Amy Sue Nathan

Signs of a new idea

If someone asks me how I came up with a particular idea, I can usually say that I took something real and turned it inside out and upside, shook it, lopped of one side and there it was. An idea for a story.

But what about those ideas that seem to come from no where? They still come from somewhere. They originate within us and are there, original in some respects. (I say in some respects because we know there are really only variations on a finite number of themes, but the combinations and idiosyncrasies are endless).

I was thinking about this today – and luckily today – I also had a bout with ‘shiny new idea syndrome.’ I decided that before I forgot I would track where the inkling came from…it’s initial evolution…because I knew I would forget. I always do. It really doesn’t matter where the idea came from, it’s inconsequential. I just want to remember how it happened. The pages that follow the idea may eventually bear no resemblance to what they are today. Today was the burst – and I allowed it to carry me through most of the morning before I tucked it away.

1. Got email from local police station (I’m signed up for those) reminding citizens of my small town that unless you have a “no solicitors invited” sign or sticker on your front door or window, approved solicitors can indeed come to your door. Which sucks. But whatever.

2. I started thinking how I needed one of those signs.

3. Then I started thinking about the worst possible person who could come to try to sell you something.

4. I didn’t think about police revealing a tragedy – I don’t usually go there – I thought about just a regular person showing up at your door, uninvited, and your whole life changing.

5. Then I thought about how cool it would be if we could wear ‘no solicitors invited’ on our person and keep unwanted, toxic people out of our lives.

6. Then I went back to having someone show up at your door – with one of those enormous checks. Or a free puppy. Or maybe a family secret.  Or anything that you know nothing about.  I bet one of those signs couldn’t keep them away.

And then, thanks to my local police department – and something that had been knocking around in my head for ages with no where to go  – I wrote this very rough first draft that has nothing to do with police or solicitors…although I did work in the sign.  The subtext and details are yet to be discovered – it was stream of consciousness in action.

* * *

Daisy stood at the door. It was freezing outside, probably way below zero. She didn’t lick her dry lips, afraid they’d freeze together and she wouldn’t be able to talk. Before she knocked, the door clicked and opened about eight inches. She saw a sweaty woman in a pink T-shirt and fitted black shorts. They must have the heat at 80 in there.

“I’m here to see Elliot Handle,” Daisy said.

“He’s at work. What can I do for you, um, who are you?” The petite, brown bobbed woman opened the wooden door wide but stood behind the glass storm door holding the handle. Daisy didn’t know if she was unlocking it or holding it shut.

“I’m his daughter,” Daisy said. No need beating around the bush.

“Very funny, young lady, I’m his wife and we don’t have a daughter.”

“You may not, but he does.” The woman smiled with a closed mouth, looked at the floor and stepped back, pushing the door closed. Daisy held up a hand to stop her and talked fast. “I’m Daisy Cooper .” She paused. “Tammy is my mother.”

The woman stopped. Her eyes shot up and she stared at Daisy.

“How do you know about Tammy?” The woman turned and looked behind her before wrapping her arms around herself and faced Daisy again.

“She’s my mother.” Was this woman deaf ?

“Elliot hasn’t seen Tammy in…”

“About 22 years.”

“Right. And they didn’t have any children.”

“None that he knew about, that’s true. Look, can I come in? It’s fucking cold out here.”

“Watch your language, young lady. It’s a gorgeous, sunny, forty degree day. We’re lucky to get those here in the middle of January.” Incredulous, Daisy stuck her ungloved hands into the pockets of her obviously-not-meant-for-Michigan-in-winter fleece jacket.

“I have proof,” she said again.

“Yes, right, you said that, but if you don’t go away I’m going to call the police.” The woman tapped the “No Solicitors Invited” sign on the sidelight. “This means you can’t come to my door unless I ask you to.”

“I’m not trying to sell you something, lady. I’m your husband’s daughter.”

“Like I said, miss, Elliot never had a daughter.”

“Well he does now.”

* * *

Can you trace back to the initial signs of one of your new ideas?  Do tell!