inspiration - Steven R. Southard (Poseidon's Scribe)

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Where to Get Your Best Story Prompts

What inspires you to write your stories? A picture, a song, an idea, a TV show, a movie, an article you read, an event in your life or someone else’s?

Perhaps you’ve drawn inspiration from varied sources. You may be wondering which of these sources resulted in your best stories. If you knew that answer, you could dip your mental bucket into that well more often. There’s a way to find out.

First, look over your collection of stories. Rate them in order from best to worst. Now list the source that inspired each story beside the appropriate title in your list. Does a single source dominate the top of your list? That should be your go-to source for inspiration.

I surveyed my 31 published short stories. Here is the breakdown of the inspiration sources: anthologies—10, historical research—10, critique group discussion—4, movies—2, book—1, TV show—1, song lyrics—1, family—1, and SF convention—1.

After rating my stories from best to worst using the pair-wise comparison method (a painful task, since I love them all), I found 6 of the top 10 owe their genesis to calls for submission to anthologies. That is, an anthology publisher put out a call for submission, the subject intrigued me, and I wrote a story. Of my 10 worst stories, no single prompt dominated that list.

I’d be tempted to conclude that anthologies spark my best stories, and, if so, I’d be advised to continue to look for those possibilities.

However, I’m trying to grow as a writer. Neither my current work in progress nor any of my recently written, unpublished stories found inspiration from anthologies.

If you try this exercise, perhaps the results will turn out differently for you and prove more useful to your writing. For me, I’ve decided to remain open to all sources of inspiration. When my muse nags me about an idea, I’ll listen to her and write that story, no matter what prompted it.

Who knows what source will inspire your next story? It could be anything. The world is full of ideas, plenty enough for you, and for—

Poseidon’s Scribe

May 15, 2022Poseidon's ScribePermalink

The Inspiration/Perspiration Ratio

One of inventor Thomas Edison’s most famous quotes is, “Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration.” There may be a similar ratio involved with writing fiction, too. Let’s find out what it is.

I got the idea for this post while reading a wonderful guest post by author Anthony St. Clair on Joanna Penn’s website. St. Clair takes the extreme view that a writer should forget the muse and just show up for work and produce prose.

For discussion’s sake, let’s postulate two possible aspects of writing fiction called Creativity and Productivity. Here are the attributes for each:

Creativity	Productivity
· Wait for the muse	· No waiting—get to work
· Muse whispers in your ear	· Invisible boss yells at you
· Book idea is fully formed	· Book emerges from long process
· Words flow like water	· Words extracted with pliers
· Pleasantry	· Drudgery
· 1^st draft = final draft	· 1^st draft = crap
· Mind to universe	· Nose to grindstone
· Work late at night	· Work efficiently
· Write in binges to exhaustion	· Write on schedule to completion
· Guided by insight and instinct	· Guided by plan and outline
· Lying on couch, thinking	· Sitting at desk, working
· Great ideas per lifetime	· Words per day

If fiction writing consists of some amalgamation of those two aspects, what is the ratio between the two? St. Clair’s post advocates a ratio of 0% creativity and 100% productivity.

I can’t go quite that far. I agree it’s necessary to dispel the myth some beginning writers have about writing being all Creativity. Sadly, it’s not. If you wish to write, steel yourself to suffer through the items on the Productivity list. Most writing consists of enduring the attributes in the right column.

Most, but not all. There is, and has to be, some amount of stuff from the Creativity side of the ledger.

For me, the two aspects occur at different times and in different settings. Productivity occurs when I’m sitting at the desk typing, or when I have a pad handy and I’m writing by hand.

Creativity occurs when I’m doing some other activity that doesn’t require full brain engagement, such as yardwork, showering, or exercising. In other words, the Creativity part of writing happens when I’m not writing. Apparently, idle neurons spark best at those times. That’s when I conjure up new story ideas, work out plot problems, flesh out characters, imagine settings, etc.

