I used to go searching for ideas. I would spend hours smoking cigarettes on balconies staring off into space trying to make them come to me. I read stories and comics and became convinced that my fevered and verdant brain was spinning wonderful tales that would never again simmer into my awareness (because after all, I did willingly shut the tap). There was creative karma, I said, and a muse once spurned is a wary lover.
But there are ideas everywhere, if you follow even your idlest of thoughts.
Take a simple thought that comes to you in chaos or in peace and let it swing and sway in your arms and it will eventually make you smile. Wonder is everywhere because everything is everything else.
And it’s because everything is everything else that fiction works so well to begin with.