A stimulating read on one author's (George Saunders of the New Yorker to be exact), methods for spinning fictional worlds and characters, and their happenings within these worlds. Worth a perusal.
I like that Saunders describes his muse as having "entry points", which I take to be the germs of inspiration that lead to fully fleshed out ideas. For him it's language quirks.
For me, it's sometimes snippets overheard or turns of phrase that my fevered brain twists around for its own amusement, or dreams I experience in sleep, or people I see on the street.
Like last night, in the East Village, the neighborhood was boisterous and bold. Knots of happy faces, city lights, moving cars, wonderful smells. And in the midst of all that, as we walked past a basement level noodle shop (very Blade Runner out there last night) I glimpsed a man, alone in the shop, dressed plainly, facing the counter wall, slurping down noodles, oblivious to the warp and wave of the outside chaos. What was his story? Why was he alone, and seemingly content to be that way? Where did he travel from to end up in NYC on a Saturday night eating noodles by himself while a party was going on outside?