"How do you come up with things to write about?" Or, in Newfoundland speak, "How do you come up wit' it, atall?" How many times was I asked that when I was editor of a monthly magazine? I couldn't tell you. And I still don't have a simple answer.

Story ideas, whether fiction or non-fiction, naturally arise out of an observation about the world, a suggestion or a personal experience.  They form in the folds of the brain and gravitate to the front of the mind, in the way a bubble from the bottom of a pot is propelled upward through the sauce until it bursts the surface with a "sploop" to get your attention. Other times, perhaps more often in the case of professionals who have a specific assignment and a deadline, writing happens under pressure to perform. I might stare at a blank screen or off into space, or busy my body with gardening or baking or walking, while my mind wanders freely until a string of words, like charged particles, find each other and begin bonding in creation.

Similarly today, while I try to conjure up a compelling narrative for my inaugural note, I am watching cherry blossom petals let go of their moorings and drift gracefully in air. A tiny bird hovers over an apple blossom, fluttering to stay afloat as it pecks at an insect in the flower's nucleus. This, I think, this is truly skint stuff: the loveliness of early June, with its budding beauty and warm, scented air inhaled from under an umbrella on a cushioned seat. It's midday and mid-week. Children are still in school, neighbours are at work, and it's just me and the birds in my private oasis. Gratitude fills my soul. 

Then fear attacks my heart. With a gargled scream, I leap from my patio chair, laptop in hand, as a ridiculously rotund wasp nosies around me for a choice spot to nest. For those breathless seconds, I have no words – hardly a thought in my head, in fact. 

And then, there it is – the spark. My panicked reaction in juxtaposition to the serenity just seconds before it gives me an entertaining (I hope) story to tell. And that, today at least, is how I do it.

If you enjoy the way I spin a yarn and wonder what other Skint Stuff I'll find to write about, bookmark my page and check in on me now and again. If you want to engage with me about my writing or my business services, or have any tips about how to deter wasp nests, email me: skintscribbler@gmail.com.

Plenty of people shy away from doing scary things, and with good reason. Fear’s job is to keep us safe. Yet, because humans are weirdly wired for paradoxes, doing something that could lead to death (even if it’s just by embarrassment) can make us feel incredibly alive.

Look, my favourite place to be is in my comfort zone. In fact, the phrase that most strikes fear in my heart and nausea in my gut is “You need to get out of your comfort zone.” I don’t like being pushed into new things, and I will staunchly defend any introvert’s right to avoid discomfort at all costs.

However… 

When willing to swallow the lump in my throat and ignore my hammering heart – and the internal voice repeating that this is a bad idea – I have been profoundly rewarded. The first time I signed up for ziplining, I did it to look brave (and cool) in front of my boyfriend and his teenage daughter. My knees were like jelly on the platform, and the only way to end this nightmare was to jump. So I closed my eyes, prayed the harness would hold, and took my first real leap of faith. As I flew through the air, I felt… exhilarated! The view was stunning, the speed was thrilling — I. Was. Pumped! I still get weak-kneed on the first platform of any zipline, whether in the mountains, over the jungle or on a cruise ship, but I never hesitate to strap in because I know the sensation of flying is worth it.

The same people introduced me to roller coasters. My first ride I kept my head down, my eyes closed, and my heart in prayer the entire time. (Just look at my picture!) But I told myself I could do what little kids and retirees were doing by the thousands every day and living to brag about it. So I kept riding the roller coasters and very soon I was revelling in it. For one, they’re fast and I love going fast (see ziplining above). Two, when else in adult life can you acceptably scream at the top of your lungs in public? It’s therapeutic — a release of tension you didn’t even know you were holding. Over the past 15 years, I have ridden some of the tallest, longest and fastest coasters in the world. And I have screamed myself hoarse.

There are other areas of life where stepping outside my comfort zone has been worth it: returning to college as a mature student; committing to a steady relationship; reporting from a far-off, foreign country; swimming in incredibly deep cenotes; making public appearances for work; and leaving my longtime employment to start over.

