Sometimes I think of the damndest things.
Monday morning, I was sitting at a stoplight, on my way to work, and an image of a suitcase came into my mind. The suitcase was one of those old, battered, brown cases with the straps and locks, cast away or maybe just lost, lying on the side of the road.
I my mind's eye, I'm stretching out a finger to touch the lock, to caress the old leather. Ah...it's unlocked! I could open it right now, see what's inside, feel its history. My pulse skips a little bit.
Would I? Should I? What would you do?
How do you relate this to your writing? What treasures are we missing because we don't open the trove lying at the side of the road?