I’m not a huge one for research. Mostly because I’m lazy. I justify this by thinking: “I’m a writer. I’m meant to use my imagination.”
Last night we had a family picnic down by the lake and I got to sit and watch the sun set over the water. I had forgotten how still you go inside when you watch something that beautiful.
My hero, at this very moment, is struggling with the deathly quiet of the countryside, and how it’s making him face himself, which he has spent a lifetime avoiding.
Sitting and watching that sunset last night made me really get what that’s like for my hero right now. Not just being in the quiet countryside and coming to terms with it, but experiencing for the first time the space that a huge sky can give your insides, and the way that the outside quiet seeps inside, and the transitory nature of such peace.
Imagination = good. An imagination with enough oxygen to combust = better.