Inspiration

I have discovered something important: inspiration comes in small doses fairly frequently. I always thought inspiration was big, was always waiting for that lightning bolt to smack me on the head. But inspiration is little, mundane, and if you’re not watching for it, it can slip by you. Unfortunately, recognizing it is only part of it; then you have to record it.

Every time inspiration strikes you will tell yourself – That’s so cool. There’s no way I’ll forget something like that. But you will. You will. You will. You have to get it down somehow. This is the hardest part for me, because I am unforgivably, unapologetically lazy. My best ideas come in three places: cozy in bed on the edge of sleep, in the shower, and while driving. In each of these situations it is so easy to just brush the ideas off. I am not one to relinquish a cozy bed in the middle of the night (I would use a chamber pot if I could bring myself to). Nor am I the type to jump out mid-shower when the phone rings, much less when inspiration calls. Usually I have something in the proximity of the bed that I can use to take notes, because I know this about myself. If I am in the shower, I holler for Jason, and he (if I ask nicely) will bring pen and paper, and has even, on occasion, taken dictation while sitting on the toilet lid (God, I love that man. He gets me, he really does). If I am driving I have this little notebook that floats around my car, and if it’s a short thought, I will write it while I’m driving (with a pencil so there are no ink/gravity issues as I brace the notebook against the steering wheel). If its more than a few words, I will probably pull over.

Paradoxically, you only realize the importance of doing stuff like this after you do it for a while. Because these scraps are probably some of the coolest shit you will ever think up. If you don’t capture it, if you only write stuff that you’ve carefully constructed, you will miss all those brilliant flashes your mind is capable of. You will be recording your second-rate thoughts, the silver medals, the ones whose routines were technically flawless and aesthetically perfect. Not the gold medals, the difference being that spark, the charisma, the unexpected triple axel (ugh, I hate that I'm using an olympic ice skating metaphor, but there it is), the ballsy thoughts, the ones where you hang out over the edge, knowing that if you fall you’re going down hard. These are the ones.

The ones that you find a year later and read, not remembering or believing that they came out of your head. You accept the fact that it is your handwriting, it must belong to you, and you smile, proudly, foolishly, like a starry-eyed first-time parent. This is from me? I created it? Well, what do you know, it’s not bad (followed by another foolish smile). Finding these little scraps is one of the few ways that I surprise myself regularly.