THE IDEA FACTORY

by Roberta Jean Bryant


For many years I drifted, unconscious to the idea factory between my ears. I thought I was not creative, nor interesting; just the lazy daydreamer some teachers had told me I was. I struggled to be a good wife and mother to justify my existence. I read widely enjoying the ideas of other people -- other people obviously smarter, more creative, and less lazy than I was. I secretly dreamed of being an author – not a writer, but an author – a writer of books.

In pursuit of this dream I signed up for a twice a week writing class -- in part because I desperately needed to get out of the house two nights a week. I loved listening to the teacher and the real writers in the class talk shop. I struggled against the tides of my fluctuating self-esteem to get a few words on paper that I could reluctantly drag to class – perhaps to be read aloud.

Within several years I began to be aware of the idea factory in my head which churned out way more ideas for stories and articles and books and Reader’s Digest anecdotes than I could possibly ever have time to develop. The idea factory was open 24/7; it ran three shifts – daytime, swing shift, and the insomnia special. The idea factory was an equal opportunity employer. Ideas ranged from first-rate to pure dreck; they included children’s Sunday school stories as well as the occasional x-rated scenario.

It took me several more years to learn a useful discrimination -- to be able to choose the ideas worthy of the hard work that writing entailed. As it turned out I was not particularly lazy, just a fairly incompetent housewife. Housework wasn’t interesting. Writing, as difficult as it was for me in those early years, was at least an interesting process.

I discovered that marketing the things that I wrote needed the development of a whole new skill set; necessary skills and challenging ones -- especially the public relations ones that entailed talking to agents and editors at writer’s conferences. I had started out as recluse and loner, seldom talking to grownups. The idea factory kept me busy with new approaches to persuasion and publicity. I achieved a certain level of what the world called success.

Busy decades passed. I semi-retired. The idea factory laid off personnel and almost closed. I drifted through a personal recession and a bankruptcy of ideas. I continued to drift. Depression said, “Who cares anyway?”

As it turned out I did. Although I had small hope of it working again, I joined a weekly writing class at the senior center.

The idea factory is open for business. And hiring.