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When conceiving ideas for stories, I always think in images. Either montages of scenes from the imagined story, or even how the writing will look laid out on the page. It’s rare that words themselves appear first. I’m sure this is not a rare condition or even unusual,  but it does strike me that as a writer, words should be my mind-clay over and above images.

Perhaps it stems from a fascination with film from an early age. I even wanted to write screenplays seriously before I embarked upon prose in earnest.

This might explain a tendency to stare; to daydream about randomly spliced images that are happening around me; to invest huge significance into dream imagery and why said imagery finds its way regularly into my writing.

A random assortment; early Sunday evening –  Boris the Cat perched on top of the duvet, cleaning himself with languorous licks of his tongue. The clanking, hoarse breaths of a manual lawnmower in the garden opposite. Yellow flowers dripping from the laburnum tree.  The melee of coins, sad lottery tickets, pens, notebooks, an egg-timer, headphones, plectrums on my computer desk. Chess pieces knocked aside in some unseen catastrophe, no doubt orchestrated by a certain curious feline.

The key is converting the images into words, and then remembering to order the chaos and tell a story. That’s what people want to read after all, isn’t it?