getting inspiredPosted: June 30, 2010
More often than once, I’ve been struck with what those artsy types call inspiration and what the particularly dorky ones call “a gift from the Muses” under some very specific conditions. To alleviate the mountains of angst and neuroses that are characteristic of someone my age, I listen to music that’s written to be identifiable to everyone that’s ever been through anything remotely shitty that the universe tends to throw at them. These melodies are funneled into my ears through the power of electromagnets and sound waves at volumes that proceed to become uncomfortable. At the point when the discomfort turns unbearable, I look to one of the clocks scattered throughout my surroundings, either my much-abused cellular telephone, the bottom right corner of my laptop computer or the one on my wall. It is then I find out that it’s freakishly late. So, I decide to do the thing that normal people do.
I take a shower at three in the morning.
This is usually when I disregard any disturbance I’m causing by keeping up with my personal hygiene at such stupid hours of the night, jump under the stream of lukewarm to freakishly hot water (the temperature depends on my finesse with the shiny metal marked “H” and “C”) and start to go about the mildly efficient process that I always go about. My mind, bereft of figuring out what to wash at which moment, usually starts rattling around the lyrics that I was listening to minutes earlier. After washing off the shampoo, but not the soap, there is a line of the English language that suddenly slides into the front of my conscious thought. Some earth-shaking, utterly insightful revelation. Something that someone could have said to someone else when they’re hopelessly falling apart. Something I wasn’t thinking about at all.
This always poses a bit of a problem.
A lot of people write because they think it’ll get them famous. Others because they need to find someplace to put those observations they’ve made or share those experiences that they managed to get thrown at them. More often than not, it’s because they’ve been feeling some degree of ridiculously awful and need to find a way to complain. I’ve probably written because of all of these reasons, often drifting from one to the other and not really putting any sort of real effort into figuring out why I started to put out my thoughts on life and love with the English word when it’s spoken that much in the country where I was born. All I really know for certain is that because of all of this inanity that I’ve been writing for this collection of prose, every time I’m struck with some degree of inspiration, often when taking showers, the possibility of jumping out with soap suds still on random areas of my body and a hastily applied towel so that I can write something down stays in my head longer than most.
If that makes me a writer, then hey. If it makes me an idiot, then I already knew that about myself.