Life does not come neatly packaged in plots. This is one of the many, many reasons it's so hard to be a writer. Not only do you have to write but you also have to figure stories out – who wants what and why, who did what, and then – what does it all mean. 

Sometimes it helps to be given some clues to get started, so I'm going to give you the bones of a story that started in my own backyard so to speak. I live next door to an urban beach parking lot which has been the scene of a number of dramatic incidents (the time a guy drove his truck on to the sand drugged/high and then tried to attack two cops who came to check him out which resulted in the entire Santa Monica police force filling the parking lot four minutes later, a palm tree set on fire, a few couples using their cars as bedrooms, the tent lady who fed the sea gulls, not to mention all the weddings that take place on the sand, etc.)

But here's what happened last Sunday. I was reading up in my bedroom and I heard some people fighting right below my window. I looked out and it was a young couple in a car both flinging the F-word at each other. This is not unusual in my parking lot. But I watched for awhile to make sure no one was getting violent, and then I went back to my book (1Q84 by Harucki Murakami which is riveting) and forgot about them. About fifteen minutes later I looked out the window and there were three police cars and the man was being held against one car by a cop, and the woman – wearing terrific looking boots – was talking to another cop.  What had happened?  Did she call 911 from the car? Was she a girlfriend? Wife? Hooker? Had he threatened her? How did their fight escalate to the point of calling the cops so quietly and quickly?

Then everybody drove off – he in one police car and she in another. 

Their red Lexus is still in the parking lot two days later with the sun roof open. And here's the detail that could spark a story about this couple: in the car on the dashboard there's a single wilting red rose.