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Inspiration, story ideas - they're all around us, in everything that we see and hear, think and do, every day of our lives. But sometimes a particular story needs more specific inspiration, as well as hard research, and that's one of the reasons I'm travelling in France now. In the ancient towns of Marseilles, Avignon, Nimes, etc, I've found details that add to the world I'm creating and have  imagined myself into the atmosphere of those very different times. But true inspiration usually comes accidentally, and that's how it's been this time. The day that we decided we needed a break from history and ruins, and headed off to tour a cave outside Avignon, was the magical day for me.

Arriving at the caves at 12:00, just as they shut for two hours, we decided to head to the nearest village for lunch. Isle de Sorgue was perfect, charming and historic, exactly what you might imagine for a holiday in Provence. The sun was shining and suddenly the thought of returning to tour a cave with the six classes of kindergartners who'd been picnicking at the entrance, seemed less appealing. We continued on to Saumonne, a village and chateau built of rock, often into the side of the cliff. It was the key I'd been looking for; I felt almost weak with relief. I would have been happy enough to have simply headed home then, but La Fontaine de Sorgue was nearby, so we headed there. We visited the church, first founded in ( I think) the 5th century, rebuilt in 12th or 13th, and still used as the parish church now. Of all the magnificent cathedrals and basilica we've visited, we found this the most moving and spiritual.

Then, passing the myriad ice cream and souvenir stalls lining the walkway, we walked up to La Fontaine, the source. There was a barrier at the end, with a sign saying extreme danger but not actually forbidding you to climb over it, as quite a few people were doing, so we did. A short scramble later, we came to one of the most magical places I have ever seen. Clear, deep blue water  welled up from underground chasms deep under the white cliffs. It didn't take much imagination to  guess that it must have been a sacred place from the time people first saw it, or to imagine what it must feel like on days that weren't bright with spring sunshine. And to womder at the stories it must have seen...

So often story ideas can come from the smallest things in daily life, the emotions we all know, and no story is complete without those factors. But sometimes there's magic too, the catch of the breath that marks the sudden gift of inspiration.

At this point I was going to add some glorious pictures, but unfortunately can't seem to do it from my iPad. I will post some on my facebook page: Wendy Orr Author, if you want to see.

Gillian Pollack had the great idea of celebrating Women's History Month on her blog. Some of her writers stuck to the topic a bit better than I did, so have a look at the series. There is actually a link to history in mine, but since I'm not ready to share the new idea, you won't see it... Anyway, this is what was in my heart as I wrote.

gillpolack: Women's History Month: Wendy Orr


My first guest I met through another Wendy - Wendy Dunn - when Wendy Dunn invited us both to be guests at an online writing festival for schoolchildren. Jodie Foster had just been signed to appear in the film of her book, so I was prepared to be intimidated. Wendy Orr is not intimidating, it turns out. She is, however, exceptionally interesting.

There ought to be a word for the time between finishing one manuscript and starting another. (I mean apart from ‘relief’ and ‘now I really do need to get around to all those other jobs I’ve been putting off for the last year’ – which may also be the best incentive for starting a new book.)

Of course each time is different, but this time sending off the fourth book in my upcoming Rainbow Street Animal Shelter series (for the in USA), coincided with the publication of Raven’s Mountain, my new middle grade novel in Australia. (By the way, I hate the term middle grade novel: it always makes the book sound as if it got a C grade. Must get over that.) But the timing means that I’m determined to take a couple of weeks off, not just for catching up on fan mail and accountant queries, and the perennial post-deadline task of trying to find my desk, but for reflection. And not just reflection for the purposes of interviews on the new book – because honestly, who doesn’t enjoy insightful questions that help trace our pathway through a newly completed work? This writing hiatus is a time for true reflection, on why I write, and why I write what I do, and then that sudden gift of inspiration which makes everything else fade into the background, as I get the first glimpse of what I want to write next.

Well, that’s the theory, but in the middle of my tai chi class last week, I suddenly felt the beginnings of a new book. Since finishing the last proofs for Raven, last October, I’ve been playing with the idea of returning to a world that I’d created twenty years ago, when I first started writing and was still searching for my voice. I have no desire to go back to the mammoth adult manuscript that I wrote then, but the world itself is still alive for me. Travelling to India in November, for the Bookaroo Children’s Literature Festival, somehow confirmed my desire to return to this world, although I didn’t think it had much in common with the India that I saw. And then, in that dreamy tai chi state, I heard new questions about the main character, suggesting that she is totally unlike anything I had expected, and had an image of the story idea floating in soap bubbles above my head, fragile and iridescent. The image moved me to tears. (Luckily everyone else in my tai chi group is equally vague in the beginning, familiar sequences, so no one noticed that I was crying.)

The next day I saw what I thought was a small dragonfly hovering above our pond. The wings were exactly the same iridescent blue as my story idea bubbles, and I felt I had to take it as a sign. When a twitter follower identified the insect as a damselfly, I knew that it was.

On the other hand, the fragile insect flying off into the distance could also be a sign that it’s time to let Raven go. I’ve lived with her for two and a half years, and it’s hard to remember that I created her as well as her mountain and all that happens to her. She is so real to me it feels as cruel as letting a flesh and blood eleven year old out into the world alone. But perhaps that damsel

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