“Where do you get your ideas?” the woman in the audience asked one of the writers on the panel of the Writer’s Conference.
“Oh, I have some fairy dust,” he responded. “I keep it in a gold box right next to my computer. I open its top and reach in with my index finger and thumb when I need an idea. I take out only a few particles because I want it to last as long as I can.”
A second writer, Marsha, a bestselling author from Texas, leaned forward and commented, “I used to use that stuff but I finally got rid of it. I’m here to tell you it was addicting.”
“You did?” a third writer, a Ph.d. candidate from the School of Hard Knocks, asked. “I sure wish you’d shared it with me. It would have saved me a lot of pain. My gosh, six months on that last novel almost killed me.”
The woman in the audience, whose name happened to be Alice, smiled. “I want to be a writer. But I can’t seem to come up with an idea.”
Sam from the other side of the room stood up and addressed Alice. “I have ideas but I can’t write worth a toot. Maybe we can get together.”
The first writer, let’s call him Joe, laughed. “That’s how I ended up with my first divorce.”
Bestseller from Texas looked at him. “I thought you looked a little familiar. It’s been twenty years. The beard sure hides that s. o. b. face of yours.”
Joe was surprised. It was his first wife. He leaned forward, looked down the row of panelists and asked, “Marsha? Marsha.”
“You still with that little tart?” Marsha wanted to know.
“I caught her with a bestselling novelist. She was after his ideas too. It was a coitus interruptus. I shot the bastard before he could do a complete coitus and kicked her butt for three blocks. That was how I met my third wife. She was the arresting officer. Come to think of it. He was from Texas just like you. Anyway the judge said I had every right to do what I did and he let me off scot free.”
“It’s a big state. Guess that serves you right,” Marsha said. “Hope that cop keeps you in line.”
“She does. She’s the lady in uniform at the back.”
Everybody turned and saw this six-foot-three female cop standing at attention beside the door. She saluted the audience.
“You always did like uniforms,” Marsha said.
“And you never would play in one,” Joe said, then went back to the original question. “Where do we get our ideas, Alice? Life I guess. In fact, I just came up with an idea. Writer meets his ex at a writer’s conference.”
The female cop at the back of the room took out her handcuffs and headed toward the panel. “We’ll be having none of that,” she said.
Where do you get your ideas to write?