Where Ideas Originate

Over the years, the most common question Rob and I have been asked about fiction writing is: Where do your ideas come from?

 I don’t know how it works for other writers, but for me, ideas are often born when I walk into a particular place, locale, a setting or situation that speaks to something internal. I immediately think, Wow, what if…

This happened to me on a recent family trip we made to visit my sister, Mary, in Georgia. Rob and I and our dog picked up our daughter and her dog in Orlando, then drove to Mary’s place in Roswell. We had a wonderful family reunion with Mary’s three sons, their partners, and dogs and the next day drove to Blue Ridge, Georgia.

It’s in northwest Georgia, in the Chattahoochee National Forest, about 2,500 feet above sea level. Neal, Mary’s partner, owns a cabin there that sits in the middle of nowhere, in six or seven acres of rolling forest with a rushing stream at the foot of the property. We had planned to spend a lot of time hiking, but the weather system that brought terrible flooding to South Carolina – a once in a millennium storm-  had other plans for us.

From the moment we arrived on Friday to the hour we left on Sunday, it rained almost constantly. The rain was never torrential – just a steady downpour that created the most beautiful sound as it danced against the cabin’s tin roof, swept through the woods, and filled the stream.

At dusk that first evening, we hiked with the dogs, down through the trees toward the stream. They tore through this paradise of wet woods and delicious scents, free as the wind, and we scurried after them in our raincoats, caps, and really soggy shoes. Mary and I finally called it quits and headed back to the porch to decide what to do for dinner. Go into town for groceries or snack on cheese and crackers?

As she and I were sitting on the wide, wraparound porch, the sound of the rain lulled me and I suddenly thought, This cabin is the perfect hideout. Isolated but comfortable. Not a neighbor in sight.

Between us and the actual downtown of Blue Ridge lay 10 miles of twisting, muddy, slippery mountain roads walled on either side by dense forest.

“Mary, the bad guys come here to hide out.”

“The aliens?”

I laughed. I hadn’t been thinking of aliens, but sure, why not? “Maybe.”

“Is anyone living in the cabin?”

“A couple with a young child and a dog.”

“What have the bad guys done? Why are they running, hiding out?”

I’m not sure if she asked me that question or if it was a question I asked myself. Probably the latter. My sister doesn’t ever sit still for long. She was probably inside the cabin at this point, checking the fridge, the cabinets, and making a grocery list. But with this question, the vein dried up.

We went into town for groceries, then grabbed a bite to eat at one of the restaurants downtown. As we left the restaurant after a great dinner, we realized we had gotten turned around and come out on the wrong side of the restaurant. A very long train – Blue Ridge Scenic Railway – stood between us and our car.

We walked for awhile along the track. Neal tried a door on the train. It was locked. Rob finally ducked under the train and crawled through to the other side and the rest of us followed him. And when I was under that train, negotiating a white chain link barrier, the vein blew open again. This is how the bad guys escape. They’re clumsy, like me, uneasy about being caught, and in such a big hurry that one of them gets stuck. Uh-oh, now what?

It was like that all weekend, with snippets of the story rushing into my awareness, then retreating again. And the rain kept falling. And falling.

Late Saturday afternoon, we were possessed by cabin fever and drove through the rain to Blue Ridge, to Fighting Town Tavern for dinner. I was pretty sure the bad guys – aliens or human – had eaten here. The menu was cool because of the stuff written along the edges.

The posters in the restroom were worthy of extended conversation and yes, maybe one of the bad guys was an aging hippie who had seen Hendrix or The Doors in concert.

A  football game was on TV and as the bad guys drank and drank (how much alcohol can an alien drink?) they got louder and rowdier and cheered for opposing teams. Was this where they did something BAD and escaped under the train and headed into the mountains and ended up at Neal’s cabin? Who was in the cabin when they broke in?

Late that night, the outside security light blazed on and I bolted upright, my heart pounding. I was sure the serial killers/bad aliens were out there, peering through windows that didn’t have curtains or blinds. I flopped back against the mattress, pulled the covers over my head, and hoped dawn would arrive soon. When I told Mary about it the next morning, she just laughed. “Trish, the security lights are triggered by motion detectors. It was probably a deer.”

I embraced the voice of reason, but still had doubts.

On Sunday morning, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and Megan and Rob did yoga tree postures on a fallen stump while the dogs raced through the woods.

All was well. I’d reached the ending of my story. I had a beginning and an end and didn’t have any idea what had happened in the several hundred pages between those two points.

But someday I’ll know.

This is how ideas for novels are born. At the end of the day, though, at the end of the story, you are left with this: