writermag.com • The Writer | 5“Praise and criticism seem to me to operate exactly on the same level. If you get
a great review, it’s really thrilling for about ten minutes. If you get a bad review,
it’s really crushing for ten minutes. Either way, you go on.” —Ann Patchettdrove me to the nearby mall. I could
not yet navigate steering wheels, gas
pedals, freeways, or other drivers.
The mall’s storefronts captivated
me. Its near silence on those early
mornings distracted, sending my
glance back to crammed window dis-
plays bursting with color and possibil-
ity. I wanted none of the clothes,
jewelry, or furniture. My healing brain
rebelled at the overload. My eyes
turned away, looking instead at the
worn tile floor. Is that why my writing
shut down during these walks? I find
no words written during these weeks.
Only months later – my throat now
free of tubing – did I venture outside
alone to walk. The worst summer heat
had abated. Both my strength and
weight had returned to healthier levels.
I loaded careful supplies that first
day: towel, water bottle, tissues, Chap-
Stick. But I first tucked into my waist
pack a three-inch notepad, plus a felt
pen. My cell phone offered backup. For
safety in case of another sudden medi-
cal emergency. And dictation. Who
knew what I might see that would
demand a digital story later?
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, my
body nearly collapsed in both joy and
fear. The concrete welcomed me like
an overstocked playroom lures a curi-
ous child. Even tree branches appeared
to crook their limbs in my direction,
promising freedom, relief, and discov-
ery unlike anything I’d known in previ-
ous seasons.
My confidence surged in the simple
act of walking. So did the story ideas.
Fears of stumbling on the path or,
worse, collapsing face-first onto the
sidewalk vanished. In came possibili-
ties for flash fiction, short stories,
long-form fiction, novellas, short
essays, poems. Most stunning was a
pair of high-concept novels. Walk time
morphed into a storytime flood zone.
Ideas came from every source, all
unexpected. People biking by. Birds fly-
ing above. Animals skittering nearby.
Cars and trucks racing along. Even the
sky overhead delivered narratives, cour-
tesy of clouds-as-dinosaurs, war-like
sunbeams, and stinging-bee raindrops.
As the weeks passed, the ideas
morphed, moving to feed my longtime
priority project – a stalled-by-sickness
novel. The more I walked, the more
my novel returned to life. Character
dilemmas resolved themselves as solu-
tions arose in time with my heels
pounding the sidewalk. A footfall at a
stop sign delivered a new name to
replace an old, awkward one. Scenes
moved into new settings, thanks to a
magical park encounter involving a
family resembling my protagonist’s.
This wealth – so unexpected amid
my focus on simple physical recovery –
overwhelmed every sense I possessed.
Everything around me blossomed in
those months. I saw, heard, smelled,
and even tasted and touched the life
around my walks in ways my old life
had never known.
Rainwater shimmering in a refilled
stream. Rolling tires squishing against
summertime asphalt. Blood-red roses
emanating tones of honey. Oak leaf
rubbing gritty as sandpaper against
dry fingertips.
On their own, these images and
sensations married the ideas and the
words. It became so persistent, I
named it. I had to.
Idea Generating Machine, or IGM.
The voices – yes, I hear voices but,
most often, they’re only nudges or
teases – whisper in soft detail with
who does what, where, when, why, and
how. Those questions and answers
trigger my long-ago reporter past. I
smile as ancient muscle memory awak-
ens to a new form of wordsmithing,
this time of the fiction kind. With my
history and in this new writing life, it
all equals perfect sense.
Sometimes it’s only three words of
scene text. Or a dialogue edit here for
Chapter 2, Scene 4. A new nickname to
spice up an old essay.The softest whispers carry the big-
gest weight, like last spring’s one-word
download for a funky road trip blog.
RoadBroads. I whirled around and
asked, “where did that come from?”
Never had I thought of writing a blog,
much less while driving to a mountain
writing retreat.
Too many more pressing projects.
IGM insisted, expanding its message.
Create it before the writing retreat. Get
a logo. Images of a road, a car, a broad.
Write and post as you drive. Keep it
going after the retreat.
As the words came in, I smiled, skin
more goose-pimpled by the second.
Reaching for my cell phone, I dictated
to Siri the newest message. The most
detailed and longest IGM since I fell ill.
(And yes, I developed the blog. Some-
thing I never intended to create or
write. But still do. Weekly. IGM
reminds me.)
We’ve got a routine now, IGM and
me.
My heels start out tap-tap-tapping
on the empty sidewalk, my sneakers
pounding one step at a time. My eyes
drop down to focus on the gray squares
of concrete rising up. It’s a welcome of
sorts, as if the sidewalk awaited my
return. I hear and feel my rhythmic
pace, soles slapping to their own pri-
vate metronome. I walk where I’m led,
sometimes to pass by the nearby ele-
mentary school. On other days, I head
in the opposite direction, where fewer
bicyclists crowd the pathway.
In the sunrise walks, my eyes scan
the horizon, searching for what’s write-
able. If it’s later in the day, I scan land-
scapes such as the neighborhood park
with its turtles and alligators. But
wherever I walk, start time equals eye-
ball time. This activates my stable of
walk-to-write questions: What’s differ-
ent today? If it looks the same, how do
I view it differently? Anything I’ve
never seen? How can I use today’s walk
in a story?
When IGM nudges, I stop the