I was recently asked where I got the inspiration to write a particular book. To me that is such a crazy question because I could never live long enough to write all of the stories everywhere around me. Two women talk in a coffee shop, their heads together, almost touching, smiles on their faces. Then the questions begin: they seem to be old friends, but what are they talking about? Are they looking so innocent and sweet because they are, or are they really plotting their husband's murders? (Sorry, but I've recently begun writing murder mysteries full time. That's where my head goes nowadays.) An elderly man and a man in his forties walk side-by-side. Who are they? Professor and student? Father and son? Old friends? What are they talking about? Do they have families? What's going on in their world? A motorcycle careens around a corner and almost crashes into a cop car. The policeman turns on his reds and blues and takes off after him. That's a book in itself because of the questions that come from it. Life is everywhere. In a leaf, a baby's cry, an old man's sigh, a young man's angst. People. Events. Nature. Love. Hate. Glory. It's all there. And all I have to do is open my eyes to see it.