Some writers have pristine notebooks, vision boards, and color-coded outlines. I have a junk drawer.
Not a literal one (though I have plenty of those, too). I’m talking about a mental junk drawer. A place in my mind where I toss odd phrases, small moments, unexplained feelings, and passing thoughts. Most of them don’t make sense at the time. But I tuck them away, knowing that someday, somewhere, they just might belong.
Like the boy I saw on a park bench who whispered into a bush. Or the woman in the grocery store who stared at a can of soup like it held a secret recipe. Or the conversation I overheard at a café in Quechee, Vermont; gentle, mundane, but filled with the kind of quiet heartbreak you only catch if you’re listening closely.
Some places leave an imprint. For me, Quechee, Vermont, is one of them.
I’ve been there twice, and both times I fell in love with the town, with the rhythm, with the way people look each other in the eye. It’s the kind of place that invites you to slow down and notice things. And that’s exactly what I do when I’m there: I observe, I gather fragments, and add ideas to my drawer.
My husband fits naturally in places like Quechee. He talks to everyone—strangers, shopkeepers, the guy two barstools away—and I love that about him. He sees people, and people open up to him. He became part of my character, Cal, almost without trying. I was nearly embarrassed to share what I had been writing with him, for fear he wouldn’t like Cal, or worse, think I was judging him.
I’m a little different. More reserved. A bit shy, unless someone speaks to me first. But being quiet makes me a watcher. And watching gently, without judgment, is where many of my characters begin.
One of those characters is Gary, who runs a small-batch distillery in my book Where We Came From. He was inspired by a real person I met briefly in Quechee, one of the investors in Vermont Spirits Distilling Co. I don’t know his personal story. We only spoke for a few minutes. But I liked him immediately. There was something grounded, approachable, and genuine about the way he shared both his product and a little piece of himself. I tucked that moment away in my mental junk drawer, not knowing it would resurface later. When my main character, Ava, needed someone steady, thoughtful, and a bit unexpected to talk to, Gary emerged, shaped by that interaction.
Another inspiration came in the form of a painting: a solitary red barn surrounded by snow, with only a single trail of footprints leading to its door. That image stirred something deep in me. It set the emotional tone for “Where We Came From.” A sense of isolation, but also peace. Of quiet—but also searching. The barn became a metaphor for Ava’s inner world: still, watchful, longing to be reached. I also purchased, framed, and hung this painting in my Florida home. Who has paintings of snow in Florida? I do.
Though I now live in Florida, I’m originally from New Hampshire. I often feel the tug of seasons, real seasons, pulling me back. The crunch of snow, the blaze of autumn leaves, the quiet ache of winter’s long shadows. That rhythm of change and stillness makes its way into my work in ways I don’t always expect. I miss it more than I admit, and sometimes I write it into my stories so I can feel it again.
That’s how writing works for me. I don’t start with a plot. I start with a feeling. A flicker. A place. A conversation. Something tossed into that old junk drawer finds its way out when the time is right.
Sometimes I write things down in the Notes app on my phone, on napkins, or receipts. Other times, I trust that I’ll remember it when I need to or recall it as I write it down in my journal at the end of the day or upon returning from a vacation.
Some writers use blueprints. I use breadcrumbs. And while I may not always know where they lead, I trust them to take me somewhere honest.
If you’ve ever felt a moment that stuck with you, something small that left a big imprint—you’re probably keeping a mental junk drawer, too. And maybe, just maybe, that’s where your best ideas are hiding, waiting for the right moment to come out.
Author Note:
I believe stories grow from observation, not performance. From quiet places and people who don’t know they’re being seen or remembered. Places like Quechee, Vermont, and images of barns half-buried in snow. Or perhaps homesickness for seasons that show up as fiction and I carry with me, even in the Florida sun.
