Inspiration comes and a writer writes. It’s a simple process that doesn’t always come easily. But I think every writer develops a system for capturing inspiration wherever it occurs until there is a chance to work it into a story.
Long before I was published I would selectively share my writing with trusted others. One of the most common reactions was: how did you ever come up with that? Once I grew in confidence I pursued the reaction of other writers, something I consider an essential and necessary step in my evolution from a writer to a published author. That feedback was invaluable, especially for a work in progress. But even those creative others sometimes inquired about the source of my inspiration.
I could say it happens. That’s certainly true. Sometimes the inspiration flows. Other times it drips. Occasionally you don’t even realize it was inspiration until you reflect on it. But, usually, you know at the moment and may even comment to others, “I need to use that in a story.”
Here’s an example:
Some of you may know I work part time at a grocery. It’s something to do when I’m not writing and I have always found that talking to customers, the general public, benefits the realism of the dialogue I write. Otherwise, the store is about 4.5 miles from where I live and I commute on my bicycle, which is good cardio at least.
Yesterday, one of the guys I work with named Andres was bagging groceries for a lady who seemed the quintessential drama queen. Her first request/demand was that someone go to our deli department and fetch her a medium sized cup filled with ice, which, of course, Andres did because we are all about customer service. While he was away, the lady went on and on about how she was too physically spent to go there herself. And, based on the story she told loudly enough that everyone around heard it, maybe she has reason for the drama, given what she was telling about her need for a liver transplant. In fact, she said she would soon be getting a partial one, apparently an experimental procedure. Her brother was donating part of his to her. She explained how a healthy liver will actually grow back, which is true. I researched it afterward.
In the process of all this, she would pause to apologize for the delays with all her coupons to the customer next in the queue, a guy who was talking on his cell phone the whole time and basically ignoring anything else going on around him. She was loud enough that I could hear her story several registers away.
I would have dismissed all of it as just standard fare for a Thursday in the store except that when Andres, returned inside from carrying out her groceries, he stopped by my register and said, "That was really weird."
I said, "It seemed like it."
“No,” he went on. “I mean—I loaded all her groceries into her car and everything. Then, I turned to bring the shopping cart back inside. I heard her door close and all that. But as I was pushing the cart away I didn’t hear her car leave. I looked over my shoulder and her car wasn’t there anymore.”
“Maybe her car was electric.”
He shook his head. “A Caddy?”
“You entered the Twilight Zone?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Could there be a story in that? Sure. I mean, why not?
Stuff like that happens often enough that I almost feel like I’m being supplied with potential plot lines. Who knows? That may be the way the universe works for creative people. Maybe we attract the inspiration. Or, perhaps, we are wired differently enough to receive whatever the universe is telling us. I think I prefer to believe the latter.
Artistic types tend to be sensitive, more so than the norm. I’m not sure I’d say we are always bubbling over with enthusiasm. What is negative in the world also affects us and our moods reflect it. But our response to the world may be quite distinct and individual. I write. Some paint. Some chisel away at a block of solid stone. Others write melodies and set words to them.
The inspiration for art is manifest in the world for any of us who can or will pay attention.