Finding inspiration in the suburbs is difficult. Beyond difficult, actually. The problem is the lives of those around me just seem so boring. And it’s not their fault. They obviously don’t know I’m sitting at my desk, staring out my window in an attempt to notice something that strikes my writing fancy. They’re simply going about their mundane little lives. Getting the kids up for school, going off to work, coming home and eating dinner, going to bed by ten. Normality. It’s boring me to death. Perhaps that’s why so many of my stories are about death?
The most interesting thing to happen around here in ages was a manhunt the other week. My husband called to wake me up, saying SWAT and the U.S. Marshalls were looking for a guy in my neighborhood. Naturally, I jump out of bed and look out the window in an attempt to rest my eyes on this (dangerous?) fugitive. After three hours of waiting for gunfire (and quite frankly getting a little more scared every minute that went by without the guy in custody) they finally caught him. It turned out to be some kind of immigration issue. BORING! No serial killers in my neighborhood. Here’s the news story. It’s a blurb, really. But that goes to show how uninteresting my surroundings are.
I think I’ll go back to editing my story about suicide now.