Random Bursts of Insanity

During all of the thousands of interviews Stephen King has given over his decades-long career he has almost invariably been asked one question:

Where do you get your ideas?

He would try and answer it as best he could, but you could tell he was clutching at straws, until he finally came up with what is now his stock response:

From the guys in the cellar.

In the first place, the answer is quintessential King. In the second, he craftily sidesteps the question, altogether. The truth, I suspect, is that he has no idea.

Naturally, in keeping with my own sense of self-absorption, I agree. Not that I’m comparing myself to him, mainly because I’d be laughed at and justifiably heaped with scorn and derision, but I agree. More to the point, I know myself to be, beyond the shadow of a doubt, utterly clueless about the source of mine. Oh, sure, I can come up with some approximation of specifics when asked about an individual story, but mainly in doing so, I’m blowing smoke and sunshine straight up the questioner’s ass.

The ideas come to me. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, and, quite frankly, after five decades of writing, I’ve given up asking. Still, it plagues me sometimes – those moments of self-doubt when I begin to question my sanity. I don’t end up with any answers there, either. Probably best to leave it well enough alone.