Back in the late 73s, I was stuck in traffic on my way to Los Angeles International Airport to catch a PSA jet to San Diego to attend a trade show. Even then, “rush” hour traffic ran generally twenty-four hours a day. I finally pulled into a parking lot, grabbed my carry-on, and ran through the terminal toward my gate. Mind you, this was well before TSA stopped everyone. This was when you went from curbside to the gate directly. I arrived at my gate, panting and sweaty, to see my flight still there but the jetway had been pulled back. No way was I going to get on board.

I grouched my way to a seat and settled down to wait for the next plane, which I think was supposed to leave in an hour or so. I paid scant attention to the news channel droning on, preferring to read my book. I even grabbed a coffee to help fill the time. The arrival board said my connecting flight would land in fifteen minutes, giving me time for a quick trip to the ladies’ to freshen up. When I returned to the terminal, the atmosphere had changed. I remember noting the television was off and the arrival/departure board was dark. Gate attendants had long faces. They wouldn’t answer any questions.

Finally, an official from the airline led all of the departing passengers and family members meeting the inbound flight from San Diego. The flight I was supposed to take had been involved in a mid-air accident. I didn’t wait to hear anything else, opting instead to call my boss from a pay phone to let him know I was all right and heading home.

I got out of bed a day later and thought about my close call. I vowed never again to run for a plane. I’ve kept that promise.

Why do I write about this? Because fate and memory have a way of working their way into my novels. I hadn’t thought about that incident in decades until I found myself writing a similar scene in my latest work-in-progress. Agent Ma and his daughter Maggie Rose (age five) were traveling from San Francisco to Roanoke, with a plane change at Dulles International. The San Francisco flight had taken off late, and father and daughter had less than half an hour to dash between terminals for the connecting flight.

Halfway through the dash, my fingers froze on the keyboard. Emotions from that long ago day erupted. I trembled and wondered how much I would be able to use in the story. As it turned out, very little, but what I did use rang true because of my own near miss.

I bet if you ask a dozen writers you’ll find they all use events from their own lives to make their prose come to life. Even if you write about aliens and if you ever were frightened by the film Alien when a creature bursts through an astronaut’s chest, you can tap into that emotion and use it to your advantage. Or you remember your first kiss and use that exploratory excitement in a love scene. Maybe you loved horses as a child but had a father who wouldn’t let you ride because he was afraid you’d get hurt. You can turn that disappointment into a powerful scene having nothing to do with parents or horses,

Writers store emotions, snatches of something physical that catches their eye, memories of friends. We are traveling hoarders of stuff that may or may not find its way onto the page.

I stored a name. Back in the dark ages when rock was king, my college roommate had a boyfriend her parents didn’t like. He was Chinese-American. I loved his name, so Sa-li Ma became DEA Agent Sa-li Ma and single father to Maggie Rose, the five-year-old mentioned above.

Funny how things stick in our minds. I wonder what I’ll dig up next.