The ideas ignited during those non-writing creative times remain with me and guide me when I sit down to do actual writing. They either form my plan or modify an existing plan.

To muddy things a bit, there are elements of Creativity within the Productivity sessions and vice versa. There are times, at the keyboard, when I get stuck and must summon my creative side for help. Likewise, my Creative moments often involve a measure of directed thought, not just waiting for muse whisperings.

Moreover, the Creativity/Productivity ratio changes during the development of a story. Early on, it’s nearly all Creativity. In the editing and polishing stages, the work shifts almost wholly to Productivity.

Given all that, what is my answer to the original question—the creativity/productivity ratio? In terms of importance or value to the process, I’d say it’s 50-50. Both parts are necessary. However, in the amount of time spent, I’d estimate fiction writing is one part Creativity and nine parts Productivity. At least, that’s the ratio for—

Poseidon’s Scribe

February 25, 2018Poseidon's ScribePermalink

The Story behind “The Cometeers”

As I mentioned in my News page, Gypsy Shadow Publishing has accepted my story, “The Cometeers” which will be published as part of the What Man Hath Wrought series. The intended launch date is in early September.

Here’s the marvelous cover, designed by Charlotte Holley. Yes, that’s a planet-destroying comet headed right toward the Earth. But if you look closer, you’ll see an silvery man-made projectile on an intercept course. Just possibly, its occupants might save the entire world.

Inquiries have been streaming in from every corner of the planet (and from some of the comets), asking what this story is about. Far be it from me to deny my fans information about my latest tale.

Here’s the book blurb: A huge comet speeds toward a devastating collision with the Earth, but no one will launch space shuttles filled with nuclear weapons. It’s 1897. Instead they’ll fire projectiles from the Jules Verne cannon and try to deflect the comet with a gunpowder explosion. Commander Hanno Knighthead isn’t sure he can motivate his argumentative, multinational crew of geniuses to work together. It turns out one of them is a saboteur. Then things get worse. Only a truly extraordinary leader could get this group to cooperate, thwart the saboteur, and jury-rig a way to divert the comet. Lucky thing Hanno brought his chewing gum.

If you recall the 1998 movie “Armageddon,” then you can think of my story as Steampunk Armageddon.

I don’t recall the exact inspiration for this story. As stated in this post, and this one, I use the “seed and twist” method of coming up with story ideas. In this case the seed is the standard save-Earth-from-destruction idea, and the twist is to set the action in Victorian times.

My problem became one of technology. They just didn’t have sufficient know-how in the Nineteenth Century to divert or destroy a comet. It’s an open question whether we really have the technology today.

Therefore, I assumed the world of Jules Verne’s novel From the Earth to the Moon. In that world, men had already achieved space travel in 1867. With funds from many nations, the Baltimore Gun Club had built a 900 foot long cannon outside Tampa, Florida, and launched a projectile containing three men.

My story is set thirty years later and no one has used the cannon since, due to the enormous expense. With a giant comet on the way, however, something must be done, so every country contributes what it can.

You can’t simply launch projectiles full of gunpowder at the comet and expect to hit it. The target is too small, the distance too great, and the calculations too imprecise. You must send men up also, in separate projectiles, to travel with your gunpowder bombs to make the necessary course corrections along the way.

That plan should work.

Unless something goes wrong.

“The Cometeers” will launch in September. For further updates, keep visiting this blog and reading the posts by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

August 10, 2014Poseidon's ScribePermalink

The Story Behind “To Be First”

As the launch date for “To Be First” and “Wheels of Heaven” nears (this Tuesday, July 1st), and excitement builds, I think it’s time for me to reveal the story behind “To Be First.”

A few years ago, I watched an episode of the TV show Mythbusters where they replicated a feat supposedly performed by Lagâri Hasan Çelebi in the Ottoman Empire in 1633. Çelebi is said to have constructed a rocket chair, launched himself into the air, and flown down safely using a wing-like apparatus. The event was intended to commemorate and honor the birth of the Sultan’s daughter.

