Burden of Imagination

I’ve been blogging for a while now and  every so often someone will ask where I get my ideas. This question usually comes from a person who hates to write. Okay, maybe they’d sign their name to the Prize Patrol check, but other than that it’s a no go. So, I smile and try to explain.

And here’s where the temptation  to answer in an outrageous manner comes in. I want to say things like:

“This morning? I looked under the bed and there were six ideas skulking there. They were arguing like mad about who would be the first to trot out and make my acquaintance. So, in order to prevent bloodshed, I reached under and grabbed one by the throat. I said, “YOU! Get out here, it’s  your big day.” And then I shook off the spider that rode out with the idea, sat down at the computer and got busy.”

But usually I don’t say such things because I know it can cause eyes to glaze over when I go all long winded on them like that.

Ideas come from everywhere. Like last week when I was out shopping with my retail Power Pal, Karen. We hit Kohls, Harbor Freight (for our hubbies) and right next to HF is a great little hole in the wall pizza joint called La Familia. They have 20 or so kinds of pizza on display, under glass, and we love it. We sat to savor our slabs and were very thankful to have gotten there ten minutes ahead of the mob that usually storms the door at noon.

Just as we were finishing up a nicely dressed gentleman came in. He was maybe in his early fifties, slim and graying at the temples. He went straight to the counter – not even glancing at the goods on display – and paid for his small takeout order. I watched by stealth his trip back to the exit and then he did something that made me suspicious. Instead of using the door handle he reached way up on the door frame and pushed with two fingers. Aha! I’ll bet he was one of those CIA guys and he’d reached up to plant an invisible camera or the latest doohickey in bugging technology just developed by the Pentagon.

This caused me to look around the room and wonder who he was after. Had some poor pudgy patron ordered the buffalo wing pizza instead of the veggie and the guy was from the Food Police unit of the CIA? Wait, I don’t think the Pentagon would waste a good agent that way, would they? Or could there be payoff money wedged into the crust of the ham and pineapple variety? I was willing to wager that Meathead Mulivich was on his way to claim that slice completely unaware that a camera was mug shoting him. No, that’s part of the plot of my latest mystery. But my mind was reeling as I watched the agent head straight for his silver Lexis in the parking lot.

Ahem, you see what I mean? One good looking germaphobic guy comes into the joint where Karen and I are feasting on our ranch, bacon and tomato pizza and off goes my imagination like a double barreled shotgun. It’s like a disease with me.

Be glad you don’t have outrageous imagination  syndrome like I do, it’s a real burden. And don’t even think of rooting around under my bed for ideas. I put them under lock and key and the key is snug in my . . . Hey! I’m not telling you that.

But do have a great day.  

Image: Free Digital Photos