Sometimes I see photos in books or magazines, and sometimes I’m just walking outside when a story starts wrapping itself around my mind, forming into what I call fictitious imaginings. I love this. I’ll work these like lumps of cold clay until I get what I want. I’ll be flipping through my house’s immense library, or tiptoeing barefoot through the gardens surrounding my home when it just drops on me. Plop. And off I go, headed straight for the busy land of my imagination. All of my writing has been fiction. Sure, some of it’s realistic fiction, but it’s still fiction. I’m too fascinated with what the inner workings of my mind can conjure up to write about real things. Okay, I’ll say it. I love my fictitious imaginings!