Where Do You Get Your Inspiration?

It's amazing where inspiration comes from, isn't it? Where do you get your inspiration to write? Was it a novel? A novella? Or a simple article from your local newspaper?

I've found that Inspiration comes from many places. In groups all over the country, writers are always interested in other writers and what they write about. And how they get their inspiration. One of the main topics when you go to these writers is what inspires them. I've heard every answer you can imagine; from within, without, your neighbors, your colleagues, your friends, family, God, the Universe, dreams, and all points north and south. Inspiration for writers is what makes us who we are. Inspiration in the digital age comes from just as many areas as any other: TV, movies, the internet, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, or even another hub.

In all the years I've been writing, I've found interesting things to write about, and 'not so interesting' things. I guess you could say in this day and age, what any teenager would call boring (essay, book report). But through it all, I've learned and hopefully grown to be better than what I started to be. Come see what makes a writer a dreamer, and a dreamer into an actual writer. It's in your perspective. (It's all in your imagination folks. You know, the gray matter between your ears?)

Side note - I have always loved anything fantasy or sci-fi related, so if you don't wish to read about those things, you may not wish to continue with this hub. The examples I'm going to show you are from my imagination and in the spur of the moment. The photos alone inspired me to write. I even have my favorite treat beside me to help with the inspiration; M&M's. Happy Writing!

As the old man cradled the fragile, almost weightless egg in his weathered hands, he noticed a small crack forming at the very top of the shell. In that moment, he felt the pulse of life stirring, not just before his eyes, but within his heart. He watched with a mix of wonder and reverence, tiny gasps coming from his lips, as a tiny creature began to emerge, breaking free to see its first day on this earth. As shards of the shell tumbled to the ground, still shimmering with the life they had nurtured for so long, a soft smile spread across the old man’s face. He gently murmured to the newborn, cooing at it as if it were a new babe. He knew this life was his to care for, to protect, and to nurture.

Pantril, once known as a powerful wizard, 'Pantril the Mighty', now simply an old man with a gentle touch, held the tiny dragon close. He leaned in and softly exhaled, offering the creature its first breath of life. He remembered the words of his mentor, spoken so long ago, that this act would forge an unbreakable bond between man and dragon. The dragon would trust him, follow him, and remain by his side for all its long life. But as he watched the little creature, Pantril didn’t feel the power, the ability to control this tiny thing—only the tender responsibility of caring for him.

"Ah, my friend, you are here now," whispered the old man. Smiling his most gracious smile, he asked the small figure, "What shall I call you?"

The dragon made a soft, curious noise, flicking its tongue in the air to catch the faint traces of the old man's words. Just moments after taking its first breath, the creature let out a tiny, enthusiastic squawk and a small puff of flame. Its first instinct, even in its first moments, was clear: it was hungry.

"Ah, my little friend," Pantril said with a warm chuckle, "You're hungry." He laughed, gently brushing away the remnants of the shell from the dragon’s tiny body. With a kind grin, he turned and made his way to find something to satisfy the creature’s first appetite.

The red dragon watched from the crags of the Northern Mountain Range. Targ, the Sentinel. What his clan expected he wasn't sure, but he knew someone needed to be at the post in the next coming days in case the humans came. In every generation, there is born one who is charged with the safety of all the others. In this, they pledge to watch and ward. Because of this selfless act, the clan would thrive and prosper. But in this also, there were always those who wanted nothing more than to see the clan die. And humans were the worst among the races of the Earth to see them succumb.

Staring out at the many empty miles, young Targ sighed in resignation. He didn't know how he could ever come to grips with having to fight with the humans. They hadn't started this war, after all, a lone dragon had accomplished that. Why did he and all the others have to pay for his indiscretion? Humans had been hounding the Mountain Clan for centuries, at one point nearly hunting them into extinction. But in his lifetime, nearly two thousand years, no man had ever come seeking a dragon trophy. Yet, a lone rogue male - some say mad with grief - had lived through the slaughter of his pod, and had taken it upon himself to start a vendetta of vengeance. No human living today had anything to do with that slaughter, their lives being so short. In a fit of rage and grief, the dragon had slaughtered nearly a thousand with fire and claw. The bloodiest carnage the Mountain Clan had known for ages. In so doing, caused the races of man to form an army the likes of which hadn't been seen in millennia.

If I come out of this whole, I'm going to partition the Council for a new role in my clan. I cannot stand here and watch all day and not partake in my pods' defense. I am a red dragon! I am death!

Nearly four centuries ago, a probe of unknown origin landed on Earth. With it came a message from its senders: Leave the Earth, or die. Man, in his infinite wisdom, did not heed the warning. Two years, two months, and two hours after the probe's landing, man learned the folly of their actions. The probe, one which no scientist or engineer could open to examine its contents, did open. And with it came one lone spore. A spore from space. A spore that eventually killed every man, woman, and child on the Earth. Before the inevitable however, before the extinction of the human race, scientists around the globe, working with engineers, carpenters, doctors, and specialists in every field, built ships to leave the planet they called home. In these ships was the 'Cluster of Man'. A cluster of the only remnants of a place man had ever known.

Looking into the void of space, so infinite and mighty, these lone men and women sought a place to call home. Their only regret; is not being able to find out what happened to Earth, and who or what had finally claimed it.

On a pale horse he rides; And Death shall be his name.

He carries a sickle, a scythe, a sword, a cane.

To thwart him you cannot; you cannot hide.

In night, or day, a message he brings

Delivering this judgement, for all to see.

His visage he hides in cloak and dark pleats

So those seeking refuge cannot be deceived.

He's said to be one with the world and the Maker

But those who have met him cannot relay.

Through all of time and in all places

Death comes to call

With a knock? Or a whimper?

When He broke the second seal, I heard the second living creature saying, “Come.” And another, a red horse, went out; and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from the earth, and that men would slay one another; and a great sword was given to him.

This passage is from the Book of Revelation in the New Testament of the Bible. Specifically, it is found in Revelation 6:3-4. This passage describes the opening of the second seal and the appearance of the second horseman of the Apocalypse, who rides a red horse and is granted the power to take peace from the earth, leading to war and conflict.

The four horsemen of the Apocalypse are symbolic figures mentioned in Revelation 6:1-8, each representing different forms of calamity that are unleashed upon the world as the seals are broken.

This short poem is taken from a book that I have been writing for the past four or five years now. I haven't got to finish it yet, (life has gotten in the way, you know) but it concerns a Dwarf and what he is called to do in the service of his King and Kingdom. It's called "Gimble's Reaper". A service he hates, but can do nothing about.

Also, I put that prose to work for me in the form of a song. It is powerful and melodramatic, and I feel it is perfect for the sentiment the poem conveys. If at any time you would like to hear it, I may publish it.

Why is Lucille Ball here amongst the fantastic and the fantasy? Why the hell not? I LOVE LUCY! Anyone with a sense of humor could probably learn a thing or two from watching her television series and comedies.

Have fun with your writing. That, in the end, is what its all about.

Cheers!