On one side of my room, there is a dresser.
On the other, six windows.
If I look to the left or to the right, I see one thing that has remained- grown- in inspiration, ever since I was little.
They shift in the breeze, fragile and utterly distracting, and their movement, their closeness, it never ceases to amaze or mystify me.
Trees play an occasionally massive role in my writing. With each novel I've written, there will be a forest, a cluster, trees both good and bad (I like to question more than just the role of villains and heroes, you know; what, I ask you, about the villainous trees?), dead and alive, in the shadows and with the sun shining over their boughs and making everyone take note.
I don't think know of a novel I've written where at least two scenes didn't play out in the presence of trees, and I simultaneously wonder why that is, why they captivate me so, and hope it never changes. The scenes I set in forests- in, above, below, or around trees- those are some of the most magical for me to write, and are definitely some of my favourites to read.
Maybe trees such a big part of who I am, of how I think and feel and want, that they can't help but find their way into my stories. Maybe they have entranced me for too many years to ignore, and maybe one day I'll write a short story or novel all about a tree and it won't even begin to quench me.
All I know is, they are possibly my greatest form of inspiration. And I never want that to stop.
What was the last thing that inspired you?