Where Ideas Really Come From
Writers love to talk about “the moment it hit me”—that flash of inspiration, that perfect idea arriving out of nowhere like a lightning bolt straight to the brain. It’s a good story. It’s cinematic.
But it’s not the truth.
At least, not the whole truth.
Because in my experience, most ideas don’t arrive like lightning. They build slowly. They creep in from the edges. They’re stitched together from scraps you didn’t even know you were collecting.
Sure, sometimes a moment sparks the flame—but the kindling was already there.
One of my current works-in-progress is called After Checkmate. The title came to me via a quote from Isaac Asimov:
“In life, unlike chess, the game continues after checkmate.”
I wasn’t reading a collection of literary essays or seeking quotes purpose for the purpose of inspiration. I was tiredly watching television at the end of a long work day—Criminal Minds, of all things—and that line landed.
Not with a thunderclap.
More like a quiet click.
I paused the TV. I wrote it down (I nearly always have a notebook or pad of paper to hand). I looked at it for a long time.
A story unfurled behind it. A King, defeated. A monarchy ended. And yet… life goes on. What does he do now? Who is he, without the crown?
That idea started with ink on a legal pad, then shifted into digital form. It grew slowly. The first lines came, then the tone, then the themes. It built. It wasn’t delivered.
Other ideas come to me sideways.
Waking Up from Violent Dreams isn’t just a description of how I least enjoy ending a night’s sleep—it’s a title that haunted me. It whispered of trauma, memory, confusion. I didn’t know the story yet. But I knew something important lived behind those words. I’ve started building something there, but it’s not whole yet. Maybe it will be one day. I hope so, I want to read it.
Same with Washed Up in B Minor. That title had been rattling around my head for months. A phrase. A rhythm. A mood. And then one day, it snapped into focus. A story of healing. Of music. Of two voices slowly learning to harmonise.
None of these were lightning strikes.
They were puzzles with missing pieces, absentmindedly assembled in the deep recesses of my subconscious, nagging me to look at them.
So I did, and there was a story there.
Inspiration often looks backwards.
It’s only when an idea finally clicks that you realise how long it’s been following you. That book you read five years ago. That song lyric that stuck in your head. That walk you took where your mind wandered somewhere strange. It’s compost. It brews. And eventually, it finds a shape.
If you’re waiting for the lightning bolt, don’t.
Instead, live like a collector.
Gather scraps. Steal lines. Jot down the weird dreams. Keep a notebook or a folder or a pile of napkins scribbled with nonsense. Most of it won’t be anything. Some of it will be everything.
And when an idea shows up, it might not be dramatic.
It might not look like much.
If it keeps tapping on your shoulder—listen.
The myth of the lightning bolt is seductive. But the truth is quieter, and better:
Ideas don’t strike.
They grow.