The Mythbusters team considered the myth busted, but it got me to thinking. What if such a marvelous flight had taken place? What if the Sultan had understood the geopolitical and military implications?

Think of it. Manned rocket flight in the 17th Century. Defensive city walls and high castle walls would mean nothing to a country with armed rocket-men. Rather than expanding and then beginning its slow decline to finally die with the end of World War I, the Ottoman Empire might have spread much more quickly and farther.

Had the Ottomans also embraced the science behind rocketry, they might have hastened other technical achievements, and been the source of those advancements rather than watching America and the rest of Europe prosper.

It seemed like an interesting basis for an alternate history tale, so I wrote one. In my version, it’s 1933, three centuries after Çelebi’s flight, and two Ottoman astronauts (called lunanauts) are returning from the first manned flight to the Moon. Yes, I said 1933, not 1969.

I imagined their space capsule being about the same size as the Apollo capsule, but dome-shaped with a central spike like the roof of an Ottoman mosque. The capsule would have a couple of windows and there would be some of that beautiful, flowing Ottoman Turkish writing on the outside.

As the story commences, the lunanauts encounter a strange ionic storm in space, and their capsule passes into an alternate universe. The tale takes off from there.

My central characters, Yazid and Kemal, hold differing views on what it means to be an explorer. What are the motivations behind those who roam beyond all prior journeys, who probe far into unknown regions? Do they do it for the money? For fame? For love? Or is it something simpler?

If you read my story, perhaps you’ll be motivated to become an explorer, and you’ll write your own gripping story of heroic and fantastic adventure. You, too, can manage ‘To Be First.’ At least, so says—

Poseidon’s Scribe

June 29, 2014Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Dear Ray Bradbury

I just had to write to thank you, thank you, for the great times, the pleasures of reading your work. There’s no sense letting a little thing like your death in 2012 prevent me from expressing my gratitude, is there?

Sorry, I haven’t read all your books and stories. I’ve read less of your canon than I have of Jules Verne’s, Isaac Asimov’s, or Robert Heinlein’s. But, oh, the few of your books I digested left lifelong mental imprints: Something Wicked This Way Comes, Fahrenheit 451, Dandelion Wine, The Illustrated Man, Now and Forever, and The Martian Chronicles. In high school, I read your short story, “The Flying Machine,” and my recollections of it inspired my story, “The Sea-Wagon of Yantai,” written decades later.

At one point, you declared you wrote fantasy, not science fiction. In my view you blended the two. You made science sound like fantasy.

Moreover, your flowing style of writing contrasted with that of the hard-science fiction writers. Their stories conveyed a love of machines, of science. Yours proclaimed a love of word imagery, of the magic of English, of poetic prose.

The authors of hard science fiction told me tales of technical detail. You sang me stories of marvel and wonder.

I guess I’m trying to say that I write more like those other guys, but wish I could write like you.

On occasion, you related a particular memory from when you were about twelve. At a carnival, one of the performers known as Mr. Electrico touched an electrical sword to your nose which made your hair stand out. You claimed he told you, “Live forever!”

In a very real sense, Mr. Bradbury, you will. Thanks again.

Poseidon’s Scribe

December 22, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Dear Arthur C. Clarke

Though you’ve been dead these past eight years, you live on in your stories. That’s true for me and for millions of others.

Throughout my life I’ve read many of your works, including more of your short stories than I can remember, and the following novels: Childhood’s End, The Deep Range, 2001: A Space Odyssey, 2010: Odyssey Two, 2061: Odyssey Three, Rendezvous with Rama, Rama Revealed, The Songs of Distant Earth, and The Hammer of God.

I recall purchasing your book 2001: A Space Odyssey (or maybe my dad bought it) just two weeks before the movie was due in the theaters of my childhood town for the first time. I was about ten years old, and determined to finish the book before seeing the movie. Finish it I did, and I enjoyed the book much more than the film.

