Again, this question circles my circle; often discussed and deliberated. We all have different ideas, all have different ways of getting inspiration and we all have different means of expressing ourselves.
For me it’s all about murder.
Yes, friends! In case you didn’t know this about me, I have an astute criminal mind. Stories like poisoning my husband with a casserole, shooting my boyfriend with a little pink pistol, burying someone alive, killing off one of my victim’s when she was lying in an iron lung…that sort of thing.
I also have a keen sense of the absurd.
I remember having to call-out a chimney sweep one winter and when he arrived we had some playful banter. He was such a funny character that as soon as he left, I wrote a story about him and ended up giving him a heart attack. Even now, I worry he’ll recognize himself in my story and be offended that I didn’t allow him to live.
A review from a dear peer:- ’Can’t you write something where your characters actually survive?’ he said.
“Hmm, that’s a thought,’ I answered. So I wrote a story, included him as a character and killed him off.
I just can’t help myself. Writing brings out the devil in me.
Seriously, if you need inspiration for what to write next, my advice would be to look around you. There are stories everywhere, in everything you do and say, in everything you see.
For example, yesterday I sat for three hours in a packed water park watching my kid’s frolicking. Surrounding me were hundreds of stories. In the people I observed, their habits, their clothes and their bodies, the friends they were with, their children and so on.
While I sat there with dark glasses covering my eyes, I saw a man come in through the gate. He had a gun in his hand. He was looking for someone. He started pointing it at all the people. Everyone was screaming. People were running in all directions as he charged through them. Suddenly a single shot was fired and a woman fell to the floor of the splash pool. Then as the man turned the gun on himself, the water continued to churn through the fountains, turning red, leaving pools of crimson at the feet of the children…
Oh…I have got to write that one up.