Where did you come up with that idea? If you write fiction, you’ll hear that question repeatedly over the span of your career. It was even posed to me once by a literary agent, someone you’d think would be too jaded to ask, after I pitched him the concept for The Big Spin. The temptation is to nod sagely, and mutter something mysterious about how it “came to me in a dream”, then make a hasty exit before they can ask probing follow-up questions. Why run? Because the truth is so utterly pedestrian…

Everywhere. I get kernels of inspiration while walking my dogs, buying groceries, even getting a haircut (sadly, the one place that ideas seldom occur to me is in a dream). Sometimes an idea grips me with such breathtaking force that I have to hustle home and write it down. Other times, it’s just a little tickle, something I noodle with, then file away in the back of my brain for later.

I find that taking a long walk is a reliable way to generate story ideas. Something about the simple fall of one foot in front of the other frees the mind to play. I look around, take note of the time of day, the quality of the light, the sounds. If no story idea occurs to me right away, I play a game with myself that I call “describe that”. The rules are simple: let my eye rest on the first thing I see, then describe it as I would if it were an important detail in a novel.

The orange tabby hesitated, eyeing me like any other annoyance, before stalking off behind the Camry. His low-hanging belly flopped lazily from side to side as he moved.

Admittedly, this is not award-winning writing. The point is to pay attention to my surroundings and learn how to translate sight, sound, and smell into the written word. Occasionally, gazing at the world around me with a critical eye will turn up something that doesn’t fit. This is where the mystery writer in me engages.

For example: I’m walking down my street a few days ago, stretching my legs, and wrestling with a thorny plot problem that’s bedeviling me. I pass a house that I’ve seen a thousand times, but this time I notice a new detail. The driveway is full of cars, three of them, all late model imports in decent condition. What catches my eye is that the car closest to the street has a flat tire. As I pass, I look down the driveway, and notice that all three cars are resting on tires that are either flat, or dangerously low. They haven’t moved in a very long time.

This is curious enough, but then comes the crowning touch. In the hatchback of the last car that entered the drive, a folded stroller is clearly visible. Peering into the back seat, I see that a car seat is strapped in as well. By now the fiction engine is creaking to life. Where are the owners of these cars? Why were they abandoned in this driveway for so long? Who belonged in that car seat?

And voila, a flat tire gives birth to a story idea. So tell me, what do you think happened in that driveway scene?