I read Shannon Hale's The Goose Girl several years ago and loved it. Such a great story.
Eventually I was able to convince my husband to find the time to read it as well.
One day, he left it on the bathroom window seat and I started reminiscing about how great I thought the story was, and how I just love good, old-fashioned fairytales.
As I showered, I thought about a popular fairytale and how it always had strange gaping holes to me. Then my imagination began to fill in those holes in ways that I had never seen done before.
The muse had struck.
(Apparently my muse is violent)
I had never had the inclination to write an entire novel before. Short stories at times, yes. Entire novel? No, that was my husband's weird hobby.
But before I knew it I was writing chapters and reading writing books. I had the bug.
All because someone left The Goose Girl on the window seat.