At that time, the year 2001 seemed a long way off, and fantastic things would happen by then. To a boy growing up starry-eyed in the Sixties, the future appeared extraordinary. Your books helped me see it that way. More than most authors, you conveyed the pure wonder of a scientific future.

That’s what comes through for me in your tales, the positive vision of science as a way to solve man’s problems, and to explore. You even believed science could solve political problems. In The Songs of Distant Earth, you depict human societies living under a utopian “Jefferson Mark 3 Constitution,” suggesting a political evolution toward better government. In Rama Revealed, you show an alien race with enormous military power but a staunch unwillingness to enter into conflict. The reason becomes clear when one of the aliens says their politicians can declare war, but anyone voting for war is put to death. Strong disincentive, indeed!

Another thing I learned from reading your work is that aliens might not be bent on invading. When many other authors wrote of aliens attacking Earth, you wrote about creatures who either helped mankind (Childhood’s End), led mankind on series of strange advancing paths (the Odyssey books), or completely ignored us (the Rama series).

It’s possible that your novel The Deep Range influenced me, in some subtle way, to serve in the submarine force. That story took the Old West struggles between cattle ranchers and crop farmers and set it under the sea, where whale herding competed with plankton farming. Science fiction stories with an oceanic setting are rare gems, for me.

A reviewer of my stories would be hard-pressed to find your influence on my writing. However, your fiction has been described as technical and the style as somewhat dry at times. As a trained engineer, I strive to include sufficient technical detail so that people can understand how my gadgets work. My fellow critique group members say the details sometimes get in the way of the story-telling.

Like you, I’m enamored of the science. I love it, and can’t help including a sense of awe and wonder in my tales. There will be those who grasp that, and those who skip those paragraphs and feel unfulfilled by the rest of the story.

That said, thank you so much, Sir Arthur, for passing the wonder to me. In 2010: Odyssey Two, Heywood Floyd asks, “What’s going to happen?” Dave Bowman answers, “Something wonderful.” That says it all, or so it seems to—

Poseidon’s Scribe

December 1, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Dear Dr. Asimov

You may have some difficulty reading this, since you’ve been dead for over 21 years, but I hope somehow this tribute finds its way to you nonetheless. I just wanted to say thanks, however belatedly, for your books and the way they influenced me.

I started reading science fiction in the early 1970s, and by then you were a giant in the field. I read dozens of your short stories, and some of your novels including Foundation, Fantastic Voyage, The Gods Themselves, The End of Eternity, The Naked Sun, and others. Later I read some of your nonfiction books and essays and some of your non-SF fiction, including The Union Club Mysteries and Azazel.

In fact, I read more stories written by you than by any other author. (Of course, there are more stories written by you than any other SF author!)

In the late 1980s or very early 1990s I had the opportunity to attend one of your speeches—a great thrill for me since I was then thinking of becoming a writer. You had traveled (by train, of course, since you never flew) to my area to speak in a lecture hall.

Alone on stage, you began speaking in your thick Brooklyn accent. “I’ve done a number of these things already, so to save time, I’ll ask the questions you would ask, and then answer them. First question: Dr. Asimov, how did you come to write so many books? Well, I type ninety words a minute and before I knew it, I’d written five hundred books. If someone wants a 5000 word short story, I type 5000 words and stop; with any luck, I’m at the end of a sentence.”

You gave advice to budding writers like me that day also. “My first draft is my final draft. I don’t believe in rubbing words together until they sparkle in the sunlight. As my good friend, the late Bob Heinlein said, ‘They didn’t want it good; they wanted it Wednesday.’”

It was a great hour-long lecture, and you kept the audience laughing the whole time. But that was just one hour. Your impact on my life goes much deeper.

Your SF stories are based on sound science, and your characters confront bedeviling problems that spring from unalterable facts. The science is a central part of each story. I’ve strived for that in my stories as well.

