Chapter 1: Blank Page
I sat staring at the screen for what felt like days, waiting for inspiration to hit me like an arrow to the heart or the catchy lyrics of a song. I blew my bangs from the front of my face and slumped in my chair, turning my head side to side so as to crack my neck. I had already done that exact routine six times in the last hour and couldn't help the sigh. I shook my head and leaned back, my fingers still poised on the keys. They were itching to type, everything. Anything. I just couldn't decide on anything to start with.
What is inspiration? I finally released onto the keys. The moment of decision being more of an impulse than an actual decision. What inspires me?
I stared at the blinking line on the screen, you know, the one that seemingly spits out the words from inside your brain onto the page, and became frustrated with it. I almost wished it would just spit out everything going on in my brain so that I didn't have sift through the array of to-do lists, personal rebukes, and rabbit trails of story lines that were competing for my attention.
Things. I answered my earlier question, giving it too line breaks of space between the first two questions. Things inspire me.
I decided finally that enough was enough and to just let it all spill onto the page. Maybe if I just wrote, something would come to its senses out of my nonsense. It was worth a try at least right?
"Okay," I sighed. "Here it goes."
It seems like such a vague answer to give and not like one an aspiring writer should accept as answer because...we're all supposed to be poetic in some way right? Whether it be with vivid details or spare and poignant truths, the quality of prose should always factor into every form of communication between a writer and the world.
But as is stands that's all I can really give in a nutshell. Things. Things inspire me. If I must expound then here: a LOT of different things inspire me and they aren't always the same all the time.
In fact, one day a blue bird singing outside my window can inspire a poem while the next it can only inspire me to shut the window. See? It's all relative.
Sure you can argue it's still "inspiration" but really then, that's just a trick of the language. You're dealing with some intense assertions similar to that of Jacques Derrida whom, trust me, you do not want to assert lightly without knowing what he's claiming (that is if you can figure it out).
What is inspiration? What inspires me?
My family inspires me all the time. They are one of the few "things" that refuse to switch out of my inspiration box. My family and their dedication to their work, their ministry, each other. My family inspires me to be more than I am, which, when I think about it is less like me and more like Christ.
My friends inspire me in the same way. Only they inspire me to believe in myself. They remind me of how God made me the way I am for a purpose. They inspire me to continually search for that purpose.
Art inspires me. All forms of art whether it be dance or acting or music. Art inspires me by motivating me. I want my mark to be on this world just like all that art has marked itself in my world.
Lastly, firstly, totally...God inspires me.
God inspires me in a different sense of the word. J.L. Austin talks about "performative utterances" when you speak and actually fulfill an action in speaking. God does that for me. He actually inspires me. He moves me. He doesn't just "cause" me to move. He moves me.
And I think, with that reality, the reality that God has that kind of power to fulfill something in me, with me, for me, I am inspired to never stop.
Looking down at the screen I read over the words that had spilled out of me. Stopping at times to click between the lines and move to change something. To make it more poetic. More poignant. More spare. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't change the truth. And how do you embellish the truth without skewing it just a little?
So stopped and sat back. Reading the words, knowing that they weren't perfect, they weren't going to be everyone's cup of tea. But knowing they were mine and regardless of the fact that I knew I could be more poetic, more..."writer-like". I couldn't be more me.
So with one more sigh, I pulled back, saved the doc and closed the screen, swiveling around in my chair to look out the window.
A blue bird sat perched on the branch just outside, silent and watching me while I waited for it to sing.
What is inspiration? I finally released onto the keys. The moment of decision being more of an impulse than an actual decision. What inspires me?
I stared at the blinking line on the screen, you know, the one that seemingly spits out the words from inside your brain onto the page, and became frustrated with it. I almost wished it would just spit out everything going on in my brain so that I didn't have sift through the array of to-do lists, personal rebukes, and rabbit trails of story lines that were competing for my attention.
Things. I answered my earlier question, giving it too line breaks of space between the first two questions. Things inspire me.
I decided finally that enough was enough and to just let it all spill onto the page. Maybe if I just wrote, something would come to its senses out of my nonsense. It was worth a try at least right?
"Okay," I sighed. "Here it goes."
It seems like such a vague answer to give and not like one an aspiring writer should accept as answer because...we're all supposed to be poetic in some way right? Whether it be with vivid details or spare and poignant truths, the quality of prose should always factor into every form of communication between a writer and the world.
But as is stands that's all I can really give in a nutshell. Things. Things inspire me. If I must expound then here: a LOT of different things inspire me and they aren't always the same all the time.
In fact, one day a blue bird singing outside my window can inspire a poem while the next it can only inspire me to shut the window. See? It's all relative.
Sure you can argue it's still "inspiration" but really then, that's just a trick of the language. You're dealing with some intense assertions similar to that of Jacques Derrida whom, trust me, you do not want to assert lightly without knowing what he's claiming (that is if you can figure it out).
What is inspiration? What inspires me?
My family inspires me all the time. They are one of the few "things" that refuse to switch out of my inspiration box. My family and their dedication to their work, their ministry, each other. My family inspires me to be more than I am, which, when I think about it is less like me and more like Christ.
My friends inspire me in the same way. Only they inspire me to believe in myself. They remind me of how God made me the way I am for a purpose. They inspire me to continually search for that purpose.
Art inspires me. All forms of art whether it be dance or acting or music. Art inspires me by motivating me. I want my mark to be on this world just like all that art has marked itself in my world.
Lastly, firstly, totally...God inspires me.
God inspires me in a different sense of the word. J.L. Austin talks about "performative utterances" when you speak and actually fulfill an action in speaking. God does that for me. He actually inspires me. He moves me. He doesn't just "cause" me to move. He moves me.
And I think, with that reality, the reality that God has that kind of power to fulfill something in me, with me, for me, I am inspired to never stop.
Looking down at the screen I read over the words that had spilled out of me. Stopping at times to click between the lines and move to change something. To make it more poetic. More poignant. More spare. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't change the truth. And how do you embellish the truth without skewing it just a little?
So stopped and sat back. Reading the words, knowing that they weren't perfect, they weren't going to be everyone's cup of tea. But knowing they were mine and regardless of the fact that I knew I could be more poetic, more..."writer-like". I couldn't be more me.
So with one more sigh, I pulled back, saved the doc and closed the screen, swiveling around in my chair to look out the window.
A blue bird sat perched on the branch just outside, silent and watching me while I waited for it to sing.
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