I was recently asked (writing it like this sounded as though I was answering an interview question...) by a close friend of mine where I got my inspiration from.
I guess the short answer is "all over". I read a lot of books (though that amount has diminished significantly ever since I took up writing). I've read most of Jodi Picoult's books, loved some of her male characters, got a lot of ideas as to what schooling system in America was like (not that much different from here) and admired her writing style. I read the 600-800 odd pages of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, captivated by the world in which Jamie Fraser and Clare Randall Fraser lived in. I bawled my eyes out from half-way through 'The Time Traveler's Wife' by Audrey Niffeneggger, and sorry, the movie just didn't do it justice. I love love LOVE Paullina Simons' Alexander and Tatiana trilogy.
What I don't get from these books, I substitute in movies and TV series. Thanks to my husband, the movie buff who introduced me to all kinds of movie genres, not just romance, my inspiration is further fueled with scenes. Suspense gives me ideas to end sections in a cliffhanger manner, action provides me with chunks of gun-blazing, sword-buckling, fist-fighting, tongue-lashing stuff I can use (and spend a considerable amount of time trying to creatively describe 'punch', 'hit', 'kick' and 'shoot') for Eleanor and Evelyn novels. And romance... well... y'know... it fills my mind with all these endless tender moments I can write in-between ;)
Music. If books and movies give me the visuals, music provides me with the substance, much like red meat contains certain amount of irons. Sometimes, when I'm driving along, stuck in traffic, my mind escapes to the sound of music, and just by listening to the lyrics, I can sometime conjure up THE perfect scene.
But, at the very base of it, there are... my vivid dreams. Yes, you read that right. Most of my books originated because I had gone to sleep one night, woke up the next morning, recalled my dreams, and, with something that could only be described as a lightbulb moment, thought to myself, "Hey! I could write that! That would be a great section for a book!"
So... without further ado, this is the section that gave birth to the characters of Elizabeth Hartley and Michael Bradford; the beginning of the Ben Hur-sized books they are now.
“So…, what’s coming up in the Bradford’s social calendar?” she asks at last, breaking the somewhat deafening silence that has hung between them.
“We’re having a benefit dance for Cancer Research three weeks from now,” he replies quickly, smiling as he remembers the countless times she has asked him the same question; at least once a week, since they were both old enough to attend such a prestigious occasion.
“Black tie?” she guesses, turning her head around to meet his gaze.
“What else?” he challenges her back, rolling his eyes helplessly.
She chuckles slightly before burying her face in her cup once more, tilting the cup, and her head backwards, to drain the last few remnants of her hot drink. Slowly, he straightens himself up, resting both elbows on his thighs, scrutinising her feature; from her long, curled up, dark brown eyelashes, her pair of small, attentive, piercing Oriental hazel eyes, to her soft, light beige skin. He hesitates a moment, pondering, averting his glance down, watching his hands interlink together before he looks up at her again.
“Will you come with me?” he blurts out before he could have a chance to change his mind. Startled, her head jerks up, turning around and regarding him uncertainly.
“Michael James Bradford, are you asking me out on a date?” she teases lightly, her lips twitching in slight amusement as she tries to hide her nerves, her heart pounding loudly. This is it, Lizzy.
“I’m asking my best friend to be my plus one for a social function. If by the end of the night, we end up kissing…” He trails off, meeting her gaze as she regards him through slightly widened eyes, daring him to finish his sentence. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing that could ever happen.”
She turns away from him, pretending to be amused at her empty foam cup, frowning as she repeatedly turns the object around in her cupped hands.
“Liz, seriously, what are you…”
“Ok.” Her voice, so soft and casual, drifts through the air, carried by the wind. And for a moment, he sits there, beside her, unable to move a muscle, afraid to even breathe, wondering if he has, once again, only heard her answer in his mind.
“Sorry?” he asks, pushing his whole head slightly forward, dumbfounded. She turns around and meets his gaze bashfully, giving him a slight, crooked smile; a timid gesture she hasn’t given him since the day he introduced himself in the library on their first day of high school.
“I’ll go to the benefit dance with you.”
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