The color photo on the social page shows a couple walking into a gala. She is strikingly lovely, with long hair and a sophisticated evening gown. Her hand is looped gently around his elbow. He’s tall, with a tanned face, the hint of jowls on the way into being, a relaxed grin, and a classic tux.

I know them, although not well. I know a little of their histories, their courtship, and their good fortune. Our paths haven’t crossed in years, however, so I don’t know much about how they’re doing these days except that they are still married and on the social A Lists in a handful of major cities. Still, I can recall each of them before they married, recall the intensity with which other women pursued him, and the lively personality with which she won him.

Their story, only bits and pieces of which I know, is morphing into my fiction. For my purposes, I need to answer questions about the make-believe characters I’ve created: Is she secretly shy? Is he afraid she was marrying him for his money? Did she take riding lessons in secret so she could impress his friends? Is he prideful? Do they love each other?

I’m interested in the fictional answers about the fictional characters I’ve created from this photo and my memories. That’s what a writer does, takes the thinnest wisp of something real and spins it into a series of “what ifs” that don’t depend on facts to be intriguing.

Cornelia Read, the shockingly good author of A FIELD OF DARKNESS, THE CRAZY SCHOOL, and the new INVISIBLE BOY, said something recently over dinner that stuck with me. Writers, she said, may have been children who weren’t listened to. As a result, they have a need to tell their stories and they have a strong desire for justice.

Cornelia writes about her own history, only moderately disguised as fiction. She says there really are homicidal cousins and dangerous private school students in her past. Hear her talk and you’ll understand the passion for truth and justice, for protecting children and the vulnerable among us, and for exposing evildoers that rings in her work.

When she made that comment about writers as unheard children, it resonated with me. Remember when you were a ten year-old and your best friend in school was bullied at lunchtime and the teacher didn’t want to hear about it? You probably fumed, “It’s not fair.” And when you were twelve and your parents had a yelling argument and you were frustrated beyond reason that you couldn’t get them to stop?

How about when you turned fifteen and that handsome guy in the senior class took you for a ride in his car and tried to get his hands inside your bra, frightening you badly before giving up and dropping you back at school – or not, if your experience was more traumatic?

As an adult writer, you can go back and rewrite the creeps, the heroes, the victims and – this time – make it come out right. At least, that’s how I interpret Cornelia’s observation about one reason we write.

I loved “Crazy Heart” with its wasted, but still sexy lead character played by Jeff Bridges. Even though country music was more my beloved Tim’s kind of music than mine, I bought the sound track. I’ve been listening to it as I work, soaking in the sad, worn down themes of the melodies and words. I’ve played “The Weary Kind,” sung by Ryan Bingham, about 20 times this morning – something nestled into the quiet lyric is speaking to me big time.

It goes way beyond the movie characters and plot. It stirs something more personal in me, and I can’t quite grab it. Is it the sound track to a memory? To someone I once knew? Is this part of my story? Tim’s face is in front of me and my vision’s blurring. Why is that?

Where do fiction writers get their inspiration? For me, music is major. It never works as background for me, though. String quartets, African pop, Italian opera, or Irish ballads – as long as they’re the best of their kind – conjure up memories, dreams, desires, sadness or joy.

Sometimes, the music shows me something about a character I’m writing. Other times, it lets me go deeper into my own emotions, and that translates into a bit of sharper or softer dialogue, a better understanding of my protagonist’s vulnerability, or high good humor.

Right now, Ryan Bingham’s voice, rough-edged with regret, has dug its way into my heart. Where will it lead my writing? I don’t know. I’m only along for the ride today.

So, where do fiction writers get their ideas?

Recently, I wrote a short guest blog on Georgiana, the 18^th century Duchess of Devonshire and the subject of a splendid biography by Amanda Foreman. (http://normblog.typepad.com/normblog/2010/01/writers-choice-242-susan-c-shea.html)

Georgiana, perhaps the richest and certainly the most admired woman in England at the time, was a full-throated drama queen. Love affairs, affairs of state (the King’s ambitious and flamboyant eldest son was among her closest friends), out-of-control gambling…She gave up an out-of-wedlock love child born long into her marriage, raised one of her husband’s, had to co-exist with his live-in mistress, who was – honest, I couldn’t make this stuff up – her former best friend. Nasty.

She wasn’t considered a great beauty, but was universally accepted as the greatest fashionista of the day. Women jostled each other at society balls to check out her hats, the cut and fabric of her gowns, her hair styles. She gambled compulsively, owed vast sums of money as a result, and defied the mores of the times by campaigning for Whig party candidates as no woman had done before.

You may know Georgiana as she was played by Keira Knightley in The Duchess (2008).  You may remember the period in British history from the film, The Madness of King George (1994), which included a stellar performance by Helen Mirren as the queen (no, not that queen). But if you’ve read Jane Austen, you’ve also had a fictional glance at Georgiana, or at least her kind, in the unflattering sketches of the society crowds at Bath.

And that’s my point: One way fiction writers find ideas is by looking at history.