Staring at Nothing, or, Why my Muse only shoes up when I am drivign Long Distance ...

You've all been there, right? That flash of an idea strikes you numb, your pupils dilate and your breathing hitches up a notch to match the frantic beating of your now excited heart, and your skin puckers, making your hair stand on end - you have an idea. 

Not just any idea - no! It started as this little acorn of an idea, just a flash of an idea really - malformed from the clay of your thoughts it struggled to right itself, to shape itself through difference and ingenuity, untangling itself from the cobwebs and shadows of your mind to form a real and proper idea. 

And it didn't stop there! Oh No! 

The idea grew, sprouting limbs of its own and proper dimensions. It spun itself from the muck of your mind and began weaving itself something that progressively looked like a story. 

The more your mind's eye focused on that one idea - that one potential story, the more it shaped, new avenues created in a blink, with new characters and new stories and you know this will be epic! 

And then someone honks at you from behind because you're staring at a green light ...

You rush home - or in my case, to the Boy's. You give him a prefunctory wave and rush upstairs to his computer, punching it on with impatient fingers, your hands hivering over the kayboard, ready to pounce. You get onto MS Word and ...

... and ...

Oh crap.

Now faced with that monumental task of extracting the idea fully from your brain and imparting it onto the blank page you've discovered to your dismay, again, that your she-devil of a muse has made off with the idea and your patience! 

This is usually when the Boy walks in and asks if you're still crazy. Throw that dirty sock at him - he deserves it for asking a question with an obviously discernable answer. 

Damn you, Muse. Damn.

Anyone else feel like the Gods are out to get their story ideas? ... and/or sanity?

To be Flowery, or not to be Flowery ...

That is the question. 

At least, it is today for me. 

See, i fall into the former, moreso then the latter. For example:

To his right a tall and thin bespectacled woman with coffee coloured skin and long curly hair up in a bun lifted her grey eyes from a paperback to glance at him. Recognizing him, her high cheek bones raised in a smile and she returned her nose towards her book. She sat cocooned behind a desk, cluttered with papers and postcards and old flyers that seemed to have an order in their chaos: the flyers spiraled from one end to the other, their different fonts and colours winking at him from in between postcards of aerial views of cities and natural wonders. The woman herself was sitting in a raised armchair, the arms no longer distinguishable from the piles of hardcover books that were crowded around her, towering up to grace the very bottom edge of an old clock that ticked away the seconds in precise, clipped tocks.

I always or usually fall on the side of waxing eloquent over every single little thing - like Stephen King but so experienced. I can go on and on about the colour of someone's hair and the way another person walks. I can drip over the feel of lace, or really delve into the anatomy of a werewolf. I am, yu see, always lost in the details. 

My question is: Is this good?

I like it as a reader. I am a reader who enjoys having a good setting from which I can inject my own imagination - like having the author describe the restauarant and the food then jumping into dialogue and letting me imagine the interpaly of the scene as I read. I love havign that background. But ... am I in the minority? 

What do you think?

Getting your Inspiration from the Stain in the Glass ,,.

My bestest friend is getting married in three days - three days! (I know, I crissross on WTF road from OMGOMGOMG to Oh wow.).

And she's Catholic.

Which means I get to spend an hour or so in Church - which recalls me to that time period in my life when this was a regular Sunday thing - back when my grandparents refused to understand "sleep in" on Sundays (or Saturdays, they were cruel). At the time, in my itchy wool socks and pinchy shoes, I was bored out of my skull at these things. It didn't help that every Portuguese woman (because yes, we had to go to the Portuguese mass) over the age of fifty has a hereditary disease that both ruins any vocal chords and gives you an urge to sing - oh yes, dear readers, it was loud, high-pitched and led to flinching/wincing/crying from all children/people who didn't bring earplugs. It still does, actually - I was at another wedding last year or so, and my ears felt like they were bleeding ...

At those times, through my instinctive survival skills, I discovered I could look up at the pretty stained glass windows that adorned the Church and imagine myself away. Far away, usually.

And there were born my stories.

Now, I write and have always written about the supernatural (witches, wolves and spirits - oh my!), teenagers gone wild (babies and drugs and booze - oh yes!), medieval princesses who kick ass and in general, how we say ... not Jesus-inspired things. You would think it would be sacrilegious for me to even think about these things, let alone actively fabricate stories that would be embellished and lengthened through more visits to the Church on subsequent weekends. I thought up my wolves while rammed between my mother (who pinches when and if you dare move) and my sister who was picking at her nails, and I looked up and something about the awesome forest green around ST. Francis' head made me think of night time woods and grey wolves. And suddenly a character was formed, and I had to create a story for her, right? To have done otherwise would be cruel ...

The point is this: inspiration comes in a flash sometimes in the weirdest of places, and maybe that's a good thing.

Where do you get your inspiration from?