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Where Do Ideas Come From?
In my freshman year of college, Joyce Carol Oates came to campus to give the big fancy guest lecture of the year. I had discovered her novels in my last year of high school, and already read 10 or so by the time I got to college. I loved Joyce Carol Oates.
I told everyone who would listen how much I loved Joyce Carol Oates, so much so that word got back to the head of the English Department and I was invited to interview her for the school paper and accompany him as he drove Joyce Carol Oates around town. (Lesson: don’t hide your desires.)
Every bookstore I went to, every thrift store that had a book department, every library, I went to the shelf with her books and just stared.
So. Many. Books.
At the big fancy lecture, I absolutely latched onto every word she said. I was near tears the whole time. There she was. Small stature, curly hair, brocade jacket and sensible heels. Standing there and talking about writing. I was transfixed, transformed.
I did something completely out of character for me: I went to one of the microphones in the aisle of the big fancy auditorium and asked her a question. In front of thousands of people. (Okay, hundreds of people. But, really, what does that difference matter to a true introvert?)