Grand Larceny

"Uh, sir? Can I ask you a question?"

I went to a new hairdresser yesterday to get my confinement mane chopped. And I got THE QUESTION.

‘Cause you see, us writers, we get a lot of questions when we answer the socially lubricating question: “What do you do?” (BTW, the question I want to talk about is not that question. You’ll see in a minute.)

So I said: “Actually, I’m an author.” I said ‘author’ because it sounds more serious than ‘writer’, and I need to feel good about something.

And then, I got THE QUESTION.

“Uh, sir? Where do you get all your ideas?”

I get it, people are curious. Who are these oddballs who create fake people, write down the latter’s fake conversations, describe fake places and are trying to make us live fake emotions? While I—this oddball’s hairdresser—have to put up with an angry client because I’m fifteen minutes late, but only because that other client couldn’t find the place and made me lose fifteen minutes and now I have to be stressed for the rest of my day.

I’ve heard that most writers don't really like to be asked THE QUESTION. Not because they’re proud, or arrogant or they feel above everyone else (I feel quite the opposite: Holy shit, you’re a fucking director who manages fifteen people!? Damn. I wish I could be an adult too… Okay, back to writing about dragons.)

Most writers (not me, I kinda like it actually) don’t like it mostly because the answer is kinda boring. The answer is:

—>Everywhere<—

“Ah, come on!” you say. “It can’t be everywhere. You're just saying that ‘cause , 1- You don't know. 2- You won't tell me so I won’t become a NYT best-selling author and make you look like a fool because you’ve been doing that for 14 years and you’re still nowhere close.”

To which I reply: Good luck with that.

It is true though that we get our ideas anywhere and everywhere. Let me give you an example.

I've been reading a lot of short stories lately. Why? Because I want to learn how to write a short worthy of a pro magazine. And because I want to steal. Yes, it's the truth. All artists are thieves, or more like tinkerers anyway, gathering bits and pieces from all the weirdest places. A quarter, found in the gutter on a stormy day. An old wooden chair with three legs. A 1967 Chevy Corvette’s headlight taken from a junkyard.

And we build something new by combining stuff that at first glance don't seem to belong together. So when I read short stories, I'm like: “Ooh! I love a main character who’s a janitor.” And: “Oh, look at that! A species that’s not entirely human, with bird beaks instead of mouths.” Or: “Wow, a positive inciting incident! The dude got a free ticket to the space station he’s dreamed he could visit his whole life. How nice.”

Then I ask myself: “I wonder what it could look like if I put all of these together.” And you get a pigeon-like janitor who gets to fly for real and become an aviaronaut or something. Okay, it doesn’t always work…

“That's it?” you ask. “You cut and paste shit from someplace else?”

Yes and no. Sometimes, an idea just hits us in the middle of washing dishes or during a walk in the woods or during a proper brainstorming séance. And you just know. Your whole body becomes all jittery and your soul is jumping up and down and you don't even have to write down the idea because forgetting it would be like forgetting your own name.

How does that happen? No one really knows. Some people call it the Muse, or God, or Big Magic (good book by Liz Gilbert btw). But my guess is more down to Earth: It’s just more theft. I’m convinced our brain stores away random stuff it encounters, does the tinkering thing, and when it’s ready, sends it upstairs to light up your day.

Thank you, brain.