Writing: 1,153 words
I once wrote that " inspiration is sometimes as much a result of perspiration as perspiration is a result of inspiration."
That was 17 June `2010, and for more than a year I perspired very little over this project, and that sort of proves my point. I waited for inspiration to strike, as if inspiration were a brilliant bolt of lightning that would come scorching down out of the firmament. Like it was an endowment so divine in nature that only the gods could create it, and only the gods could bestow it, and a meager writer like me had to wait and hope that Calliope would favor me with her blessing.
And I waited almost fourteen months. I wrote precious little. Then I discovered an unthinkably simple truth: that, unlike God, inspiration actually does help those who help themselves. I was wrong in June of last year. Inspiration is not sometimes the result of perspiration. It is always the result of perspiration. Inspiration is not the kindling that fuels the fire of productivity, but rather the reward that one earns from himself after seeing the results of his own labors.
Inspiration is the discovery of one's own potential. And it is the discovery that one's own potential lies within reach if one is willing to do the work required. Because literature is a work of art, not a sit-around-and-wait-for-the-mood-to-strike of art. I wrote 1,153 words tonight (495 of which came out of the bucket, but no matter), and I feel inspired. Not because the Muse has at long last chosen to grant me some ethereal gift, but because I sat down and I wrote the words that will tell the story I conceived.
I feel inspired by my own accomplishment.
In other news: I mowed and edged the lawn today. Someday I'll have enough room in the budget to outsource that particular task.
That was 17 June `2010, and for more than a year I perspired very little over this project, and that sort of proves my point. I waited for inspiration to strike, as if inspiration were a brilliant bolt of lightning that would come scorching down out of the firmament. Like it was an endowment so divine in nature that only the gods could create it, and only the gods could bestow it, and a meager writer like me had to wait and hope that Calliope would favor me with her blessing.
And I waited almost fourteen months. I wrote precious little. Then I discovered an unthinkably simple truth: that, unlike God, inspiration actually does help those who help themselves. I was wrong in June of last year. Inspiration is not sometimes the result of perspiration. It is always the result of perspiration. Inspiration is not the kindling that fuels the fire of productivity, but rather the reward that one earns from himself after seeing the results of his own labors.
Inspiration is the discovery of one's own potential. And it is the discovery that one's own potential lies within reach if one is willing to do the work required. Because literature is a work of art, not a sit-around-and-wait-for-the-mood-to-strike of art. I wrote 1,153 words tonight (495 of which came out of the bucket, but no matter), and I feel inspired. Not because the Muse has at long last chosen to grant me some ethereal gift, but because I sat down and I wrote the words that will tell the story I conceived.
I feel inspired by my own accomplishment.
In other news: I mowed and edged the lawn today. Someday I'll have enough room in the budget to outsource that particular task.