So I have one bad week of writing and that spills over into two. Gotta better watch out for that. Though in fairness my salaried job probably ought to trump my writing some days. Sometimes several in a row.
Recently I outlined that I hardly ever find inspiration outside of others’ visual media: paintings, drawings, and photographs. Songs don’t do it for me. Books don’t either. And I’ve never even considered real life to be a source of inspiration. I suspect that sounds odd or sad or both. Two days ago I had a flash of an idea watching my daughter put on a adult-sized work glove.
This flash zinged in quickly to drop off it’s message of hope then immediately deconstituted itself. Imagine cave dwellers hunched for warmth at the rise of civilization experiencing the clash of iron pyrite on flint in the dreary dark of their subterranean home: “That’s awesome Ogg but we’re freezing our nuts off over here. Grab another pelt and get your tail back over here in the huddle with the rest of us.”
Water meet fire…oh and this is oil. We need to get you two together. Idyllic have you met mundane?
So that’s as far as I got. A very young girl wearing a work glove. Trouble is that if I’m going to be any kind of non-jerk Daddy when I write from such a muse I need to find three more. Otherwise, when I get writing-daddy famous like Lewis Carroll, the left out ones will want to know why they were left out.
Happily I will leave that most important part alone because pursuing the other three images of young girls in over sized stuff solves a problem that isn’t a problem. On my way from A to C, B neatly falls in line. What’s C then?
For me it’s the genre and the execution. Do I go for full on transport to a new world like C.S. Lewis or something less concrete where everything takes place in a more ephemeral make-believe place? The later is truer to the original spark but doesn’t present much in the way of cohesiveness during the first few days this idea gestated