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WRITING THRILLERS – 3:

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HOW WRITERS GET IDEAS?

Writing can be very odd. You are having a cup of coffee or are half asleep in the sun – and an idea floats into your head: an idea that two years later is a finished novel. Where such ideas come from is a mystery. Mystery or not grab onto them with both hands.

One example that might make the point here.

I was driving on a winter’s night when both the heater and the radio mysteriously stopped working at the same time. With little to distract me my mind started to wander. What if the true Crown-of-Thorns was discovered? And what if a tiny piece of mummified skin was found on one of the thorns? These two thoughts stayed with me for many miles. Then a third thought – what if scientists attempted to clone from this piece of skin? On the basis of these three ideas the novel – The Extraordinary Temptation – came into existence.

Note, I had no ideas what characters might be involved or indeed where the location/locations for the story might be. I just had a fragment of an idea – and in time the rest would follow by writing and rewriting.

So, in one of your relaxed moods an idea can rise up and slap you on the face. If it does grab at it – AND WRITE IT DOWN BEFORE IT FRAGMENTS AND FALLS AWAY.

Hope that this helps some writers.

Regards. Patrick.

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HOW WRITERS GET IDEAS?

Writing can be most odd. You are having a cup of tea or are half asleep on a chair in the sun – and an idea floats into your head from somewhere: an idea that two years later is a finished novel. Where such ideas come from is a mystery. Mystery or not grab onto them with both hands.

I was driving on a winter’s night when both the heater and the radio mysteriously stopped working. With little to distract me my imagination started to wander.

What if the true Crown-of-Thorns was discovered? And what if a tiny piece of mummified skin was Amazonfound on one of the thorns? This thought stayed with me for many miles. Then a second thought. What if scientists attempted to clone from this piece of skin? On the basis of those two thoughts the novel – The Extraordinary Temptation – came into existence.

So, in your relaxed moods an idea can rise up and slap you in your face. If it does grab at it and write it down before it fragments and falls away. Hope this helps some writers.

For additional ideas you might like to view a short youtube interview of three days ago.

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Creative Writing

One of the great difficulties for a writer is getting started. What am I going to write about? What can I write about? The first thing that you need is the kernel of an idea. Fine – but how do I get such a kernel?

The youtube interview here might help some:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=43iAYmpc38U

A tragedy in this writing game is that many who aspire to be writers hit the wall around page 80. Why if should be around that time I cannot answer. But many find themselves incapable of getting beyond that point and give up. There must be hundreds of thousands of 80-page potential novels thrown into drawers by writers in despair.

All right so that is the way it was – THEN. But now is now. So how about opening those drawers again and hauling out your half-formed creations? With the passing of time and a sit down and a review of what you have written can give you new ideas on how to force the story beyond what had been blocking you in the past and you find yourself out into far clearer water.

I hope this piece of encouragement helps some to pick up their pens again.

Best Regards.  Patrick.

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THE LILY-PAD FROG AND THE PRINCESS.

The air was particularly fragrant that morning. The scent of flowers across the entire pond was never finer. It was a good place to be for a frog.

He sat on a half-submerged leaf with the sun full on his face. With particular satisfaction he reflected on the three lady frogs he had covered the evening before. Many tadpoles would issue as a result of that profligate dalliance with those notable dainty strumpets.

Then his patch of sunlight suddenly darkened. A large princess, notable for her extreme ugliness, unruly manner and gross weight, lowered herself into a heap on the very edge of the pond. It was clear to him that she intended to sit there for a considerable time and thereby blocking his place in the sun.

He shuffled around on the lily-pad and said to her: “If you kiss me I will turn you into a beautiful creature.”

Well, what was a girl to do? How could any girl, especially one of her disposition, pass up on such an offer!

She got down on her broad hands and broader knees and leaning far out over the pond kissed the frog – and was immediately turned into a beautiful butterfly.

The frog ate the butterfly and the sun shone down on his pond as before.

Patrick.. 

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MAN AND MOUSE!

 “Insurance – on that!” He pointed a lump of a hand at my house. “Would you like life insurance?” He donated a leer. 

I helped him into his car and slid his crutch through the window. He hit the knob of his gammy knee with the heel of his hand to make some sort of a connection between foot and clutch – and off he went tantwivy down the street.

But he was right. The place was a wreck because Mac the Mouse ran a bawdy nugging house for little grey fellows. I needed a cat.

A huge woman sold pets.

  “I want a cat please.”

She pulled a thin turtle from a tea-chest and tossing her cigarette out the window said: “How about that?”

  “It’s not a cat.”

  “People!” She threw the turtle back into the tea-chest and extracted a damp cat. “How much do you want – half or the whole edifice?”

I backed away. The cat was neck-dropped in on top of a green lizard.

All advice now led to an exclusive cat salon.

  “Monsieur would like a long-haired – no?”

What monsieur wanted was a killer. She picked up from a cushion a thing with hair so long it couldn’t see. Maybe it had glimpsed things as a child – but now fed on memories.

  “Something not blind.”

Mac would have enjoyed Zeitz. Mademoiselle helped him to his feet. He stood unaided all by himself. The Siamese chanced a few steps. We were getting somewhere.

  “Would it need . . . you know . . . special food?”

  “No monsieur, the chopped rab-bit”

  “And an occasional mouse?” We both laughed at the thought.

Suddenly behind the Siamese a huge cat launched itself into the air and caught a fly in its paws. Two minutes later The Flyer sat in the back of my car.

That night Mac led the parade out of the remains of what used to be a wall.They fanned across the room. Two heavily pregnant ladies waddled at a hobbledygee and took their ease where a go-by-the-wall grandmother already sat. To The Flyer these were his kind of mice, guys with personalities. I leaned against the remains of the grandfather clock – and watched.

The cat unsheated his claws. Now we were really getting somewhere. “Action! Take one – anyone. Take Mac.”

Launching himself into the air the cat caught a fly.Then he lay on his back, his claws hopelessly entangled with the fly within. 

I stared at Mac.He stared back. Behind him the door fell off its hinges.