A Psychotherapist's Wet Dream. Yeah...I'm Aware.

A question that catches me off guard every time I see it in a writing forum is, “Where do people get their story ideas from?” Certainly, y'all can’t be serious. I don't mean to sound snarky, but wouldn’t that have been covered in the introduction section, of the SoYouThinkYouWantToBeAWriter handbook?

But maybe their inquiry is serious and not as cheeky as my reaction wants to be. I’ve no personal experience to relate to the question. Just the opposite in fact. I’ve lived among a populace of stories my entire life. You might say they’ve been my constant companions; my invisible friends.

I’m only partially joking when I say I grew up in my own little world, but that it was okay because they knew me there. As a young Gen-X kid, I spent a lot of time alone, wandering the wild forests around our mountain home looking for red-hatted gnomes, hunting for clues to Bigfoot’s presence, or trying to find the final landing spot of DB Cooper’s suitcase full of stolen loot. These adventures were always narrated by a storyteller I heard in my mind. Over the years, this narrator of tales has lovingly become known as The Voice, a disembodied speaker that’s been an ineffable part of me my whole life.

The Voice is never doom and gloom, or fearful. It never commiserates the unchangeable past, or worries about the unwritten future. Its purpose, it seems, is to distract and entertain. But The Voice wasn’t always a storyteller. At times, it’s been a personal guide. I remember the first time I was cognizant of this intangible orator, the one time I ignored it, and the many times it’s interrupted and redirected my life. Is this voice my subconscious? A direct connection to my higher, “Big ‘S’ Self”? Is it some form of the Divine (God…is that you)? I have my suspicions, but not really any solid answers.

In the beginning, when I first heard the voice as storyteller, I was simply the listener as if I’d tuned into an etheric radio station only I could hear. At other times, I was an active part of the story, experiencing things through the eyes of the story’s characters. But the real magic occurred on the even rarer occasion, when I had a foot in both worlds, mine, and the storylines, as one superimposed over the other.

I was, admittedly, an odd kid. Every writer has their own writing process, what works for them to get into their zone. Mine’s just a little…neurotic but there’s logic to the chaos. I sit, close my eyes, and listen for the flow of narration. It works for me, but it’s all about trust. I really never know where the storyline is taking me, or what’s going to happen next for my characters until it happens. I seldom know until the manuscript is nearly finished how the book ends, and when someone asks me mid-draft what the story’s about, I have difficulty summarizing what I’ve gotten down so far because I can’t remember. The process has proven its worth to me so I've learned to trust it, and not let myself get bogged in the mire of doubt.

Every writing session begins with a refresh of what came out of my finger the session before. I’ve lost sleep over not being able to see ahead in the storyline or knowing what the book is about or how it will end, only to find all my sleepless commiserating resolving itself the next morning when I get the hell out of my own way, shut off my intellectual, active mind, and listen. All the answers are always waiting for me like a puppy with a ball wanting to play. Over the years, and through experience with The Voice, that’s how I’ve come to see my writing sessions. Not as work, but as play.

When I’m writing I’m not actively trying to create the story, the words are just there, in my inner ear, just like when I was a kid. Sometimes I both see and hear what’s being narrated to me. I always know when my analytical mind has engaged when the flow of narration cuts off like someone’s turned the handwheel of a sluicegate. Analytics and The Voice don’t get on well and can’t occupy the same conscious space at the same time.

Every writer sits on their own person mine filled with a wealth of stories wanting to be excavated. If you've found yourself stuck, take a moment and still your mind. Close your eyes and feel your breath flow in and out. Listen with your inner ear. Use whatever means necessary to quiet the mental chatter, like listening to soothing instrumentals, use deep, focused deep breathing – eat an elevated edible - whatever it takes to silence that annoying chatter that keeps reminding you of the unpaid bills; schedules; the dirty dishes in the sink; the kids' schoolprojects; birthdaypartiestdentistappointmentsthefactthedogjustbarfedonthecarpet….sigh.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, and the yarns of a writer’s life do not knit into a one-size-fits-all cardigan. These shares are from personal experience and practice. My stories are there, waiting to be brought to life when I get present, still my mind, open the door, and listen.

Then I do what the voice in my head tells me. A psychotherapist’s wet dream, yeah...I’m aware.

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Thanks for reading!

-Dani