“Where Do Writers Get Ideas From?” I Asked
I saw rage fill his eyes as he looked at me sharply
India organizes “The greatest literary show on Earth”, The Jaipur Literature Festival.
For the past 16 years, in the heart of the state of Rajasthan, the city of Jaipur has welcomed nearly 2000 speakers and over a million bookworms from across the country and the globe.
Jaipur Literary Fest also called the JLF has hosted this platform to exchange ideas, bringing together a diverse collection of the world’s best writers, thinkers, humanitarians, politicians, business leaders, artists, and entertainers.
I had planned to visit this fest this year in the month of January ’23. Little did I know what was awaiting this trip.
As January unfolded, the wintry breath of the seasonal month veiled the horizon into a mystic haze, driving in a condition like this meant I was up for a deadly mission.
Winters in Delhi are dreadful; the chilly winds froze every minuscule living cell of my body.
Undeterred by the inhospitable conditions, I had to prepare myself to drive around 300km to reach the destination. Thanks to my forgetful brain failing to secure a train reservation to Jaipur.
A last-minute reservation would be futile and I preferred driving up to the location cause boarding a bus steaming with strangers carried its own set of risks; either way, it was risky.
I weighed my choices and decided to place my faith in my nascent knowledge of driving for the next four hours.
I opted for an evening drive. With a strategic plan to get some rest before the fest commenced the next morning, it seemed like a perfect idea.
The evening was welcomed rather fast than other typical days. The fireflies unlatched themselves from the banyan tree that stretches across my neighborhood.
I have been driving for the last one and a half hours until suddenly it started raining.
Winter rains in Delhi were not a surprising deal. I carried on nevertheless.
Shortly before hitting midnight, I took a sharp turn into the National Highway; it was dark.
No other vehicles were plying on an otherwise seemingly bustling highway. I was scared, but I knew I would manage the remaining distance.
Even before I could solace my anxious monkey mind about managing the other half of the distance, the front wheels of my car got caught in a ditch.
I tried accelerating out of it but all hard work was futile. I stopped the engine.
I got out of the car on an empty road with a torch in my hand, slamming the door behind me. It was raining cats and dogs and I knew this wouldn’t stop anytime soon.
In my attempt to find a mechanic shop nearby, I shone my torch on a building that stood in complete darkness.
I wasn’t sure if I should approach this house but I was left with no other option.
In my attempt to strain my neck to check out if there was someone who could help me out, the boundary walls guarding this humongous house were tall enough to block my sight.
I didn’t feel safe to enter the property.
I got myself inside the property. Ran my hands over the glass window, hoping to find no one inside; I desperately needed shelter without being haunted by some creep or perhaps a ghost.
I knocked on the door. There was no response.
I knocked again. This time louder than before. It was futile.
I sensed there was no one inside the building. I pushed the door open, into total darkness.
The house was well furnished — stacks of books piled on the wooden bookshelves. It was indeed a well-furnished study hall.
Shining my torch across the room, I found the light switch just next to the door. I crossed the room to switch it on.
“The lights don’t work in a power cut”, a voice erupted in the middle of nowhere. I had lost it by now.
A middle-aged man stood up from his wheelchair, dragged and limped himself to his nearby crutch. Striking the match stick against the box, his face illuminated.
“But.. but…”, I fumbled.
“I’m physically incapacitated to welcome any guest. So, I didn’t bother to answer you.”
I was still having trouble catching my breath and finding words. “No. It’s not a problem…… I mean, it’s okay….”
“Do you stay in this house, all by yourself ?” I questioned him.
“Sometimes. Mostly no”, came the reply.
I didn’t quite understand what he meant by that, but I went along.
“Come sit”, he gestured towards the luxurious fur sofa.
It had been around 10 minutes since I stumbled into this horrible fate, that I now started questioning.
“Are you here for the JLF?”, he asked.
“Huh…yes. You know the fest?” I was startled. Quite a strange thing for a crippled man with zero social cues to know about the fest. I complied.
“I’ve always been a book lover”, he went on.
“I have books of all kinds. See”, he continued, pointing at the bookshelf.
I nodded as he went near the bookshelf.
“For the past 12 years, I’ve been an author too.” He pointed at another bookshelf that stood across the hallway. This one was larger than the one he showed earlier.
“Precisely 75 books.”, he declared in pride, puffing out his chest in satisfaction.
“That’s huge!”, I exclaimed expressing my amazement. He grinned.
“Where do writers get ideas from?”, I asked curiously.
He stared at me for what felt like an eternity as if I’d asked for his other leg as a souvenir.
He approached me and sat beside me on the fur sofa. “You have to audibly groan, each time you sit to write”, he suggested.
Nothing made sense.
“I eat an idea pill at the beginning of the writing process and I start growling”, he began growling.
I was on the brink of pooping my pants. I got up from the sofa.
With an eerie tone, he continued, “ Didn’t you get it? I don’t knoooowwwwwwwww” his gaze sharpened, while his bone twisted and snapped, reshaping itself into a wolf.
No. He wasn’t Professor Lupin.
That day, I learned something.
Never ask a writer how they come up with ideas.
They’ll give answers like desperation, and deadlines, while daydreaming, sitting idle, and even worse — some might turn into a wolf.
They don’t know. We don’t know.
The answer is varied and cloaked in a shining full moon, either way, they live lives. So, perhaps that might be the answer, or maybe not.
As the saying goes “Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.” — Sylvia Plath.
You’ll have to visit the nearest book fest to find the truth. The reality is no one knows it.
We can use the great Uncle Paulo’s reference.
“Tears are words that need to be written." — Paulo Coelho.
Our legendary Aunt Virginia has her own take!
“Writing is like sex. first, you do it for love, then you do it for friends, and then you do it for money.” — Virginia Wolf.
Oh! c’mon, don’t lie to me when you say you haven’t clicked on that “Ways to make 1000$ a month on Medium”
We all have been there. We all love money. I get it.
So get out! Get some life, love, trauma, sex, friends, enemies, musk melon, or just our very own Elon Musk.
Just write it. As long as it moves the readers with emotions, gives advice on how to solve their pain points, and tells them about something relatable, or a remarkable story, It’ll all be regarded as ideas.
Now go! Start growling.
