I’m living in a classic older building in Boston, the kind with spiral staircases and spooky halls, and a room in the basement (off the laundry, off the mailboxes) where everyone leaves their trash and recycling. Which is what I did this afternoon.
So, picture this:
Me, shoving a pizza box into a bin.
Me, looking down as a rat runs past.
Me, screaming my head off.
I love animals. I really love animals. And I’m typically a calm, collected, gal. But seeing that black blur streak past my foot and scurry behind the trash made me make a sound I’ve never heard before. At least, not from me. And, to be honest, it might not have been a rat at all. I didn’t get a good look. It could have totally been an alien, a mutant, something risen from the bowels of the earth. A baby Cthulu. Maybe a Tribble. Definitely a mystery.
Because even what freaks us writers out, fascinates us.
Everything is inspiration.