Where do you find inspiration?

Where do you find inspiration?  

With fall fast approaching and the days getting shorter by the minute (pun intended), we have fewer hours to actually be inspired. Maybe you're the kind who wakes up in the middle of the night with an absolutely brilliant idea and rushes to jot it down on a nearby napkin or even record it on a cool device. 

I tried that once, whispering into the small recorder I kept in my nightstand drawer. My croaking whispers woke dear hubby, who sat upright in bed, demanding to know who or what I was talking to. 

As a writer, he didn't have the first clue about the rush of roping the greatest story idea in the few fleeting moments. You HAVE to get it written down or risk losing it in the vast cloud of ideas floating around forever in a lost universe. 

But I'm getting off-track.

Inspiration: Where Does It Come From?

Whether it be the dusty rural road I live on or a crowded aisle in the local grocery store, my eyes and ears absorb everything around me. One evening, while cruising the back roads in no particular hurry, out of nowhere, a car comes barreling straight at me. He whizzed past in a blur, squealed his tires at the corner, made a U-turn, and rushed up behind me, trailing my bumper frightfully close. 

My heart beat full throttle as he passed me, racing ahead and completing another turn, this time barreling straight at me. 

His actions were reckless, crazy even. Furious and without thinking, I pulled onto the side of the road. My window was already down, having been enjoying a leisurely evening ride. He slowed his car next to mine, revved up his motor as if to impress me. "What do you want?"

With a booze induced grin, he peeled gravel on the dirt road and sped off. 

Only a few hundred yards from home, I said a silent prayer when I parked beside the shed, hurried into the house, and bolted the door. 

Later, as I crawled into bed, my imagination took over. How could I be certain he hadn't followed me home? Hubby was out of town, and I'd given specific orders to my friends and family that I wanted to be alone. I had plans to write and didn't want to be disturbed for any reason. I'd repeated this so loudly that no one would even think of dropping by. What had started off as a few days of bliss suddenly became apparent how quickly the situation could change. Two full days of solitude could do some serious harm under the right circumstances. 

That became the inspiration for my suspense story, Letters From Inside. An idea so creepy it's one of my all-time favorites.

Excerpt below:

 Out of nowhere, a man appeared in her headlights riding a bicycle. His dark clothing and a knit cap made it impossible to see until her car was practically on top of him as he pedaled on the pavement. She swerved and narrowly missed hitting the guy, then looked in her rear-view mirror. The man had stopped in the road, balancing his bike against one leg, and made the lewd gesture of flipping her off. Her heart dropped to her lap, realizing how close she’d come to running the guy over. She hadn’t expected anyone to be riding a bicycle at this hour, especially without reflectors. Linda pressed the accelerator down, needing to put as much distance between them as possible. Later, as she changed into her pajamas, the frightening image surfaced again. His gaze left her feeling isolated and vulnerable. She snuggled beneath the warmth of her quilt and closed her eyes, but nothing could erase the memory of his alarming reaction. For the first time since moving back into the farmhouse, she felt uneasy and got out of bed to double-check the doors. She crept into the living room and stood in the dark, then sliced the curtains and peeked out into the yard. The hairs rose on the back of her neck, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that unseen eyes were watching her. “Mom?” Jessie came out of her bedroom, groggy from sleep. “Is somebody out there?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. “No, sweetheart. Just wondering if it’s going to rain or not. Go back to bed.” Linda moved quickly from the window, wrapped her arm across her daughter’s shoulder, and then walked her back to her room.

Available on Amazon.

Where do your ideas come from? 

 

Rocky is still the man

 As summer drags by and since hubby is retired, I find myself at a loss. I mean, the house has only so many cabinets and closets to clean. So, I head out to my little room where bliss awaits. This is my piece of heaven. My own special place where I sit and watch movies or read a good book. I usually only get an hour or two before someone comes searching for me, but I'm not complaining. Imagine how I'd feel if nobody did? 

Like the rest of the world, I'm waiting for Yellowstone to wrap up. Why it takes so long between seasons is anyone's guess. But a person can only wear so many hats, no matter how big the head. Anyway, I decided to rewatch some old movies. Since my little room is only equipped with an antenna, I usually watch DVDs. 

Yesterday, I chose Rocky Balboa. I watched it at the theater and remember thinking how magnificent he still looked after all these years. Magnificent, yes, is the right word. He is toned and determined. And loyal. I'm a sucker for a love story, which you probably already know since I write romance novels. In a previous movie, Rocky's wife, Adrian, had passed away- we only see memories of her in this movie. There's a flashback of when he first met her at the pet store and bought a pair of turtles, Cuff and Link. Love those names. I gotta tell you, I almost cried during the opening minutes seeing Rocky feeding two clunky, and very big, turtles swimming around in a tank.  The passing of time hits you hard. 

