If you haven’t noticed, we’ve finished with Roy G Biv and moved on to other colors.
Silver: Top three sources of inspiration.
For a while there, I would cite Stephen King as a source of inspiration. One particular story that I wrote when I was in the eighth grade, which I may or may not have written about before, was about this girl who dies only to wake up to the day of her death. I left the ending at that and let the readers decide if she did her day entirely different or left her day as is. (In my little eighth grade heart, I believe she did everything possible to stop herself from dying, but I hope I left enough questions with the reader to make up their own mind. The story, by the way, was good enough to be recognized in front of an assembly. That was the best and worst day of my life to that point. Of course, I loved being recognized by others for something that I wrote. At the same time, I was being recognized. How mortifying was that? Answer: Very.
I still write a spooky story every once in a while. One of my favorites came from an idea when my husband and I were traveling around my hometown on a foggy night. I wondered what would happen if the people in my story somehow got lost in the fog and traveled to some sort of parallel universe where there wasn’t a soul in sight but those who had traveled into the same fog only to become lost forever.
I thought of a story in the same vein when we traveled to our friends’ house a few summer back. The same friends where these pictures were taken. Again, two people in a car and the driver accidentally killing a pedestrian out in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania. I never put the words down but one day, I might.
Oh, and there’s the story of my house. Not really spooky, mind you, but one draft of the story had a psychological/spooky element to it. *sigh* I’m sad to say that I might never finish it. It’s just so huge of a story to tell and sometimes, I don’t feel like I am the right person to tell that story…
So, that’s one source of inspiration.
I suppose another source of begrudging inspiration comes from my relationship with my mother. Exasperating at best, smothering at worst. It’s not something that I feel like expanding here. Sorry.
And finally, the last source of inspiration happens to deal with my identity, especially growing up. I could never really blend in properly when I wanted nothing more nor could I make friends with those who looked like me. They all went to private schools and I was at a public school, much to my parents chagrin. They weren’t willing to wait a year so I could get into the private Catholic school, so off to the public school I went. Let me tell you, it’s no fun suddenly being the center of attention just by virtue of one’s skin color, plus I had no one I could talk to about it. I could go on, but I’m pretty sure I’ve answered the question thoroughly.