When I look out my back window and stare at those beautifully twisted, scraggly, and wretchedly ugly knobby old oak trees - I pretend they just go on and on forever. Then I consider what kinds of wonderfully sinister things those old trees might be up to out there, deep in the woods where brave souls dare not tread.
And that, my friends, is where some of my story ideas come from.
If I can see houses past the trees, what's left of them after they're done tearing my beautifully wicked looking old oaks out, that will all be ruined for me. I'll have to find a new muse.
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