Inspiration

First light on snowy western hills always thrills me. I wake in the dark early hours, thoughts spinning, as my new book comes to life. I know I should be sleeping, but I’m just beginning to see how that next scene will take shape. It grips me, won’t let go.

Finally the room fills with light and I rise from my bed to see this. How can I not stop to share it?

For my followers who may not realize, snow rarely comes to these Oregon hills. Not like the mountains of Montana where I lived for a few years. These foothills of the coast range usually stay green with Douglas Fir forests, even in winter. The middle ground is Pleasant Plain, so called by the pioneers who settled it, the foreground my own oaks. All more accustomed to green. The deep-green river wraps around Pleasant Plain on its snaking journey to the sea.

I step out onto my deck for the early picture. A quick shot. It’s cold out there. In the 20s. We’re not used to that either.

It’s also the view from my office where my stories grow.

The sun lifts higher. I’m just past the three-quarter mark on the outline. Time to turn those waking thoughts into story.

Where do the ideas come from?

A whisper from your muse?

The deep wells of your mind?

The fogs in your surroundings?

Writers wonder these kinds of things–perhaps most often when they face a blank screen.

With my last project pretty well wrapped up it’s time for me to start a new book. I’ve had some ideas already. Took some notes. Worked out a potential storyline. Named some characters. I put all that away over the holidays and had other things to do. Now it’s time and procrastination begins.

How do I make the story live? Yesterday I spent all day renaming my protagonist’s little brother. I like the new name, and it stirred other thoughts. I began to envision scenes. Today I opened the window blinds and noticed the fog rising on the river, like dreams, like story. By afternoon a feeble sun broke through, and I grabbed a coat to head out for my walk.

So many ideas emerge on those walks. Fog still rising. Rolling down the river between the oak hills and timbered slopes. The story will come. I just have to let it in.