The sounds of the city revolve in my head. The din of rush hour traffic, the roar of the subway trains in the long tunnels, hanging off the bridges, horns honking, children laughing, music and mayhem greeting me each morning, sending me off each night.
Frequently faces are called forward by the sound of music playing in the back of a room, the song on the radio on the way to work, or the album covers collecting dust in my closet. Each day as I walk along the streets, the back of a head, the scent of an after shave or perfume, the sound of someone laughing on the other side of a restaurant; each night shadows of images appear in a half dream.
We all do it.
We collect their images in photographs, save tattered cards or letters that remind us of one of them. We touch and stroke an old doll, a battered fire engine or the lovely vase they left behind.
We dare not empty the trunk in the attic, the box wrapped with worn twine in the basement, the bags stuffed in the back of a closet.
Planning a plot or sub-plot, at least for me, doesn’t work well. My stories usually begin with a line, an image or a sound, either remembered from a time in my life, or “stolen” from other sounds and images.
What inspires you to write? Have you collected the stories of your parents, or from the many literary characters you have read? Are you inspired by history, tradition, tragedy or joy?
Are you a country gal or have you spent your life in the neatly folded lawns of the burbs?
I am the street urchin … first generation Italian child of an illegal alien.
I collect the stories in my head, like a child collecting wild flowers in an open field. Soon, the child is joined by another or on the way back home she meets a stranger. Would that be you?