Waiting for inspiration
I suffer from chronic writer’s block. Though no longer deadly thanks to modern science, this disease is very problematic, especially since I’m a creative writing major.
Basically, writer’s block prevents me from writing until I’ve “received inspiration.” Not inspiration as in visions of fiery chariots or handwriting on the wall, but the kind where I have that “AHA!” moment, when all the randomly shaped puzzle pieces floating in my head come together. Things start falling into place and words appear on the page.
However, my inspiration generally takes its good old time. I try to get it working in advance, but it seems to cooperate only when it is under pressure.
I try to coax my inspiration out from its hiding place. The process usually looks something like this:
After realizing my paper is due very soon, I lock myself in my room with a bag of Oreos and some paper. I assume the pose of The Thinker, resting my head on my hand. I’m hoping that if it worked for him, it will work for me.
I wake up an hour later—all the Oreos are gone and my paper is covered in a splattering of scribbles and crumbs. It reminds me of a piece of modern art. I search “modern art” on Google but quickly get bored. While online, I check the sports and world news.
I look at the clock and decide to open a Word document. The blank canvas stares at me, daring me to dump a gallon of inspiration on it. I stare back at the blank screen for a while, trying to force some thoughts on the screen. C’mon, inspiration, you can do it.
Something comes to me. I type my name. And stop.
Again, I’m hungry; my subconscious has been working up quite the appetite. I eat a quick dinner and head back to my room. The Word document is still blank. I chew a piece of gum and type a series of random keystrokes, hoping my inspiration will be able to decipher it into something meaningful. Unfortunately, spell check goes crazy and crashes my computer. Frustrated, I head to the shower.
I hope that the warm water will help my inspiration grow. I contemplate my life’s experiences, and it seems the warm cascading water is the solution. Like Archimedes in his infamous tub, I shout “Eureka!”—a little too loudly apparently—it’s quiet hour still. I tell my RA to pardon my Greek. I run to my room, dripping with inspiration, hoping to get these thoughts onto a page.
I should take showers more often, I think, typing away. Instead, I decide to keep my hot pot ready on the shelf above my head, for an inspiration boost. My jumbled typing splashes on the screen, washing away the writer’s block. My inspiration becomes a reality.
I step back, admiring my work. I realize that the jigsaw puzzle pieces have been there the whole time; but to make them mean something, I just had to get started and take them out of the box.
