Writers are often asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” This is one aspect of writing I struggle with all the time. Once I have an idea, I’m pretty good at running with it and getting it down on the page, but it's being struck with that idea to begin with that’s the problem.
Every writer is different. For example, my best writing friend gets ideas for stories every five minutes. He tries to write those ideas down or speak them into an audio file as they come to him, but he’s already exceeded the memory capacity on three different phones just from those idea audio files. His issue is getting them all written. He’s great about offering me some of his ideas to use, because he knows he’ll simply never have enough time to get all those stories written. The problem is, I always feel bad, like I should’ve come up with the idea myself instead of borrowing one of his. And though “Eat Your Vegetables,” one of my short stories in Insanity Tales III, is sparked off of one of Rob’s ideas, it is absolutely my story, and nothing like the carnivorous garden tale he would’ve written.
(I’m telling you all this for a reason. Bear with me.)
The past month or so, I’ve been working on Longo Looks at . . . GARDENING. It’s the next in line in my series of chapbooks taken from past columns and blog posts I’ve written over the past decade. It should practically write itself. All I need to do is shape and mold it, maybe stitch it together with introductory paragraphs and transition sentences. Sounds easy, right?
Except it’s not. I’ve been struggling with it for a couple of reasons. One, it’s not gardening season yet, which is kind of the point, because I was hoping to release it for gardening season. But because we’re still firmly in winter, I’m in no mood to think about the work it’s going to take to get the pepper plants percolating this spring.
The other reason is because I had something kind of amazing happen the other day. I was in the kitchen, pouring my third cup of coffee of the morning, when an idea struck me. I grabbed a paper towel and a pen and took notes. In thirty seconds, I had the crude outline of a plot for a novel. I knew who four of the characters would be, and a possible fifth, and I knew when and where it should be set. I wasn’t entirely clear on what the ending would be—I’ll have to spitball ideas with Rob on that—but I had a solid start sketched out on that coffee-stained Bounty sheet. I knew I could have fun with the characters, and I was eager to get started.
I sat back down in front of my laptop. Longo Looks at GARDENING was already open, waiting for me to finish crafting it.
I looked longingly at my paper towel notes. Then back at the computer screen.
I had to finish this book.
But I really wanted to work on this other thing.
I’ve mentioned to Rob several times how jealous I am of his ability to generate ideas at the drop of a hat. He’s often told me how frustrating it is, because the ideas come at the most inopportune times, and at any given moment he’ll be working on six different stories, and not finishing five of them.
My point is, I get it now—at least a little bit. See, I’m the type of person who cannot leave something unfinished—certainly not the gardening book I’d promised my aunt would be ready this spring. So I’m still plugging away at that one, but my mind is still grinding its gears thinking about the other.
All I need is a little more writing time in the day. How hard could that be?
They say sleep is overrated anyway.
Every writer is different. For example, my best writing friend gets ideas for stories every five minutes. He tries to write those ideas down or speak them into an audio file as they come to him, but he’s already exceeded the memory capacity on three different phones just from those idea audio files. His issue is getting them all written. He’s great about offering me some of his ideas to use, because he knows he’ll simply never have enough time to get all those stories written. The problem is, I always feel bad, like I should’ve come up with the idea myself instead of borrowing one of his. And though “Eat Your Vegetables,” one of my short stories in Insanity Tales III, is sparked off of one of Rob’s ideas, it is absolutely my story, and nothing like the carnivorous garden tale he would’ve written.
(I’m telling you all this for a reason. Bear with me.)
The past month or so, I’ve been working on Longo Looks at . . . GARDENING. It’s the next in line in my series of chapbooks taken from past columns and blog posts I’ve written over the past decade. It should practically write itself. All I need to do is shape and mold it, maybe stitch it together with introductory paragraphs and transition sentences. Sounds easy, right?
Except it’s not. I’ve been struggling with it for a couple of reasons. One, it’s not gardening season yet, which is kind of the point, because I was hoping to release it for gardening season. But because we’re still firmly in winter, I’m in no mood to think about the work it’s going to take to get the pepper plants percolating this spring.
The other reason is because I had something kind of amazing happen the other day. I was in the kitchen, pouring my third cup of coffee of the morning, when an idea struck me. I grabbed a paper towel and a pen and took notes. In thirty seconds, I had the crude outline of a plot for a novel. I knew who four of the characters would be, and a possible fifth, and I knew when and where it should be set. I wasn’t entirely clear on what the ending would be—I’ll have to spitball ideas with Rob on that—but I had a solid start sketched out on that coffee-stained Bounty sheet. I knew I could have fun with the characters, and I was eager to get started.
I sat back down in front of my laptop. Longo Looks at GARDENING was already open, waiting for me to finish crafting it.
I looked longingly at my paper towel notes. Then back at the computer screen.
I had to finish this book.
But I really wanted to work on this other thing.
I’ve mentioned to Rob several times how jealous I am of his ability to generate ideas at the drop of a hat. He’s often told me how frustrating it is, because the ideas come at the most inopportune times, and at any given moment he’ll be working on six different stories, and not finishing five of them.
My point is, I get it now—at least a little bit. See, I’m the type of person who cannot leave something unfinished—certainly not the gardening book I’d promised my aunt would be ready this spring. So I’m still plugging away at that one, but my mind is still grinding its gears thinking about the other.
All I need is a little more writing time in the day. How hard could that be?
They say sleep is overrated anyway.
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