Moreover, your tales are celebrations of science. I don’t recall any stories where science leads humanity irrevocably astray. Even your dystopian works end with hope for the future. That’s true of my writing, too.

Others have spoken of your clear, uncluttered style of writing, and you’ve acknowledged that yourself. My critique group tells me my style is similar at times.

Looking back over the list of my published short stories, I think I can see your influence in each one, to some extent. Alas, I don’t type ninety words a minute, and I labor over several drafts, so I will never equal the quantity of your output. But it’s my dream to write a story someday that approaches the quality of your fiction.

Here’s to you, Dr. Isaac Asimov! Thank you.

Steven R. Southard

aka

Poseidon’s Scribe

October 20, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Inspiration, Bronzed

As a writer, where do you get your inspiration? To what or whom do you appeal for the creativity you need?

I have a strange confession to make. Every weekday, I happen to walk by a statue. Rather than just glance at it, I make a silent wish that the spirit of the man represented will imbue me with the creativity and talent I need for whatever story I’m working on at the time.

Silly? Perhaps. But you have to admit there’s something about statues. At the U.S. Naval Academy, there’s a statue representing the figurehead of the old USS Delaware, a chief of the Delaware tribe the midshipmen call “Tecumseh.” The midshipman toss pennies at the statue as a wish for good luck in upcoming examinations.

But the statue I pass by twice daily is different. It’s a representation of the American composer, the director of the Marine Corps Band, the ‘March King,’ John Philip Sousa. The statue’s pedestal bears the only word necessary, “Sousa,” though in my ritual, I call it J.P. The sculptor captured him in the act of directing, left hand pointing to a section of the band, right hand gripping the raised baton, head tilted as he enjoys the music.

How, you’re asking yourself, can a writer draw inspiration from a statue of a music composer? For one thing, there are no statues of writers along the path I walk. Secondly, composing music has much in common with writing. Music, they say, is the language of the soul. Both require creativity and both demand years for the talent to develop.

I’ve blogged before about the benefit of tangible symbols to use for motivation. If you can come to see the symbol as urging you towards betterment, prodding you to sit in the chair and write, exhorting you to be as good at writing fiction as you can be, then it will always be there for you, a steady and unchanging inspiration.

Do you have a statue or other symbol you use for motivation? Let me know. Do you think the whole idea is crazy, that it’s the height of foolishness to assume a statue has the power to grant fiction-writing prowess if one only pleads to it? Leave me a comment. In the meantime, many thanks to J.P. for being a great inspiration to—

Poseidon’s Scribe

August 25, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Is ‘Write a Novel’ on Your Bucket List?

Have you created a bucket list, and decided you’d like to write a novel before you kick the bucket? Before you commit to that, we need to talk.

First, although I don’t have a bucket list myself, I like the concept. What a great way to take charge of the rest of your life, to seize the remaining days and bend them to your will, to enjoy the wonders of being alive in this world at this time.

I think your attitude toward your list is important, though. You shouldn’t consider your life a failure if you don’t cross off every item. As Robert Browning said, your reach should exceed your grasp.

Most bucket lists contain items that can be thought of as events, or one-time experiences. In the 2007 movie, “The Bucket List,” the characters’ list items included going skydiving, flying over the North Pole, visiting the Taj Mahal, going on an African safari, and visiting Mount Everest. Those types of list items are fine; it’s a good idea to experience what our world has to offer.

However, writing a novel isn’t like that at all. It’s been said that writing a novel is a one-day event. As in, “one day, I’ll write a novel.” Unless you sign up for something like Nanowrimo or the 3-day novel contest, writing a novel normally takes many months.

Further, there’s a significant difference between listing ‘write a novel’ and ‘get a novel published.’ Attaining publication is much harder than just writing a novel for your own enjoyment.

True, there’s a great feeling of accomplishment in writing “The End” after your novel’s first draft, and I imagine an ecstatic feeling at seeing your own novel in print, but both of those feelings are preceded by many long, solitary hours/days/weeks/months of writing. Just in case you didn’t know that.

