Where Does Writing Inspiration Come From?

There is an old man sitting on the terrace, two tables away, drinking coffee.

I don't know his name. I don't know where he lives, whether he has children, what he did for a living, or why he is sitting alone.

But almost immediately, my imagination starts filling in the gaps.

Perhaps he has lived in the village all his life. Perhaps he came here after retiring from a career somewhere else. Perhaps the woman he was married to died a few years ago. Perhaps he has children who live in Paris and rarely come home. Perhaps he is waiting for someone.

Or perhaps none of these things is true.

It doesn't matter.

By the time I have finished my wine, I may have the beginnings of a character.

I have been sitting on a terrace in Chinon, a little French town in the centre of France, with Ramsès, my faithful Irish wolfhound, lying beside me, watching people come and go. I carry an exercise book, and if something catches my attention, I make a note of it. Not necessarily because I know what I’m going to do with it, but because I have learned that an interesting detail can disappear as quickly as it arrives.

A face. A gesture. Something someone says. The way a person walks. A strange little habit. A house I pass on the way home.

Patricia Highsmith had an interesting way of describing this. She talked about ideas as “germs” — small fragments that appear here and there and sometimes come together to form a character and a story.

I like that idea because it seems much closer to the way writing

inspiration actually works.

A story doesn't necessarily arrive as a complete idea. At least mine don't.

Sometimes it is just a person.

And once that person has caught my attention, my imagination takes over.

Who is he?

What has he done with his life?

Who has he loved? Who has he lost?

What does he regret?

What is he hiding?

I don't need the answers immediately. In fact, I probably shouldn't have them. The fun is in finding out—or inventing them.

The old man on the terrace may never become a character. The notes I make may sit in a drawer or in a file on my computer for years. Most of them will probably never become anything at all.

But some do.

A fragment from one afternoon might eventually meet something I saw years earlier. A conversation might suddenly make sense alongside a photograph. A memory might provide the missing piece.

Individually, these things are insignificant.

Put together, they can become something else.

I have often found that a character comes before the story. I become interested in someone I have seen or imagined, and then I start wondering about them. Their life begins to take shape in my mind, and with it comes the possibility of a story.

Because everybody has a story.

Everyone has a secret.

Everyone has a regret.

We spend our lives surrounded by people whose histories are completely unknown to us. We see them for a few minutes and then they disappear. We know what they look like, perhaps what they are drinking, perhaps a few words of conversation, but nothing about the life behind the face.

For a writer, that gap is irresistible.

And Ramsès helps.

An Irish wolfhound is not exactly easy to ignore. Wherever we go, people stop to ask about him, stroke him, ask how much he weighs and want to know what sort of dog he is.

Sometimes those brief encounters turn into conversations.

People tell you things. Not necessarily secrets, but little pieces of their lives. Where they come from. Where they’ve travelled. What they used to do. Someone they once knew. Something that happened to them years ago.

Occasionally, one of those details stays with me.

I don't think writers need to go searching desperately for inspiration. I suspect that trying too hard is probably the wrong approach.

It is more a matter of paying attention.

Going for a walk.

Sitting in a café.

Travelling somewhere unfamiliar.

Listening to people.

And allowing your imagination to take you somewhere that reality doesn't.

That is perhaps the most important part.

The man sitting on the terrace is real.

The life I imagine for him isn't.

But somewhere between the two, there may be a story.

And sometimes, sitting in a French town with a glass of wine and a large dog at my feet, I find myself wondering what would happen if...

That is usually when I reach for my notebook.

A fragment is easily lost. But a note can wait.

It may sit there for months or even years before another fragment comes along and gives it meaning.

Then perhaps the pieces begin to fit.

A character emerges.

And eventually, you have to start writing.