Where do you get your Ideas from? By Tríona Walsh

Where do you get your ideas from? 

Like many writers and would-be writers, I’m voracious in my consumption of anything writing related. Interviews, podcasts, blogposts, anywhere writers talk about their writing and writing lives, I’m there. An article like this, for instance, would be just the thing! During this obsessive deep-dive, I’ve noticed there is one question in particular a lot of writers say they dread…

‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ 

And I’m always surprised. Why is it such a bogey question? Be it from readers who are amazed that writers have come up with such things, or from new writers looking for advice on honing their craft, writers seem to hate this question. Are they frustrated by it? Sure, isn’t it our whole job to come up with ideas? – they might reply, scratching their heads. We use our imaginations? – they offer, tentatively. But I’ve always loved that question. I find the magic of the idea endlessly fascinating.

So, how would I answer if I was asked?

Being a writer, I suspect I’d dig out a colourful metaphor to explain. Something like – for me, ideas are like building a fire. The kindling is whatever nugget has tickled my curiosity. Then, I add logs or turf (these being questions and constraints around the nugget) to build it up. And finally, I will put a match to it – bring it all together – and see if it roars into life.

What is this kindling and where do I gather it from? Often it will come from a newspaper headline. A story which is a little different to the norm. For example, I read recently about a woman who sought out a lookalike of herself to murder, with the intent to use the lookalike’s body to fake her own death. It was a ready-made crime novel. (Spoiler – she didn’t get away with it!) But it isn’t always the splashy headlines that catch my eye. I really like the curious, little tucked away stories too. Some small detail will catch my attention. I don’t like to take a whole story, like the one about the poor unfortunate lookalike, as they are about real people, still out there somewhere. But an element of the story will plant a seed. 

These seeds don’t have to come from the news (am I changing my metaphors now? It appears so, tut, tut! Perhaps the seeds are from pinecones that are released when set on fire…hmmm…I’ll stop now.) While part of the inspiration for my new novel, The Party, did indeed come from a news story – I can’t tell you which though as it would give away a plot twist – another part came from a picture posted by a friend on Facebook. Taken from above, the image was of a ruined grand mansion, buried deep in a forest. Abandoned, the house had been slowly surrounded by trees growing ever closer to it. They spanned out for miles. The photo is striking and eerie, this skeleton of a house, a needle at the very centre of an arboreal haystack.

Once I had that jump off point, I began to build up its fire, adding fuel to the spark. I asked myself questions – what if someone still lived there? What would it be like to be so isolated and surrounded by large, looming trees? Creepy and sinister I suspect. And if the house is surrounded by a forest, wouldn’t it be hard to get there? And, more importantly for a crime novel – wouldn’t it be hard to get away…

With my first book, The Snowstorm, the very first inklings also came from an image. I saw an artist’s photograph of a person floating, with their arms outstretched, in a spectacular naturally formed pool of water. This pool, found at the base of some cliffs, on the wild Atlantic coast, was dramatic stuff on its own. But with a body floating in it too? Perfect! (Well, a floating body isn’t exactly perfect… but you know what I mean.) 

With a bit of research, I discovered this real location could be found on an island off the west coast of Ireland. An isolated island prone to dramatic and wild weather. I started asking myself questions – who is the dead body in the pool? How did they get there? And who is responsible? And off I went, the idea flared from a simple image to a whole new world. Six months later, I had a novel.

This is a topic I could go on and on about (you might have noticed.) Distilled down, I think I’d say that my ideas come from staying curious and asking questions. And whether the interest in where writers’ get their ideas is inspired from a layman’s fascination or a learner’s quest for knowledge, I think it’s a question worth getting excited about and not dreading. 

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Tríona Walsh loves reading and writing crime novels but is fairly law abiding in real life. A twice winner of the Irish Writers Centre Novel Fair competition she lives in Dublin with her four kids, three cats and one husband.

THE PARTY

It was only supposed to be a small wedding. Intimate and perfect. But my blood turns to ice when I see someone I know wasn’t invited. My first husband – who I thought was dead.

My world shattered when Declan disappeared five years ago. My grown-up children fell apart without their father, and it was up to me to pick up the pieces of our broken lives.

I never thought I’d get married again but then I met George. Some people might think we’re moving too fast. But as I look round on our wedding day at our little family, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses ringing out, I know that I’ve made the right decision.

Until Declan steps out the shadows. He says he still loves me, and now he’s back for good. But where has he been all this time?

My legs shake so much that I can barely stand… Even though he lied to me so many times, as I stare into Declan’s sparkling blue eyes I realise that my new husband can’t compare to the love we once shared. But at least I can trust George. Can’t I?

Before I even have a chance to decide, Declan is found murdered. A chill races down my spine as I realise – his killer must be one of our wedding party. Did Declan bring back secrets that should have stayed buried?

Now, we’re trapped in this house in the middle of nowhere and my heart pounds as I realise there’s no escape. Why is Declan dead? And can I get me and my children out of here before one of us is next…?

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