An avalanche of ideas about fictitious characters, themes, and plots used to arrive at my doorstep with regularity. A newspaper article, a conversation with a friend, a snatch of dialogue overheard in a restaurant were all that I needed to jump start the wheels in my brain. Then, along came the powerful whammy of experiencing one of life’s more difficult events as I continued skipping along the road to “maturity.”
The desire to write fiction hasn’t lessened, but the rush of new ideas has slowed. Adding flesh to the bones of creative inspirations is more like painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel than drawing hopscotch lines on the sidewalk.
You’ll recall, dear readers, that the former work of art took a very long time, while the latter could be accomplished post haste.
I’m still on the alert for aural and visual stimuli in all the above mentioned places. These…
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