Yesterday evening I had a rejection waiting for me when I checked my email right before leaving work. On the drive home, I ranted mentally about the State of Publishing, as one does. I ended up wondering what the hell I could write that would actually get published.
My thinking went like this: "I'll write a YA book. YA is hot. Vampires are out, zombies are peaking right now so there's no point in writing a new zombie book. What'll be the next big thing? I know, monkeys. I'll write a YA book about a boy who finds a monkey and they go on adventures. It'll be rollicking fun and also a tender coming-of-age story. And the monkey can shoot laser beams out of its eyes."
After that I calmed down and spent the evening avoiding working on my boring, boring romance novel.
At 5:30 this morning, a storm moved in and the thunder woke me up. I listened to the rain for a while with my mind drifting, and this line popped up in my traitorous brain (traitorous because it should have been thinking up plot points for the romance): "Chris found Ojo sitting under a forsythia bush one drizzly Friday afternoon."
Who is Chris? He's a thirteen-year-old boy who lives with a foster family and wants a dog. Who is Ojo? Ojo is a monkey who can shoot laser beams from his eyes. I have written 3,300 words about Chris and Ojo and I AM HAVING A FUCKLOAD OF FUN.