I like images.

When they pop into my head, I sit and enjoy them for awhile, wondering why they’re there, what I can learn, and how they’re going to change my thinking for that moment.

Sometimes the image is a mermaid or a white butterfly.

Sometimes it’s a white wedding dress in a tree, a five foot tall pig, a lady having a nervous breakdown, a condom smeared with peanut oil, sisters, a one night stand, wind, a Queen Anne house, an old white schoolhouse remodeled into a home, schizophrenia, a garden, a cross, or a pink beauty parlor.

I see images. I see pictures. The pictures form stories. And the stories form my books.

For my latest book THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE, the image that started the book was a violin. We were buying my daughter a violin after years of renting. In a dusty, old shop downtown, with a man who I am sure has worked there for two hundred years, we found the perfect violin for my daughter. She loved the sound, she loved the feel. It was eighty years old, scratched and dented.

I held that violin in my hands and had images of people…people from all over the world, all ages, all colors. I thought, “Who owned this violin? Where was it played? Did it cross the ocean? Who built it?” And, most importantly, “What were the lives like of the people who owned the violin? Did they love the violin, or did they love scotch? Did they love the sound of the violin more than they loved the sound of their grandchildren playing? Did they laugh and smile while playing their songs or were they very serious, valuing each note? Did they play with friends? Were those friendships still strong, or did they break along the way?  Why did they break? Did they cry over the violin as they played  for a lost wife, a lost love, a lost son?  What hardships had life thrown their way? What kindnesses had they received? Did they like sunsets or sunrises better?

Who were they?

Other images came for THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE. Images of a pink beauty parlor and a mother who wore a yellow ribbon for hope.  A sailboat. An Irishman. A lavender farm. Terror, tears. Love. Israel. World War II. My own parents’ gravestone with this Irish saying, “My the road rise up to meet you, may the wind be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, and the rain fall softly upon your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.”

And that violin….the image of the violin danced over the whole story.  So, I dropped the image of the violin and all the other images together, mixed them around, pulled out the characters, shifted the settings, combined the tears and the joy, and worked through my story.

I like images.

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