A non-writer asked me "but where do you get your ideas" and i genuinely did not know how to explain that it's not a place. it's not a website. it's not a folder. it's that i was on the bus and a woman was holding a paper bag very carefully and something about the way she held it made me need to know what was inside and then i needed to know why she was sad about it and then there was a whole person and then there was a whole story and the bus had already stopped and i missed my stop. that's where.
I do not get ideas from anywhere, the ideas get me. They lurk in the smile of a stranger, in the shadows of leaves swaying in an early summer breeze. They hide behind the tears of tragedy and in between the tentative rays of a winter dawn. They lie in wait and lurk and hide, awaiting to be seen. All I do is walk with open eyes.
