In my last post, I chatted about my madness as a romance writer. I may, perhaps, have another writer’s flaw. My non-writing friends consider it far worse than voices that wake me in the night. After all, my characters don’t disturb their sleep.
Latest hunky hero says “Hey.”*
This flaw strikes anytime, anywhere. It favors inopportune moments: a sob-broken eulogy, a co-worker’s tale of woe, over crème caramel in a romantic restaurant.
Some insignificant thing captures my writer’s fancy.
Suddenly, I’m scrounging for notepad and pencil. I've worn countless pencils to the nub. Really, a writer should come with a built-in version.
It happens so often, the Loving Husband coined a phrase for this special spasm of my mine: Fodder Alert.
I confess. I hang my head in shame. I apologize in advance and arrears. Not only am I a mad writer, I’m a scene spy. Shh!
Family, friends, acquaintances; all are surreptitiously observed for story ideas. Strangers are better as they never find out they've been—OMG—used.
Before you all shun me, please know that the final scene seldom mirrors the originating incident. My peculiar madness bends and twists the original beyond recognition. Innocent contributors are protected by a thick veil of privacy. I do, after all, want peaceable relations with my family and friends.
When and where do your Fodder Alerts sound? Which was your favorite?
*Ryan Chisholm, hero of Above Scandal (my romantic women’s fiction work-in-progress) informed me last night, “I'm not idiot enough to use a little girl against her own mother”. He and Carter of The Painted Ladies must be gossiping behind my back.
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