We long for it to be. We believe there is a pearl of great price, whatever other merchants have told us.
We hear the story of Harry Potter, walking fully fledged into the imagination of the author, and take our own train journeys, on the look out for a lone character thumbing a lift.
We remember how In Xanadu came to the poet as a dream – and remained unfinished because he was woken from the dream. (We make a mental note not to induce the dream in the same way, but maybe contemplate a less digestible evening snack to hasten things along.)
Here’s the thing. Inspiration is not at all guaranteed. But we want to find the tricks that will guarantee it. That will turn the item of sanitary ware into a work of art. For definite.
The more I read of authors writing about their craft, the more it seems that they are saying “Ignore the chase after inspiration. Write. Write. Write some more. Get better.”
I see their point. I’ve hung around and waited for blog 3.0 to reveal itself. The Big Idea.
The Next Step. And eventually, I decided to listen, and start writing again.
And yet. Ideas do come to us. It may be more about ideas combining, giving us something new to think about. One of those things that is becoming more highly prized in this age of abundant information – it’s not about the knowing so much as the putting together.
There is a certain feeling when we find something that causes us to put pen to paper – or flex the typing fingers. And it can feel rather like those found items – or even those Moments that I seem to be finding in more and more places.
Are they one and the same? I don’t know. The frisson, the excitement of finding them, that feels the same. Though the moments seem to be more about rooting ourselves in the here and now, while the inspiration is often about running for the hills, chasing a particularly magnificent stag.
We have no idea if we will catch it or not. And if we do, as stories often demand, the stag may turn out to be something else entirely.
But in those brief seconds, the light is glancing off the flanks of the stag, circling the antlers.
We are completely certain of what we are to be doing, and what we are pursuing, and the excitement of both.
I do know that we long to be interrupted from the everyday. Either to believe in the impossible, the magical, or to see elements of it, dotted through our regular patterns and surroundings.
Even better, when the inspiration or the moment captures our heart, we bring the spark of it into everyday life. We fan the flame a little brighter for a while.
And I would still rather warm my hands, even for a little while, than expect the fire to disappear, or worse, not realise its potential in the first place.