The past few days, I’ve been at a loss for inspiration. Internet distraction and my sudden resolution to watch Friends front to back kept robbing me of time to write, time to reflect, and time to play music. Thus, I’ve fallen into the trap of what I like to call “having no time to write,” which is really “procrastinating for ideas.”
When I finally turn every electrical light off and sit down to write, nothing comes to mind. I forcibly try to word-vomit myself, but it feels just like that – vomiting. You know that nauseating feeling when you’re not nauseated enough to vomit but you try to make yourself gag and vomit because getting the poison out seems to be the only way to feel better? Yeah, that’s what writing these days has felt like.
Last night, I finally got so sick vomiting wasn’t solving anything. So I slammed my notebook, put down my pen, and picked up some T.S. Eliot.
Kids, when in doubt: look to the masters. I love T.S. Eliot, but until last night, I’d forgotten why I love T.S. Eliot and why I love poetry. Now, in no way can I form coherent phrasing to adequately express what T.S. Eliot is trying to say; I just get him. The simplicity and musicality of his voice, in all its “divisions and precisions,” transport me to a world where I can taste and see and hear and get things. And get inspired.
Writing is a car and reading is the fuel. When your tank is low, consider stopping by a bookshelf for a quick refuel.
My inspiration tank is still low, but since reading a writer I admire, its condition has drastically improved.