Back to Inspiration Point

I did visit the Pen Show yesterday, and came home with all sorts of advice on pen care (and a couple new pens, of course..more on that later) and so, I started the morning unearthing my pens and cleaning the fountain pens, as they truly suffer when they are allowed to dry out (which I inevitably allow them to do.) About an hour (and several ink-stained fingers and towels) later, I had several spanking-clean fountain pens ready to fill and use. One of my favorites--the retractable Namiki fountain pen--actually had a few spare cartridges in the pen box, so I loaded it up and proceeded to write inanities repeatedly on a piece of paper until the ink started flowing freely and all the water had been purged from the mechanism.

It is only a matter of time, believe me, before anyone of a certain age, writing repetitious phrases, lapses into the tried and true "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country." Or "party", if you prefer that version. Just take a look at all the test writing pages at the pen show. If you're trying out a pen, and lack the ego to write your name repeatedly, the old typewriter exercise is one of the first things that comes to mind. I saw a lot of it yesterday. Obviously, I am no exception, as that is what I started writing to exercise my rediscovered pen. "Now is the time...now is the time..."

One school of writing says that, if you are stumped for how to start, or don't know what to write about, the best thing is to just sit down and start writing anything; that if you do this free writing every day, you WILL come up with something. I have never believed it. It always seemed to me to put an awful lot of faith in your subconscious, and even smacked a little of 'automatic writing' and a sort of spiritualistic belief.

However, this morning as I wrote and rewrote the old saw, completely as well as in bits and pieces, the rhythm of the words started battering on my brain. Before too long, I had the beginnings of a poem (see below) and have now determined that I can keep my pens in working order, be inspired, and impose some much-needed discipline on my writing efforts by simply sitting down each morning and copying bromides (or quotations) by hand for a half hour. It's at least a start. Who knows? Maybe even my handwriting will improve...

BTW--I found an 'antique pen'--an old blue marbleized Esterbrook fountain pen, identical to the one with which I learned to write in cursive in third grade. I also spoke with the designer of another pen, called Fat Boy (which I identified with for another, this time unfortunate, reason) and I bought a red Fat Boy Comet limited edition rollerball, which I love. It has such a serious heft to it that I can't help but write more seriously and more weightily with it. And besides, did I mention that it's red? (pictured, top to bottom: the Esterbrook, the Comet, and my Namiki)

Typewriter Exercise

Now is the time.
We have waited so long, too long
in this wilderness of scandal,
of war, of intrigue, of the sly and sleazy,
Now is the time
For all good men
(All of us, good men
and women, young and old,
black and white and in between)
to come together, to come forward,
to stand in the light
of our own good conscience,
To come to the aid
of those in need, who have no defense, no hope but us,
who trust in the strong and capable hands
Of our people, our dreamers, our do-ers,
Who trust in the hope, the faith, the courage
Of our country:

one country, under God, indivisible,

with liberty and justice for all.

Now is the time.

New Socks

I have a tendency (okay, a compulsion) to browse when I'm anywhere that has shops, and the more unusual, the better. Today I was at Tyson's Corner--an unlikely place for an epiphany, and as I browsed through the shops, I realized that I was wallowing in, if not the slough of despond, at least the slough of ennui.

I've discovered that I'm prone to that sort of thing. I had been getting less and less enthusiastic about cooking over the past year and was of late seizing any excuse not to, no matter how tenuous the pretext. On our return from our visit to Tucson, however--where my job had been to prepare meals every day for a week --I found that I'd experienced a renaissance of interest--purely from doing that. All at once, it wasn't a chore anymore. I started looking for new recipes, shopping for ingredients, figuring out how things fit together...It was fun again.

The same thing applies to writing. It's really easy to fall off the wagon and not write one day. Unfortunately, that 'one day' starts multiplying, until the writing becomes a distant chore that you don't enjoy anymore. My brain bogs down in an empty hole; I'm not thinking anything new and it shows in my work.

Now you may be wondering where all this circumlocution is leading, and how it connects to Tyson's Corner. My epiphany was that I found a book in my browsing. It was a children's book, called "New Socks", and it's a writing manual. Not really, but it is as much of a writing how-to as any other book in Barnes & Noble's labyrinthine stacks. It relates the experience and excitement of a little chick (maybe a duck--it was yellow and had a beak) who has a new pair of socks. Hardly "War and Peace"-- or even Strunk & White.

However, as I paged through the book (I DO like children's books, particularly if I can put an adult spin on them) I started thinking again of Billy Collins and his Looney Tunes inspiration. If we're going to write, we need to foster that same kind of excitement, that same kind of wide-eyed "Wow!" with which children (and chicks) view their world. We've got to let our worldview be upended and enhanced by things as simple as a pair of new socks, or as complex as a presidential election. Sitting in front of my laptop doesn't make me a writer--at least not a writer with anything to say. Getting out in the world and tasting it, seeing new things and embracing them, thinking about something in a new way and writing about it: that's what gives me a reason--and a responsibility--to put my work out there for others to see.

All I needed was a pair of new socks. Read the book.

Poetic Inspiration

This weekend I read one of the more true-to-life (at least true to MY life) commentaries on poetic inspiration I've ever read. In the weekend edition of The Wall Street Journal, Billy Collins (former U.S. Poet Laureate and down-to-earth poet extraordinaire) attacked the question of inspiration and, after acknowledging the knee-jerk reaction answers given by most writers, attempted to provide a more truthful alternative: one that rang especially true for me. By all means, find the article and read it if you can--or email me for the copy I made of it.

The fact is that inspiration doesn't necessarily come in wispy packages of cloud, or in the works of great poets or art. For anyone seeking their muse, it might prove more useful to get out in the world and pay attention to what's going on there than to closet yourself in your low-rent garret and wait for inspiration to find you. Anything that serves to take you out of yourself, beyond the box of everyday living, everyday possibility, is a source of inspiration. Whether that vehicle is the Looney Tunes cartoons of Billy Collins' youth or a wild idea that hits you upside the head while you're driving to work...don't question the source. Just make the most of it. The real road to inspiration lies in paying attention.