DIARY OF A FIRST NOVELIST: Where do you get your ideas?

The first booksigning I did was at the New England Booksellers’ Association. I appeared in the Penguin booth, which gave me a terrific opportunity to meet some of the local and national sales people who would be working hard to get my novel into bookstores.

The New England representative and I instantly hit it off. Before the signing, he asked  if I knew the two questions authors were most commonly asked.

At that point, my book hadn’t yet hit the bookstores, and I was still getting used to the word “author.” I’d been writing all my life, but I was always afraid that if I called myself a writer, people would ask if I was published. And though my work had been appearing in literary magazines for years, no one would recognize their names.

So no, I told the sales rep,  I had absolutely no idea what an “author” might be asked.

“You’ll know by the end of the day,” he said. And he was right.

I don’t think I’ve ever attended an event without being asked the first question at least once. Even when there are only three or four people in attendance, at least one person will ask how long it took to write the book. It’s a good question, and in my case, the answer is easy: Three quick months to blurt out the story in a rough first draft, and then a couple of long years to hone and polish until it was ready for publication.

 But  the second question, also the title of this article, really stumped me the first time I heard it. Hmm...where did I get my ideas?

If I were  an autobiographical writer, the answer would be clear. However, I’m not. (Those kind souls who’ve read The Liar’s Diary can breathe a sigh of relief now.) Nothing in a novel that some reviewers have called “outright chilling” and “disturbing” happened to me. On the other hand, I clearly know the emotional landscape. There is no fiction that doesn’t contain something of the author, a fragment of our obsessions, or  a dream we never got a chance to live.

The idea question, however, remained unanswered. It hit home with particular resonance a couple of weeks ago when my agent called to say that my editor would like to see a synopsis and the first hundred pages of a new novel--preferrably some time in the next six weeks.

“Not a problem” I said confidently. “I’ll start tomorrow.”  (After all, I'd been waiting to hear that an editor was looking for my work all my life.)

I showed up to fulfill my bargain the next morning at seven (not an easy task for a serious night owl.) The computer was on, a giant mug of extra-strong coffee was at my side, and my dogs were at my feet. Only one thing was missing: I had no plot, no character, absolutely nothing with which to begin a story.

I spent the next week desperately trolling for that elusive thing known as an idea. I sat in Borders, sucking down $3 coffees with fancy names and wondering how I would pay my bills if I didn’t get another advance. On the table before me, was a giant stack of new fiction. Systematically, I studied the book jackets, in awe of the amazing story ideas that other writers had invented. Clearly, they were brilliant and imaginative,  every one of them. How had I ever dreamed I could enter their ranks?

Feeling increasingly despondent, I decided that these greedy writers had taken all the ideas! There were none left for me; and even if I tripped on one in the parking lot, I  wouldn’t know what to do with it. I called a close writer in Canada (who seemed to possess an endless store of ideas) and told her I was finished. Kaput. A one-book author.

And then one morning, I woke up with the image of a house in my mind. Just that--a house, but I saw it so clearly I felt as if I’d once lived there. Within three days, I knew the people who inhabited that house by name and by heart. I knew what they wanted most, and the scent of their fears. I knew  the content of their most troubling nightmares; and I couldn’t help but feel compassion for all I saw in their futures.

I called my writer friend in Canada and my agent (and the husband who had been subjected to my moaning for days) and told them all: I had one! And when I told them more about it, they all  said, I did indeed. I had a real, bona fide full-of-exciting-possiblities idea. And as the days have passed, that idea has become increasingly real.

But still, the question remains unanswered. Where did it come from? For me, ideas seem to appear only after plunging deep into my subconscious, from experiencing my  despair and my deepest hopes, and then allowing time to form them into something that has shape and passion and movement. Not a very good answer, I admit, but it’s the only one I have.    

Now it’s my turn to play audience member. To those of you who write in whatever form, where do you get your ideas?



Patry Francis, Books Correspondent:

Patry's column, Diary of a First Novelist, published every Thursday to Gather Essentials: Books. It will detail all she knows--and is in the process of learning--about writing and publishing.  

To learn more about Patry and her debut novel, The Liar's Diary, visit her Website.

 

You can find all of Patry's articles, Diary of a First Novelist, at www.gather.com/patryfrancis

Keep up with Patry’s other postings and Gather activity by joining her Gather network -- just click here and select the orange “Connect” button on the left-hand side of the page

 
You’ll find Patry and other Book Correspondents, plus celebrity author content and plenty of other bibliophiles at Books.gather.com
.