So where do my writing ideas come from?
Over the years, so many people have asked me this question.
Where do my writing ideas come from?
Well, like me, the answer is rather complicated.
The first novel I ever wrote was a story that had been rambling about in my head for so long I honestly don't remember where it came from. I will rewrite it some day. It's a lovely love story that took place long before cell phones and texting, when people got mail and love letters were a thing.
It never occurred to me to ask if other people have dreams about book plots. Maybe they do, maybe it's just me. But sometimes, my dreams bring me book ideas.
And when the book ideas come in my dreams, wowie, do they zing me.
Jack Diamond, my main character for Diamonds for Diamond and No One Noticed came from a dream.
I was in the middle of writing my first novel, and I started writing a scene about the main character making cookies in his kitchen. I finished writing the entire scene before I realized that wasn't Scott, the main character of the novel, but rather some other random guy.
Many moons later when I was hashing over murder mystery plot ideas with my husband, I felt mildly frustrated because I couldn't figure out who the main character was. I couldn't envision him. I didn't want to create a guy out of nothing. I wanted him to BE someone.
And then I remembered the scene about the 'fake' Scott baking cookies in the kitchen, and it all came flooding in to me.
I remembered the scene vividly.
I could see what he was wearing. I could picture the entire kitchen. And just like that, I was inside his house. I took a few steps backward, and I saw his dining room, his living room, the front door. I watched as he sat on the couch teaching a little girl, maybe 6? or 7? how to play chess. I watched him get up and go into the back of the house, passing the laundry room and the guest bathroom. I watched him go into his bedroom and off to change his clothes. I saw the french doors leading to his back garden, and realized that his grandmother taught him how to garden. That she, in fact, had raised him. I felt a million of his memories come flashing into my memories, like a USB had been plugged into my circuitry and now I knew who this man had the potential to be.
My husband may have named him (after a real man who worked with him on the real MCSO Dive Rescue and Recovery Team), but Jack Diamond in my books is a completely different person, downloaded from my imagination.
Since then, several other scenes from various bits and pieces of book ideas have periodically popped into my thoughts.
Once, not long after visiting my family and friends in Alaska, I had a very short, very vivid dream for a romance novel -- start to finish -- that took place in Valdez, Alaska. I've never been to Valdez. But evidently I'll need to head over there some day. The dream was unbelievably realistic, with an absurd amount of details considering the whole thing took place in under three minutes of sleep.
Then, last night, I had a doozy. Truly, a gift of a dream.
This time, the dream manifested out of actual events (in actuality I was looking over the doctor's shoulder, watching the fascinating results of a someone else's echocardiogram) -- but in the dream, I was looking over the surgeon's shoulder, looking at someone's cataract on an enormous screen.
The remainder of the dream was completely unrelated. As I watched the dream unfold, I found myself fascinated by the amount of details I had been able to obtain from the characters.
I rolled over in bed, grabbed my phone, and started typing down the details. I think at one point after I had written down as much of the dream as I could remember, I must have fallen back asleep a little bit, because more of the dream kept coming. I typed along as the dream was coming to me, jotting down detailed notes of the whole thing. Like sleep walking, only typing. Sleep typing? I typed down where we were, who his family was, who else was there, conversations. Feelings. Emotions. Scars. Memories.
To me, these dreams are almost like alternate realities. As if in some alternate universe these events actually took place. I remember the dream as if it's a memory of my own experience. The aches, the hurts, the feelings are all mine, but the story is theirs.
I have learned a process of writing that works effectively for me. I plot out the whole book, from start to mostly finish, jotting down itsy bitsy pieces of notes for each chapter. Something like, "Claire meets Jack at the restaurant and gives him the envelope full of photos." Just enough of a note to trigger the idea of what has to happen in that chapter. When you're writing a murder mystery, it's important to plot out what happens when, who dies when, who figures out what at which point, and so on. Lay out the clues. Fill out the timing. Get things right.
And then when I sit down to write, after looking at my note, I simply start typing. And the next thing I know, it's like watching a movie unfold. I watch what happens. Who is there? What does the place smell like? What are they eating? What are they talking about? Is she happy? What did she choose to wear today? What does her perfume smell like? Is she upset? I can scan the whole scene in my mind, taking it all in, trying to get it all down in writing so that the reader can be sitting beside the characters, listening to their conversation, nibbling on their french fries while sipping at an iced tea, a virtual fly on the wall.
Writing just comes to me, pouring out of my fingers. Things happen to my characters that I had no idea was going to happen. People die. Sometimes they buy thoughtful presents that I would never have thought of. It astounds me when people say something like, "But you wrote it. It came from you. So you thought of this." Yes, I suppose that's true. But to me? It feels like the characters came up with the ideas all on their own. They did what they did. They said what they said. They made their choice, did their deeds, suffer the consequences. I'm just the writer who translates their actions onto paper.
And now, as I'm rambling on forever and a day, I am realizing I have a new struggle. Do I write the story from my dream into a more cohesive story? Do I take time away from Jack Diamond and his adventures to write a romance? Or do I take a few notes, save the paragraphs, and hope that when at some point I'm done writing Jack Diamond books and am ready to switch gears, I can rekindle this memory of this amazing dream, and write this romance that haunts me still, fourteen hours later?
These are good questions.
* * * * *
* * * * *
So where do my writing ideas come from?
Over the years, so many people have asked me this question.
Where do my writing ideas come from?