In short, writing a novel is probably unlike other items on your bucket list. It’s less like ‘visit the Grand Canyon’ or ‘see a show on Broadway’ and more like ‘learn dentistry’ or ‘become a rock star.’ In other words, be prepared for a major time-suck.

So, you understand all that but have decided to keep ‘write a novel’ on your bucket list anyway? You’re that determined? Great! I say, go for it. I wish you luck. Remember, if you are able to get your novel published, that work of creativity will survive your own death. If it’s good enough, it could even become a classic and live on forever. Even the work of a sculptor doesn’t survive as long, for stone eventually wears away, but the words of a book can be reprinted endlessly.

If you’ve made a bucket list, I’d love to hear about it, whether or not writing a novel made your list. Let me know by leaving a comment. Be assured that ‘one day,’ a novel will be written by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

June 23, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Drunk and in Charge of a Bicycle

Years ago, while reading Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury, I was struck by a memorable passage. He’d titled the fourth chapter “Drunk and in Charge of a Bicycle.”

After stating that he’d read how other authors found writing a difficult chore, Mr. Bradbury wrote:

But, you see, my stories have led me through my life. They shout, I follow. They run up and bite me on the leg—I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go, and runs off.

That is the kind of life I’ve had. Drunk, and in charge of a bicycle, as an Irish police report once put it. Drunk with life, that is, and not knowing where off to next. But you’re on your way before dawn. And the trip? Exactly one half terror, exactly one half exhilaration.

Always fun to read Bradbury; even his nonfiction hums with an electric rhythm. But today I thought I’d examine his metaphor a bit, since it has stayed in my mind for at least a decade.

I understand why it appealed to Bradbury. First, the phrasing is a bit odd to American ears, and he often sought interesting new ways to express ideas. Second, I’m sure he had a distinct mental image of what it would be like to be drunk and in charge of a bicycle. That idea of going somewhere but not knowing where; the wobbly, weaving way you’d be ever on the edge of falling. Bradbury saw that as being akin to his writing experiences.

Third, I’m sure he enjoyed the concealed contradiction, the playful paradox, inherent in the words “drunk, and in charge.” There’s no doubt the bicycle rider is going where the bike goes. If arrested, there’s no doubt whom the police would hold responsible. But who, after all, is really in charge? If you’re drunk, as Bradbury says, with life, then you’re in the grip of events beyond your “charge” and it’s your stories that are leading you.

That muse of yours, then, is the one in charge. You follow where she beckons even when that way seems outlandish or bizarre, because she’s never steered you wrong before. You’ve no idea where you’ll end up, and the notion of ceding control leaves you with that mix of half terror, half exhilaration.

But when you submit your story before the squinty eyes of the editor, when it’s picked over by readers and critics, where is the responsibility then? It’s only your name on the story; the muse has vanished, gone on to her other affairs. Like the drunk bicyclist trying to explain himself to the constable, you can’t point the finger elsewhere.

When I set out to write about this topic today, my aim was to poke holes in the Bradbury’s metaphor, to state that my writing experiences weren’t like that at all. Especially the half terror part. I was going to create my own metaphor for my writing life. I wanted to capture the godlike act of creating a world, of designing the initial conditions, then winding up the characters and letting them go, interacting and confronting their problems. All the while, that godlike me would be taking notes, watching these wind-up characters’ every move. If I did my creative job well, readers would enjoy the result. If not, well, back to the drawing board to create another world peopled with other wind-up dolls.

But instead of condemning Bradbury’s metaphor, I’ve praised it. From his grave, he laughs at the irony of it. I thought I was in charge of this blog, thought I had it all planned out. Now I see I’ve been drunk and in charge of a bicycle, in the grip of other forces. Yet the one person responsible, the name at the end is—

Poseidon’s Scribe

March 10, 2013Poseidon's ScribePermalink