I used to have a great memory. I mean, just amazing. I ruled at trivia contests. I think I still hold a 'Quiz Bowl' record at my old high school. Which is kind of cool. I like to think of my brain as being a huge CD player, with one heck of a random play feature. But now I'm older. I have more stuff in my head and it gets lost sometimes.
That's a long way of saying that I need to write down my brilliant ideas before they shuffle off into the background again.
That's how last night's story got written, accidentally. I was SUPPOSED to be doing nothing but reading a friend's manuscript. But, during a break, I got to thinking. I had a couple of rejections this week, one of which I had high hopes for. As with most writers, I suspect, I was skating the edge of depression and trying to analyze my own work, trying to figure out where I am lacking.
And a memory came back to me, via my random play feature. The smell of something cold.
It struck me, so I jotted the phrase down and a few sentences to go along with it , describing how you can learn to smell 'coldness' on things.
That lead to another paragraph. Then another. Then an assassin*.
The next thing I knew, I had a story. A sad, doomed bit of tragedy. It was different from my usual sci-fi and fantasy work but it was still very much my voice, I think. (I hope?)
I looked at it. Read it over. I didn't see any glaring errors. So, I sent it out, into the great void of magazine editors. Oddest thing.
So, write down your story ideas. Just...be
*Why an assassin? I don't know. I guess I'm drawn to life-or-death struggles. I guess I could have made it a mother-in-law but then I'd be a very different kind of writer.
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