So, where do you get your ideas?

People sometimes ask where story ideas come from, as if by learning that closely held secret—by finding that magical font of stories—they too may drink from it, be inspired and be able to append the term writer to their name. In fact, almost everyone I talk to about writing believes that all that separates them from success is that elusive but necessary idea, plus a bit of practice.

If only. Sad but true, ideas are the easy part. We have them ten times a day, triggered by casual events and stray associations. Witness the anatomy of a story:

I was talking to one of my son’s friends, a soon to graduate teenager. He asked the question on story ideas, and I gave him the answer I noted above. Then, I went on to say, “Last weekend I saw Sondheim’s Into the Woods. In it, Red Riding Hood, after an encounter with the wolf—who was charming but who saw Red as the blue-plate special on his dinner menu—realizes that, as she puts it, “nice is different than good.” I like that idea, and it’s stuck with me because we so often confuse the two.

“You could,” I said, “expand that into a million plots. For example, our popular culture holds that someone you find pretty is desirable, and desirable is good. We also learn that when a man and a woman strike sparks every time they meet there’s passion, so they’re going to fall in love before the story ends. So, let’s assume we have a man who is very much into the lessons taught in the popular media. A new employee shows up at the office, and she drives him crazy, by arguing with him about everything. Whenever they meet there are sparks. They don’t hate each other, they just have strong opinions that differ, and a strong belief that they’re right, so, they’re like oil and water.

“But then, one night, when they’re both in the office late, and screaming at each other, the man shouts, ‘You’re driving me crazy. You’re beautiful and you’re smart, but you drive me crazy!’ And the next thing you know they’re all over each other, with the same passion they showed in arguing.

“So the man quickly marries his nemesis, but of course, a few weeks later they’re back to arguing again because they’re still oil and water.

“In fact, the point of the story is about his buying into the silly societal norms, as we all do, and having them rubbed into his face. And through it all, his best friend is the woman he really should be in love with, but he can’t let himself see that, because doesn’t have an exciting face and figure, and so, obviously, isn’t what he should be seeking. It takes him most of the novel to wake up to reality, as he guides his friend into becoming a success at what she does best—other then being hopelessly in love with him.”

And just like that, in the five minutes it took me to tell the young man what amounted to a synopsis, the plot was complete and the story was written, at least in my mind. Hard to do? Not a bit. You could do the same. What was hard, was deciding how to organize and present it to a reader. You can’t simply tell the story as an expansion of the plot description, no matter how you expand and polish it, because that would be me, talking about the story, not presenting Drew, the main character, as he learns the lessons that will bring him to realize he’s been an idiot, and should have married Zoe in the first place.

Where do I begin such a story on the page? That’s where the craft of the fiction writer comes into play. Shall we begin with him meeting the woman he’ll do battle with—or with the model he also pursues under the assumption that pretty and nice are also synonymous? No, because the readers need to know Drew and what makes him tick in order to understand his reaction to those women on a gut level—so that reader will buy into it, too, and urge him to go after the women, as they would, and then learn, as he does, that nice, and pretty, are very different from good. We also need to know how he and Zoe interact, to realize what an idiot he is, and how important she is to him.

The most difficult task is writing it so the reader, rather then just being informed, is enticed, and made to be a participant rather than audience member. I had to arrange the scenes so the stakes kept rising for Drew, and the options narrowing, until he was alone and despondent. He has no job, he has no wife, and all that’s left is the single rock that has brought stability into his life, year after year: Zoe. That way, when Zoe’s life is threatened, and he's forced to look at what the future would be without her, Drew is forced to face the realization that Zoe means more to him than life, itself.

So Drew, to acquit himself, and to make himself worthy of her love, as poetic justice requires, rescues Zoe and gives her reason to commit herself fully to him, as he has to her.

It’s the elements of Drew’s epiphany, all coming together, that are the hard part of writing, because they have to be invisible to the reader on a conscious level. Done right, the reader will recognize that Drew is being an idiot. And on some level they will be aware that in the end Drew and Zoe will get together, but because they buy into his reasons for his foolishness, will worry more about the effect on Zoe, and her reaction to his decisions. That reader must never be aware that you’re manipulating them to urge the protagonist to do what the writer is about to have him/her do. They must never have unanswered questions that nag and pull them out of the story. And, they must never be confused or bored, not even for a single line.

Any competent writer can spark off story ideas. The only difference between theirs and a non-writer’s is that theirs are pre-shaped by the knowledge of how to present a story idea in an exciting and natural way.

So, if writing for publication is your desire, forget the idea that you’re being held back by the lack of that great idea. Ideas are easy. Presentation is the hard part because it’s not something we learn in school, where they’re teaching us to be a responsible adult, with skills an employer finds desirable. There, we focus on how to present reports, and the basics of writing on the job. In the stories we tell each other, aloud, we’re alone on stage and playing all roles, so to speak, which requires that there be a listener who can hear the emotion we place in our voice and see our facial expression, to make up for there being no other actors—none of which makes it to the page when we try to write a novel until we school ourselves in the craft and specialized knowledge of the fiction-writer.

So, where do I get my own ideas? How in the hell should I know? It’s how to stop them that stumps me.

If you’re wondering if Zoe and Drew made it to the bookshelves the answer is no. That story was written before I learned many of the techniques of fiction-writing—the things I mentioned above. It was a learning tool, and the result was badly flawed—too badly to think of submitting it. But one of these days…