I’ve often wondered where writers get ideas, but I’ve never asked because hearing their smart-ass answers just frustrates me even more. They can be more creative about where ideas come from than I ever thought was possible.
Fortunately, as a mother, I have at least one idea running about in the wild. (Well, he’s sleeping right now, permitting me the leisure to write this.) This keeps me from feeling too inferior, even if it does take up most of my formerly free time.
But today I found out where ideas come from, because I had one. (An actual, intangible idea, not another baby.) I had the most surreal dream possible, that there just must be a short story hidden inside. The question is, what is it?
I’ll give you a hint. It involves a giant green duck. And it is both far less goofy and more vaguely sinister than that description gives it credit. I’ll try to draw up a picture of the Green Duck later today, just for fun.