naked men. Considering that I felt fine and the men all seemed to be very good looking, I didn’t know if I should scream bloody murder or cry. Or wake them up and beg them to make me scream. While I was pondering these thoughts, one of the hotties wrapped an arm around me and snuggled up closer behind me.
“You freaking out?” he whispered in my ear.
Pretty good question, but I wasn’t sure of the answer myself. I vaguely recalled being attacked by a wild animal, and woke up in a fantasy land of hot bodies. Not an every day occurrence for me. Was I dreaming? And if I was, did I really want to wake up? If I’m not dreaming, what the hell could be going on? Who were these people, and where was Bobby?
I settled with, “I still don’t know if this is a dream or not.”
He gave one of those manly chuckles that sent hot breath skittering down the back of my neck, giving me shivers. “Well, is it a good dream or a bad dream?”
I managed to twist in his arms so I could see his face. It was a stern face, with disheveled brown hair and serious, deep brown eyes. It was those serious eyes that made me think that this wasn’t a dream. He was looking at me like I might freak out on him at any minute. Like I might have a right to.
I eased back a bit, and that’s when I realized I was almost naked.
“Where are my clothes? Where am I? Why am I here? Who are you?” I fired the questions at him as I began to panic.
He pulled me back in close to him and the hysteria disappeared. I was suddenly calm and relaxed again. That should freak me out. Right? But he was so warm and I felt so good in his arms…
“My name is Justin, and you’re here in my cabin, still in the woods. Your clothes were destroyed in the attack.” He said it slowly and calmly, and I had to wonder if this wasn’t the first time he’d done this. “Do you remember being in the woods early this morning? Being attacked?”
“I was? I mean, I vaguely remember hearing a growl and thinking it was a wolf, but it kind of blanks after that point,” the were brief flashes, memories of a ripping pain, but surely that was a dream right? If I’d really been attacked by a wolf I’d be dead or in a hospital. “You must have saved me, right? I don’t know why I don’t remember, but that’s what happened? You heard me scream and shot it? Was it really a wolf?” Then a really embarrassing thought, “Did I, uh, did I faint? I swear I’ve never fainted in my life!”
The man had a pretty awesome laugh. That he was laughing at me didn’t really seem to make a big difference. Actually, since I’d buried my face in his oh-so-muscular chest in my embarrassment, I wasn’t really minding much of anything.
“Do you always ask so many questions?” he asked me, still chuckling a bit.
I mumbled into his chest, “Pretty much.”
“Well to answer your many questions…kinda, no, yes and no again,” he answered with a slight smile before settling into his serious face again. “You were attacked by a young wolf this morning. He’d strayed a bit too far from the pack so we couldn’t reach him in time to prevent it. I’m sorry.”
I couldn’t understand why he looked so guilty. “It’s not like it’s your fault. You aren’t exactly in charge of wild animals, Justin.”
“Actually, honey, I am sort of in charge of the new wolves. All alpha’s in the pack are expected to look after the new wolves and make sure things like this don’t happen,” as he said it he tenderly brushed my bangs back off my face. That’s when I realized he was crazy.
The sexy man I was in bed with actually thought he was a werewolf.