YA Speculative Fiction
Ideas are like wild flowers. They pop up, all colorful and fragrant, on the green lawn of your mind and you have no choice but to notice them. You can ignore them, but soon they wilt and go to seed. Then all it takes is a gentle breeze and that idea is scattered into the wind, lost.
My brain is full of flowers. Some dark, some exotic, others are pretty or sweet-smelling. I pluck them all. Then I grow them in a little hot house in my head. They mature, they wilt, sometimes they die. But the healthy ones produce seeds. And those seeds are carefully planted near the mother plant--in the same soil--sometimes brushing root to root. They grow, making more and more until I have a whole meadow of ideas from that one plant. And wild flower meadows? They're like books.
Since my brain doesn't have room to hold an infinite number of hot houses, I have to get the stories out.
Therefore, I write. And I love it.
My brain is full of flowers. Some dark, some exotic, others are pretty or sweet-smelling. I pluck them all. Then I grow them in a little hot house in my head. They mature, they wilt, sometimes they die. But the healthy ones produce seeds. And those seeds are carefully planted near the mother plant--in the same soil--sometimes brushing root to root. They grow, making more and more until I have a whole meadow of ideas from that one plant. And wild flower meadows? They're like books.
Since my brain doesn't have room to hold an infinite number of hot houses, I have to get the stories out.
Therefore, I write. And I love it.