Most recently, I had to swallow my fears to publicly launch this business. I have no concerns about running it; I am fully confident in my abilities as a writer and an editor, and I enjoy these roles immensely. But when it came time to go public about it? Well, picture me with my finger on the trackpad and the cursor on the Facebook “post” button, my grimacing face turned away like I was expecting the laptop to blow up on me. I hit “post,” slammed the computer shut and tried not to throw up. Not long after, a very dear friend sent me a text to say she saw my post and my blog, and she loved them. I bawled. It was an uncontrollable expression of gratitude and relief, and a release of the fear I’d been holding onto about being vulnerable and looking stupid. For me, making that public post was the equivalent of standing in front of a large class — the world’s population — and being the centre of attention, and hating it. 

In reality, maybe a hundred people saw me standing there. And you know what? They flooded my feed with kind words and supportive emojis. Allowing myself to attract attention — more importantly, not allowing myself to shy away — was worth it. It’s reopened conversations with old friends and started new ones with potential clients that wouldn’t have happened if I’d followed my fears.

I don’t know what scary, rewarding thing I’ll do next, but I can tell you what it won’t be. Karaoke.

He snorted at his own remark as he pushed the TV tray with the laptop away from him. Pressing down on the worn cushions with his meaty hands, he hoisted his large body off the couch with a grunt. Tired slippers carried his feet to the fridge. Without needing to look, he shoved his hand inside and reached around boxes of leftover takeout to retrieve the carton of milk. He opened it and sniffed the contents. Not fresh, not yet spoiled. He placed it on the cluttered countertop next to the kettle. 

With one hand he flicked on the kettle; with the other, he took a worn china cup down from the cupboard. All the dishes bore the same faded pattern. They were his mother’s, along with almost everything else in this house that was now his. 

Oh how she had fretted over her beloved Alfie. Such a smart boy. So confident. So friendless. Playdates would end in fights or tears, always because Alfie had said something mean. “It’s not my fault they’re stupid and nobody else would tell them,” he’d huff afterwards.

Whenever he called her stupid, she let it slide and forgave him. If she didn’t, who would love him? And love him she did, right up until the frigid February morning when she ran after the garbage truck with a bag that Alfie had neglected to put out the night before. The driver never saw her in his rear view mirror as the bottoms of her slippered feet went skyward and her head struck the icy concrete with a sickening smack. She was dead before she could let go of the bag. At her funeral, a dry-eyed Alfie leaned over her body in the coffin and hissed, “How could you be so stupid?”

While he stirred the sugar and milk in his tea, Alfie looked out the kitchen window. His bored expression gave no indication that his gaze had landed upon the spot where his mother had taken her deadly spill four years ago.

He shuffled back to the living room, carrying his tea and a box of biscuits. He laid his cup on a side table next to a book of New York Times crosswords. Tea sloshed over the lip of the cup, shaken by his flopping down into his spot on the couch. He dragged the TV tray back into position and awoke the laptop with a tap of the space bar.

“Jeopardy” was playing on the television, and Alfie barked out the correct responses to every clue without even giving it his full attention. While the game played on, he continued his scroll through Facebook. He had few friends: some distant cousins he’d never met, a couple of coworkers at the library where he’d worked for 23 years, his barber and his mechanic. He’d had this account for years, but had yet to post a status update. He had nothing to share about his life – but he had lots to say about the lives of others. 

An ad popped up in his feed. A company called Skint Scribbler offered editing services. The ad featured a colloquial definition of the word skint, as a way of introduction. “Skint: slang from Twillingate, Newfoundland and Labrador. Meaning: awesome, excellent, good.”

Alfie harrumphed. His fingers slapped the keys as he composed a response to the ad. “Wrong! That’s not what skint means.” With a click, his judgement was delivered straight into the company inbox. Alphie dunked a biscuit in his tea and nibbled on its softened edge. Dunk and repeat, dunk and repeat, until the cookie was no more.

A notification appeared. As expected, his message had prompted a speedy, friendly response in defence of this particular use of the word. Also as expected, this spurred another condescending reply from Alfie, followed by another polite counterpoint from Skint Scribbler. As the back-and-forth continued, Alfie was unyielding in his opinion. His opponent faced a winless war and forfeited the fight. She let him have the last word.

Did he change her mind? Was she repentant? No. She turned her foe into fodder, her challenger into a muse, for her next short story. Then she posted it on Facebook. 🙂