People love to know where we writers get our ideas.
They seem to think that ideas are elusive, and that we find them in secret places where others never think to look.
The truth is that ideas spring at us from all directions.
Like hungry cats, they clamour for our attention, rubbing up against our legs, jumping onto our laps, and whingeing till they get what they want.
Some inevitably drift off, bored with our lack of response.
Others are more persistent, digging in their claws and refusing to let go till we give in to their demands.
Henry Hoey Hobson was a clawer. He arrived unannounced, when I was busy working on a crime novel, and waiting for my novel Dust to come out.
A likeable kid that nobody liked. How was that even possible?
I felt for him, even pulled out a pen and jotted down his details, then shooed him away so that I could concentrate on my work-in-progress.
But he was a persistent little begger, sneaking into my thoughts, and into my dreams, until finally I got out of bed and started writing his story.
Now there’s another one clawing at me.
I’ve been pushing Intruder away with my foot, while I got through the month of Book Week, the school visits, the festivals and conferences.
It’s shredded my pants up to the knee, and if I don’t get to it soon, there will be blood.
This morning I shoved it, hissing and spitting, into a hold-all, to take it up the coast for two weeks.
There’s no internet. No telephone. No mail deliveries. And they’re predicting rain.
Wish me luck. It’s time to feed the beast.
Christine Bongers 