No, I haven't taken to the drink for inspiration. When I walk into my room, if psychedelic geometric shapes greet me and fuzzy animals smile at me, it's because I have psychedelic geometric shapes and fuzzy animals as room decorations.
I live the life of an ordinary, middle-class young adult in PJ. How do I get inspiration to write the weird flights of fancy I sometimes do (the strangest of which have never been published due to uncertainty of whether they'll lead to champagne and contracts or straightjacket and shock therapy for the author)?
It's simple: read the papers.
On Wednesday, August 10, The Star reported that a man was found dead with a gunshot wound to the head in Penang. The article said that an IC was found on the body but "police found a non-existent house when they visited the place stated in the address in Sungai Dua".
Talk about macabre meets nonsensical. It was a story begging to be written.
I would have liked to do a follow-up about a retirement home being set up for imaginary childhood friends made redundant by children growing up; a huge scandal in the publishing industry when news of inflated circulation figures got out; and national productivity falling as a result of years of retroactive detention classes being given to tardy students (now on the loose in the workforce) who pulled the "alarm clock didn't go off/traffic was too heavy" excuse and got found out.
But there have to be limits, haven't there?