In The Woods

Writers are often asked where their ideas come from. It’s such a common question that many roll their eyes. I’ve talked about that before on this blog post. For me, it’s always been the ‘what if’ question. This weekend I went for a short walk by my home and realized a lot of ideas come from the woods. Mysterious little spots that make you wonder why, and what’s on the other side, and what happened. So in case you need some story inspiration, here are some photos from that walk, and what they made me wonder.

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Where did these train tracks go? How far can I follow them? Back in the 1920s there used to be houses here. They were moved away but you can still come across odd little open spaces like this. Which then make me wonder, who lived here? Is anything of them still left? Could I find old dishes or tools…or bones?

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Two trees thick with moss and licorice root, that look, on this drizzly day, like a gateway. What would happen if I walked through? Would I find some secret forested world? Did they border a footpath or a doorway? Did someone watch them grow and wonder where they would be when the trees were full-grown? Or did these take root on a nurse log, the carcass of a tree that fell and gave them the nutrients they needed to survive? That would explain these two being in a straight line. So is there an old tree under them? Did it come down in a windstorm now long forgotten and did those living in the old houses hear the tree come down?

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What’s on the other side? If I sit here long enough will I see a bear? Or Bigfoot? Or some old hermit coming down for water? Someone that people no longer remember, who maybe disappeared years ago, someone who refused to go when the houses were moved? What secrets are over there, where I can’t go?

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And finally, a question everyone who’s ever walked a path asks: what’s at the end? What will I find? What is out there, that I can’t yet see? What stories are waiting?

 

 

 

Folded Between Pages

Tahereh Mafi, in Shatter Me, wrote ‘I spent my life folded between the pages of books. In the absence of human relationships I formed bonds with paper characters. I lived love and loss through stories threaded in history; I experienced adolescence by association. My world is one interwoven web of words, stringing limb to limb, bone to sinew, thoughts and images all together. I am a being comprised of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination formed through fiction.’

Interwoven web of words, comprised of letters, created by sentences. So many things in that quote resonate with me. Can’t you feel that complete immersion in the story?

For those of you who love books, doesn’t this make you remember a favorite, maybe from when you were a child, that opened the world of stories for you?

And for those of you who, like me, spent so much time in the story world as a child, teenager, young woman, don’t you recognize yourself in some of her phrases? While I didn’t live with the absence of human relationships, I do realize now, looking back, how  life passed by without me seeing the real world for the imaginary.

I came across this quote in Goodreads. I haven’t read Shatter Me but since Ms. Mafi just looked into my storied soul, I am going to.

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Lost Dogs and Writing

Some of you have heard part of this before. Several years ago my son asked if he could go hiking with a friend. He also wanted to take along his dog, Arwen, who was not yet full-grown. My response was yes, with the qualifier that they could not go up the Lookout Point trail because it was too steep for Arwen at her age.

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At obedience class

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Still my favorite photo of Arwen

So of course, being young and immortal, that’s exactly where they went. And they also went bushwhacking off trail. Along the way Arwen ended up stuck on a boulder outcropping. Both us mothers filled out backpacks with equipment but it quickly became obvious that a rescue attempt would be dangerous.

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View from Lookout Point trail

To make a long story short, we spent a horrible, sleepless night, imagining Arwen out there alone. With the sunrise though, rock climbers and friends gathered and she was rescued.

The boys of course were grounded.

The fellow-mother came up with a great idea afterward when we were calmer. She asked each of us to write our version of what happened. It was wonderful to see the same drama from different points of view and to see what each of us found important enough to record.

My son wrote his in story form. I was thrilled. A writer was born!

Then nothing.

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Until a couple of years ago when he asked me a question about a specific piece of writing craft. I tried not to scare him off with my excitement. I simply sent him home with this GIANT three-ring binder full of resources on craft.

Last night he asked me to edit something he’d written on world-building for a science fiction piece he’s working on.

I calmly assured him I’d be more than happy to give him an honest opinion.

I managed to wait until he pulled out of the driveway before celebrating. I think I had the piece edited and sent off before he got home.

There’s a fine line between supporting him and pushing something on him that he may not want. Or overwhelming him.

But I keep going back to that story he wrote when Arwen was lost in the woods. Little does he know I still have it. Maybe some day I’ll point to it and say ‘this was the beginning’.

a story about dragons