I went hiking with my husband this past weekend, and we saw a lot of nifty things: beautiful fall color, a maple leaf dressed watercolor style, an out-of-season toad slowed by morning’s chill, and a bronzed-autumn view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. As wonderful as those things are, none were as captivating as the hole I saw in the base of a decaying tree stump.
The entryway arched in a perfect semi-circle. The forest floor meandered inside, split into two corridors, and receded into shadow. It formed a perfect foyer, which means something must live in there. The hole could house a mouse or a toad. Or it could be the home of tiny people with translucent wings and dresses stitched from leaves – forest faeries, going about their business.
My imagination wondered further. What if I’m looking at the entrance of the faerie road that bridges their world and mine? Would this road be free for me to use, or would they insist I pay a toll? What sort of currency would they use? I’m sure they wouldn’t accept US dollars, but there are other things I could offer. I carried several snacks. I could move things much larger than they could easily transport. But what if they didn’t want tangible things?
They could trade in emotions. What if they request to sip from my contentment in order to pass? Would I eventually build it back, or would it forever diminish my capacity?
They could trade in memories. What if they want to have the moment of my greatest shame? That would seem a good trade, but what if who I am is built upon that moment and removing it changes me in some fundamental way?
They could trade in imagination. What if they want to be paid with my potential for creativity? I’d get to see amazing things but never find the words to put the experience to paper.
Faerie roads might be nice, but who would be willing to pay that price?
My husband and I continued on our way and it wasn’t until we’d finished the loop that I realized I’d accidentally wondered/wandered my way into an intriguing piece of worldbuilding for a novel. Many people ask writers where we get our story ideas. Many of mine come from moments exactly like this, watching and wondering, and letting my mind run free.