And like it or not, it's a phase in life we all reach. A whole new chapter. The silver years, which will ultimately lead to the golden ones, and on to the big finale. And like Rocky, it takes some adjusting. You know, there's still a little more inside. And he's determined to spend it all. Every last drop. 

Good advice. 

Pursue your passion. 

   

BOOK SIGNING- May 2nd, 2025

 

It's nearly time! May 2nd, 2025, when I will join several local authors from our area for their annual author book fair being held at the Marcellus Township Wood Library. 

This is a perfect opportunity to ask questions about the writing process. How does a book happen? How long does it take to write a book? And, where do you get your ideas?

There will be books available for purchase, too. 

I hope to see you there! 

INSIDE A convicted rapist out on parole. A detective determined to put him back in prison. And an innocent woman caught in the crossfire. When Tom Harrington is unable to prevent the release of the serial rapist, Carl Jenkins, from the state penitentiary, the detective follows him to the small town of Berrien. His reasons are personal - Jenkins was convicted of assaulting Tom's sister. One slight parole infraction buys him a free ticket back to prison, where he belongs. After eight years in the state penitentiary, Carl Jenkins is deemed rehabilitated. Years of hard times and no visitors. Nothing can penetrate the cynical chamber that functions as a heart. Until the smallest ray of warmth enters his cell in a flowery envelope and perfumed paper. Whispers of dreams long forgotten. And the hope to become normal.

 AND OUT There's another lure to the sleepy town, the beautiful woman who spent months corresponding with the convict. Linda Wheeler is a mystery to both men. Seeking refuge after a tumultuous divorce, all she craves is peace. Yet, single parenting is a whole other battle. Her teenage daughter is becoming a rule breaker and eventually winds up on the wrong side of the law. She's determined to keep her from becoming a name and number in the court's legal system. But what Linda doesn't know is that a name has already seeped behind prison walls: her name. And nothing can prepare them for the storm that's coming.

Leslie Stone stumbles upon her fiancé cheating with the maid of honor just days before her wedding. Determined to put distance between them, she heads to the family’s cabin in Sleeping Falls, Michigan. Unfortunately, her car barely hit the city limits before breaking down. And with no money for repairs, the scrolling marquee above the biker bar advertising a mechanical bull riding contest seems like a perfect solution.
Jay Westfield learned at an early age to avoid women who chase the limelight. After all, his mother had been the star attraction in Harvey’s Traveling show. The minute Leslie clears the door in cut-offs and skimpy tank top, things heat up. She’s on a mission and he wants no part of it. The last thing he expects is the attraction he feels seeing her on the back of Old Iron.
Add a squeezy rag doll named Mr. Jingles, the colorful antics of newfound friend, and the renowned tarot-card reader Madame Luella. Leslie’s about to discover in order to find the man of her dreams she must be willing to believe in magic.

One snowy Christmas Eve street urchin Victoria and her dog spend hours wandering the chilly streets selling ribbons and peering through the store's glass windows at grand gifts designed to fill boys and girls Christmas wishes everywhere. But Victoria has a wish of her own. A yearning for something she wants more than anything else in the world. And perhaps this year Father Christmas will find her and make all her dreams come true. When a withered old storekeeper and his gentle wife find themselves in her company, they are at a loss. The couple has long forgotten the joys of Christmas spent with a child and the magic sure to follow when they open their home and their hearts to... The Season For Miracles.

 

                                   THE LITTLE GIRL 

                I saw a girl outside today while she was jumping rope

            With tangled hair and skinned up knees,, no buttons on her coat.

            She sang in rhyme and skipped a beat to slapping 

            on the ground.

            And counted as she played the game, abandoned that, then

            found a swing. 

   

              She pumped herself into the clouds, still singing silly songs.

            I knew each word before she spoke, the lyrics loud and strong.

            I took the path she walked to school, now overgrown and small.

            The curves and hills, the rambling creek, no distance here at all.

              I strolled along her daily route and found beneath some trees,

            The tiny house where she had grown, a sacred place 

            the girl called home.

             A sagging porch with crumbling steps, through dirty window glass,

            I held my breath and peered inside, a restful peace at last.

            I heard the sound of laughter and felt a swell of love.

            With eyes yet closed, I held her tight.   

            The little girl was...me.