Solved—Where Ideas Come From

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Photo courtesy of The Times

Okay, I think I’ve gotten to the bottom of it—the question everyone keeps asking writers: Where do you get your ideas?

This is huge, people. I think it may very well be studied in psychology classes for years to come. Let me warn you, though. There’s no actual explanation for how the trick is done. That’s a brain thing, and I’m no neuroscientist. I can only tell you that it does happen.

Source Material

I was in the UK all last week, and one morning I was having breakfast at Pret A Manger, innocently reading The Times. Flipping through the pages, I came upon this story.

“Rise of mini-breaks puts the two-week family holiday in the shade”

Nice photo, right? Perfectly innocent. The article talks about how the typical two-week summer holiday is becoming a thing of the past, with families opting for “mini-breaks” of 3-4 days due to busy schedules, etc.

So far so good.

The Trigger

The photo was the actual trigger—not the accompanying story. I started thinking about my own family. We’ve had had some wonderful vacations over the years—mini-holidays, by the way—and I thought about how much I wanted to see to it that when my girls were grown, they would have a hope chest filled with amazing memories that would carry them through life.

Still with me?

Detour Ahead

This is the part where things get interesting. At the risk of obliterating any hope of generating another income stream via a new, dark short story, I will tell you where my brain went next. Ready?

Horror.

That’s right. (Stephen King, are you listening?) Sitting in Pret A Manger, sipping an Americano and perusing The Times, my mind leapt in screaming exuberance from innocent children smiling at the camera to a tale of torment with no redemption, no hope and maybe a glimmer of mercy.

And all in the time it takes to swallow a sip of coffee.

What my brain concocted in those critical few seconds is a short story about a man who gets to experience one last, beautiful memory before he is executed for his crimes. But here’s the kicker—it’s a false memory.

The man in question grew up in a horrible home with abusive parents and no hope for a better life. These are the things that made him who he is. Nevertheless, the State has granted him one last wish before dying—a single memory that would give him a moment of happiness that he could take with him on his way to Hell.

“The Happy Memory”

Jack, a happy child, is celebrating his tenth birthday with this loving parents. After blowing out the candles on his cake, his parents surprise him with a beautiful puppy—a golden retriever who immediately loves Jack to pieces and can’t stop licking his face.

Later, Jack finds himself in bed with the puppy. As a dreamy heaviness weighs on his eyelids, his parents kiss him and wish for him nothing but wonderful things. And once again, they tell him how much they love him.

When Jack awakens, he is a man in his early twenties. Wearing a grey jumpsuit and strapped to a table in a dank room with medical equipment and technicians. There’s a one-way mirror, presumably to allow witnesses to watch the proceedings.

A doctor moves toward him, asking if the memory was pleasant. With tears in his eyes, Jack says that it was, and he thanks the doctor and his staff.

“I’m glad,” the doctor says. “Given your background, we did the best we could to implant a memory that would resonate and stay with you until the end.”

“I never had a dog,” Jack says.

“We know.”

Then the doctor looks at an assistant, holding a large controller with buttons. The doctor nods, and the assistant presses the red button.

“Goodbye, Jack,” the doctor says.

You Tell Me

Let me be clear—I haven’t written this story yet. This early synopsis is a little maudlin, to be honest. I might change the memory to something not as obvious. What I was attempting to do is get the beats down, then add the twist at the end.

And “The Happy Memory” isn’t the best title. I will mostly likely change it when I write the actual short story. But you get the picture.

So what happened? Am I some kind of sicko? Of course not—at least, I don’t think so. No, I’m a writer. It’s how I’m wired. Sue me.

Remember, I didn’t ask to go to that dark place. I was happily reading the paper, and thwap! It just happened, as it often does when I’m in a conversation with someone, or I’m watching a movie. Or just reading the paper.

So, let’s recap:

1. Exposure to the source material.

2. The Trigger—perhaps tied to something already deep in the unconscious.

3. Detour.

I can’t explain writing any simpler than that. The rest is just work—writing, rewriting and polishing. I challenge other writers who are reading this to document the genesis of one of their own ideas. It should be an interesting conversation.

Related articles

Is All Writing Autobiographic? (thepoeticsproject.com)
Write Who You Are! (christinacolereflections.wordpress.com)
Am I a writer? (zrjoseph.wordpress.com)


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