Where Stories Come From

This is not a fable, a myth, or a lie.

After my third keyboard died in four months, I wrote "One Way or Return?" (these facts are probably not very closely related, even in our interwoven universe, the fabric of which is all one piece. However, Mike read that story and wrote to me:
I want to reread it - there is a lot there in such a simple presentation. You just bang these things out? No wonder your keyboard needed replacement.

And I answered:
Hmmm. I do and I don't. That is, I usually wake up with the first line of whatever it is sitting on my pillow, nose to my nose, waiting for me to open my eyes, like one of my cats. And, like the cats, if I don't acknowledge their presence right away, they reach out a soft paw, place it gently on my cheek, and flex it until the claws just touch my skin - just so that I understand that there is some urgency even though they are being very patient.
Then I get up and feed the computer - no - feed the cats while the computer is warming up (not quite awake yet), and I write that first line. While I write the first sentence, the second one starts hopping up and down on my shoulder, saying, "Yeah, yeah!" And it just goes from there.

So now you know where these things come from...

I feel I can talk about them as if they were not mine, because they apparently come out of the feathers in my pillow. Or perhaps they are born of shed cat fur, which also is usually plentiful on my pillow. This might also explain why so many writers share homes with cats. Or perhaps they are born in the back of my brain and only pretend to be on my pillow so I won't worry quite so much about my sanity.

In fact, I really don't know where they come from. Your guess is as good as mine.