Where Do You Get Your Ideas?
The scene: Authors’ night at a bookstore.
The audience: Booklovers, of course—my kind of people!
The presentation: It goes well for my two fellow authors and for me, also. Nice audience, laughing at our jokes, interested in what we have to say. Each of us has a new novel to publicize.
The Q&A: I have a standing bet with a friend. At some point during this event, someone will ask: “Where do you get your ideas?”
And on this night, I win. Again.
It is as if the questioner thinks that if he knows where I get my ideas, he can go there and get ideas too. Then he can do what I do: write novels.
Not!
When people tell me they want to be a writer, I say, “You’d better like your own company, because you will spend your working life alone in a room.”
Some people (writers) like that situation. Most people don’t. Not even if they can get ideas.
Robert Parker used to joke that he got his ideas in Utica.
I answer with the truth: “I don’t know.”
Of course I do know. Sort of. My ideas come from my subconscious, and they can come to me at any time: While I’m planting a new rose bush; while I’m watching the news; while I’m making my favorite pie, chocolate chiffon with whipped cream topping; while I’m researching some topic that has nothing to do with the idea that comes to me.
I have ideas all the time. I can’t control them. I can’t summon them at will. I can’t stop them. Most of them end up in my version of something that all writers have: a massive “Ideas” file. Most of them will never be published, because the ideas I work with are the ones that nag at me the most, demand to be written the most, won’t-let-me-rest-until-I-deal-with-them the most.
Anyway, I don’t get ideas. I get characters. If I’m lucky, they come with a name, a history, a location, and at least the beginning of a story. Of those, I write the ones who are the most demanding.
Here is an example of a character whose story never developed: Many years ago, I saw in my mind’s eye the vivid image of a young woman running down the street. She was running away from me, so I couldn’t see her face. She had red hair. She was wearing a long, high-necked, long-sleeved black dress in the fashion of the year 1900 or so. The street was lined with brick townhouses. I think it was in London, but I’m not sure. The day was bright, with strong sunshine.
I didn’t know her name. I didn’t know her background. I didn’t know why she was running. Was she frightened, running away from someone? Or was she deliriously happy, running toward someone?
I had no idea. She never came to life beyond that one short snapshot. She never developed into a character who could be the heroine of a novel. She stays in my file on a single sheet of paper.
Where do I get my ideas for nonfiction? That’s another story.
The audience: Booklovers, of course—my kind of people!
The presentation: It goes well for my two fellow authors and for me, also. Nice audience, laughing at our jokes, interested in what we have to say. Each of us has a new novel to publicize.
The Q&A: I have a standing bet with a friend. At some point during this event, someone will ask: “Where do you get your ideas?”
And on this night, I win. Again.
It is as if the questioner thinks that if he knows where I get my ideas, he can go there and get ideas too. Then he can do what I do: write novels.
Not!
When people tell me they want to be a writer, I say, “You’d better like your own company, because you will spend your working life alone in a room.”
Some people (writers) like that situation. Most people don’t. Not even if they can get ideas.
Robert Parker used to joke that he got his ideas in Utica.
I answer with the truth: “I don’t know.”
Of course I do know. Sort of. My ideas come from my subconscious, and they can come to me at any time: While I’m planting a new rose bush; while I’m watching the news; while I’m making my favorite pie, chocolate chiffon with whipped cream topping; while I’m researching some topic that has nothing to do with the idea that comes to me.
I have ideas all the time. I can’t control them. I can’t summon them at will. I can’t stop them. Most of them end up in my version of something that all writers have: a massive “Ideas” file. Most of them will never be published, because the ideas I work with are the ones that nag at me the most, demand to be written the most, won’t-let-me-rest-until-I-deal-with-them the most.
Anyway, I don’t get ideas. I get characters. If I’m lucky, they come with a name, a history, a location, and at least the beginning of a story. Of those, I write the ones who are the most demanding.
Here is an example of a character whose story never developed: Many years ago, I saw in my mind’s eye the vivid image of a young woman running down the street. She was running away from me, so I couldn’t see her face. She had red hair. She was wearing a long, high-necked, long-sleeved black dress in the fashion of the year 1900 or so. The street was lined with brick townhouses. I think it was in London, but I’m not sure. The day was bright, with strong sunshine.
I didn’t know her name. I didn’t know her background. I didn’t know why she was running. Was she frightened, running away from someone? Or was she deliriously happy, running toward someone?
I had no idea. She never came to life beyond that one short snapshot. She never developed into a character who could be the heroine of a novel. She stays in my file on a single sheet of paper.
Where do I get my ideas for nonfiction? That’s another story.
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