Where I get my ideas from, vol 17, ch 3

Words, words, words.

It is, after all, several days since I finished a novel. Several. Of course I have restless unhappy fingers, drumming rhythms in my mind.

I was doing nothing more harmful than reading a novel, only two words leaped out at me, and now I am writing a story.

Two words may not be much, but given my process, that's probably not a record. I've probably managed with one before, though I really can't remember when. ("Where do you get your ideas from, Chaz?" "I don't remember." At last! An immaculate answer...)

Anyway. Enough teasing. The words?

Hortus conclusus.

Yes, I know I've written about a walled garden before (in my novel The Garden, for those who don't know), but I've never been done with the image. I spent a ridiculously happy evening one time in the walled garden of a rather lovely house, and I have pined for one of my own ever since. And no, a narrow concrete back yard doesn't count. I want an orangery.

In the meantime, of course I want to write a ghost story set in a walled garden. How not?

Hah! Also, aaargh!

True to form, true to my prediction: I now have the second instance of a man on a ladder, doing work that could've been done when the scaffolding was up.

This one has a radio.

I am not writing a ghost story in a walled garden; I am running away. I shall go to town, perhaps, and see if I can buy a baking-stone.