Yesterday, Saturday, February 02, 2013, I was down with the flu. It was to good old fashioned stomach flu none of those with any of the fancy names attached. I laid low and wonderful wife, Lynda kept me with ice water and toast for lunch. I sat down at the computer as she watched a little TV and I typed Chapter 07 of Pagan Mirth.
Sometime on this side of midnight, I started to dream. These dreams were full of action, color and ideas. Since I didn't get the opportunity to work on Chapter 08, my muse turned my thoughts to future projects. My next novel, of course I had to write the idea down first, is going to be a frozen variety. It is going to be a murder mystery in the frozen tundra of South Dakota in the middle of January and February, when the temperature tend to plummet well below zero on the Fahrenheit Scale.
I saw ice houses on frozen lakes with the hearty South Dakotans fishing. I saw wind-swept snows, I saw ice dangling from the hair of cattle and bison, I saw people walking like so many stuffed dolls with every part of their bodies layered against the life sucking cold. The worst parts of the dream came when I saw fingers of blood seeping across the snowy blanket like so many veins; it was almost like the snow was coming alive. Now who cannot come up with a story with visions like that dancing in your head all night?
I am curious, where does your inspiration come from? Do you even know? Tap into your dreams. Exploit the foibles of your friends. Take your worst experience and try to make it a comedy. As for me, I will take my dreams and the visits from my muses.
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