Many years ago (back in the mid-90s), a friend of mine and I started a monthly electronic magazine. The magazine consisted of original short stories and poems. Along with copy editing everybody else’s submissions and assembling all the electronic code, I was also on the hook for contributing a few original short stories of poems each issue. After only a few months, “the well was dry,” so-to-speak. I had already printed all of my previously written stuff, and began to experience writer’s block.
And so, late at night, I would go for a walk.
I was living in El Reno at the time, and just a few blocks away from my house in the middle of downtown was a big white gazebo. I had a walking path that led me through the neighborhood and back around past the gazebo for heading back home. Usually by the time I hit the gazebo, I would have an idea for a new story. If I didn’t, sometimes I would even stop and sit at the gazebo and think for a few minutes. I always did this late at night, and there was something unsettling about sitting in downtown by myself with nobody else around.
I’ve lived in a few different houses over the years and each one had “that spot,” where ideas would kick in. At our last house, there was a long stretch of trees in the neighborhood where, for whatever reason, they had decided not to build houses. Whenever I would get stuck in my writing, I would go for a late night walk. By the time I hit those trees, I either had my solution, or knew I was going to have to go back and change something to make my story work.
My current neighborhood, with no sidewalks or street lights, isn’t that conducive to walking. Sometimes I’ll sit on up the upstairs balcony and brainstorm about story ideas, although it seems like most of the time it’s either too cold, too hot, or too windy to stay out there for long.
I have a feeling that before I’m through with this novel, I will need to establish a new walking path.