Just as a newborn babe is a unique combination of heredity and environment connected with, but different from its parents, written works are too a unique combination derived from, but not limited to, the author's wisdom and cultural heritage.
The miracle of fiction happens when you believe in yourself, and believe in the thousands of years of traditions that reflect the human need to tell stories. You've probably heard talk about 'formulas' and thought, "I don't want to follow a formula. I want to write my own stories."
Genre conventions are forms not formulas. Form is a structure. The traditional storytelling structures are not meant to imprison, just hold them. Genre conventions are as flexible and powerful as the imagination.
Me, I like to delve into all written forms and often curl up with poetry, classic and modern. The succinct stories they tell expresses lofty thought or impassioned feeling delivered in imaginative words.
Like prose, poetry can start from any seed. The following poem is one that touched me.
Odd, how when abroad
We always slept the other way round.
You on my right
Or was I on your left?
Me the southpaw,
And you the dexterous logician
Protecting each other.
And in our own beds, it was always
You on the left or was I on your right?
An equal partnership of power
Secure at home.
Now I lie awake
And you sleep outside
Cold ashes under the stars
And, on lighter note, one of my own published works.
I heard a kookaburra this morning
In the heart of a bustling metropolis.
Stirred from that place between sleep and waking
Where fantasy and reality merge
I heard it ring loud and clear
Above the thrum of rubber on wet tarmac
And, the clack, clack of metal wheels on rails
Forming a ground base to its song.
Noisy bloody city husband mumbled
Muffled the sounds with his pillow.
Chalk and cheese we are.
Amidst the hustle and bustle in the waking city
I'm glad I heard that kookaburra’s song.