My best friend asked me the other day, "Where do you get your ideas?"
A writer's least favorite question besides, "Can I get fries with that?"
Anyway, I get my ideas from one place:
It's a dark alley in Denver. This guy wearing a tweed coat with leather elbow patches waves me over. His eyes glow. His breath smells of 'i's' and 'e's'.
I should say no and walk away. But I can't. I need him. Need what he has.
He grins, his teeth worn from pencil chewing, his lips stained with red-ink. He hands me a strip of paper no bigger than a fortune from a cookie.
I don't look at it. Not in front of him. I refuse to admit my weakness.
I sneak home, idea gripped tightly in my fist. I peel the paper open, reading the words, absorbing them into my blood. Then I type. Oh yes, I type away.
And you? Do you squeeze fairies for your fresh ideas? Do you f*** the dictionary for a plot?