Well, like me, the answer is rather complicated.
The first novel I ever wrote was a story that had been rambling about in my head for so long I honestly don't remember where it came from. I will rewrite it some day. It's a lovely love story that took place long before cell phones and texting, when people got mail and love letters were a thing.
It never occurred to me to ask if other people have dreams about book plots. Maybe they do, maybe it's just me. But sometimes, my dreams bring me book ideas.
And when the book ideas come in my dreams, wowie, do they zing me.
Jack Diamond, my main character for Diamonds for Diamond and No One Noticed came from a dream.
I was in the middle of writing my first novel, and I started writing a scene about the main character making cookies in his kitchen. I finished writing the entire scene before I realized that wasn't Scott, the main character of the novel, but rather some other random guy.
Many moons later when I was hashing over murder mystery plot ideas with my husband, I felt mildly frustrated because I couldn't figure out who the main character was. I couldn't envision him. I didn't want to create a guy out of nothing. I wanted him to BE someone.
And then I remembered the scene about the 'fake' Scott baking cookies in the kitchen, and it all came flooding in to me.
I remembered the scene vividly.
I could see what he was wearing. I could picture the entire kitchen. And just like that, I was inside his house. I took a few steps backward, and I saw his dining room, his living room, the front door. I watched as he sat on the couch teaching a little girl, maybe 6? or 7? how to play chess. I watched him get up and go into the back of the house, passing the laundry room and the guest bathroom. I watched him go into his bedroom and off to change his clothes. I saw the french doors leading to his back garden, and realized that his grandmother taught him how to garden. That she, in fact, had raised him. I felt a million of his memories come flashing into my memories, like a USB had been plugged into my circuitry and now I knew who this man had the potential to be.
My husband may have named him (after a real man who worked with him on the real MCSO Dive Rescue and Recovery Team), but Jack Diamond in my books is a completely different person, downloaded from my imagination.
Since then, several other scenes from various bits and pieces of book ideas have periodically popped into my thoughts.
Once, not long after visiting my family and friends in Alaska, I had a very short, very vivid dream for a romance novel -- start to finish -- that took place in Valdez, Alaska. I've never been to Valdez. But evidently I'll need to head over there some day. The dream was unbelievably realistic, with an absurd amount of details considering the whole thing took place in under three minutes of sleep.
Then, last night, I had a doozy. Truly, a gift of a dream.
The remainder of the dream was completely unrelated. As I watched the dream unfold, I found myself fascinated by the amount of details I had been able to obtain from the characters.
I rolled over in bed, grabbed my phone, and started typing down the details. I think at one point after I had written down as much of the dream as I could remember, I must have fallen back asleep a little bit, because more of the dream kept coming. I typed along as the dream was coming to me, jotting down detailed notes of the whole thing. Like sleep walking, only typing. Sleep typing? I typed down where we were, who his family was, who else was there, conversations. Feelings. Emotions. Scars. Memories.
To me, these dreams are almost like alternate realities. As if in some alternate universe these events actually took place. I remember the dream as if it's a memory of my own experience. The aches, the hurts, the feelings are all mine, but the story is theirs.
I have learned a process of writing that works effectively for me. I plot out the whole book, from start to mostly finish, jotting down itsy bitsy pieces of notes for each chapter. Something like, "Claire meets Jack at the restaurant and gives him the envelope full of photos." Just enough of a note to trigger the idea of what has to happen in that chapter. When you're writing a murder mystery, it's important to plot out what happens when, who dies when, who figures out what at which point, and so on. Lay out the clues. Fill out the timing. Get things right.
And then when I sit down to write, after looking at my note, I simply start typing. And the next thing I know, it's like watching a movie unfold. I watch what happens. Who is there? What does the place smell like? What are they eating? What are they talking about? Is she happy? What did she choose to wear today? What does her perfume smell like? Is she upset? I can scan the whole scene in my mind, taking it all in, trying to get it all down in writing so that the reader can be sitting beside the characters, listening to their conversation, nibbling on their french fries while sipping at an iced tea, a virtual fly on the wall.
Writing just comes to me, pouring out of my fingers. Things happen to my characters that I had no idea was going to happen. People die. Sometimes they buy thoughtful presents that I would never have thought of. It astounds me when people say something like, "But you wrote it. It came from you. So you thought of this." Yes, I suppose that's true. But to me? It feels like the characters came up with the ideas all on their own. They did what they did. They said what they said. They made their choice, did their deeds, suffer the consequences. I'm just the writer who translates their actions onto paper.
And now, as I'm rambling on forever and a day, I am realizing I have a new struggle. Do I write the story from my dream into a more cohesive story? Do I take time away from Jack Diamond and his adventures to write a romance? Or do I take a few notes, save the paragraphs, and hope that when at some point I'm done writing Jack Diamond books and am ready to switch gears, I can rekindle this memory of this amazing dream, and write this romance that haunts me still, fourteen hours later?
These are good questions.
* * * * *
* * * * *
I not only bake and cook, I write murder mysteries too!
Both books are available in paperback and kindle versions
Diamonds for Diamond
(Book 1 in the Jack Diamond Mystery series)
and
No One Noticed
(Book 2 in the Jack Diamond Mystery Series)
Diamonds for Diamond
(Book 1 in the Jack Diamond Mystery series)
and
No One Noticed
(Book 2 in the Jack Diamond Mystery Series)
* * * * *
