Inspiration from Contemplation

It’s funny, you know? We come up with ideas all day long. We create worlds which show people the very depths of our imagination, our dreams, our soul. Yet there are times when we cannot convey the emotion we would like to share through words.

The name of this common occurrence among people like me would be called writer’s block. I’m sure it’s happened to anyone who wants to write a book. When writing, you’re forcing your expansive imagination to be contained within a few sentences and somehow still connect to the consumer. 

Then comes the question of, “Will they understand your message? Did your original intention of writing the story become apparent? How will they be able to pick up on all the subtle details you so tirelessly thought about and put in place? Doesn’t that mean that the original purpose and intent of the work of art is lost to those who can’t comprehend the beauty that the creator of the work of art intended?” This is the “death of the author”. In reality, art is subjective and beauty will be in the eye of the beholder. This is the terror that each author faces whenever their fingers clack along the keyboard as they face the same dilemma each time they write. No one can escape this inevitability of the fate of a public piece of art.

When you make a piece of art public, it is open for criticism. People will stare their beady eyes down at your work and find some detail to make fault in for a mainly subjective reason. They might pass off this opinion as objective fact and as more and more critics take an “objective” look at your work, the higher chance that people will hold your work in a lower regard. As more people begin to criticize your work, there will be a larger consensus of a “lower quality piece of art or entertainment”.

You can criticize and review hammers all you want. They’re simply tools meant for a few, very specific purposes. If the hammer is not able to drive a nail into wood in a way that satisfies the build’s requirements, it is ultimately deemed as a lower quality hammer.

It’s different for art. Art doesn’t serve one exact purpose. It will always differ for each person. For some people, it will entertain, and for others it will inspire. People always look for different things when they journey into the world of art.

And at this point, you’re probably realizing that this whole explanation of art is vastly different than where we started off from. Defining art and its purpose was necessary so you could truly understand the dread that we writers go through whenever we attempt to contain the power of our vividly colorful imagination into a dull, black and white paper.

Anyways these thoughts were swarming around my mind. It felt like black crows were gazing around my brain as their feast after its death. The crows would randomly circle around my brain. They searched for the tastiest part of the meal, and yet, they couldn’t find it. So they continued on their routine as they would circle around my brain and head towards one part of it and go back into the sky to search for the most delicious part of it. They teased it to a certain extent. 

The way these thoughts and ideas would float around in my mind and find a resting place in a back corner for only a moment and then once again flee was infuriating. Sure it meant that I had quite an active mind, but as a writer, that means nothing. It means that I have so much wasted potential on ideas that I forget to write down. It means I’m not doing my job right.

I’ve had this dream since I was young. I was inspired by people who could capture the hearts of young audiences with fantastical worlds yet still make them surprisingly real. I was infatuated with these stories because they always seemed like my ideal world. The dream world of fiction was a place I could immerse myself in and get lost in. I didn’t have to care about all the real problems that surrounded me. Learning from these protagonists who might’ve been in similar situations I was in and then applying them to my own life was an important part of my development as a child.

I went to school, graduated, attended university, graduated, and moved to (possibly) the most pretentious location for writing in the world: England. Many of the greats came from here. I was thinking I could maybe get some inspiration for material looking into the same foggy clouds they did.

That truth in my head was a lie. I had come here, but no idea had come to my head. Well, that’s not completely accurate. I’ve had concepts of characters and locations and plot details all written into a short notebook which I carry around with me, but it’s hard to put these into use.

There is, of course, structure to each and every story that is written, be it fiction or otherwise. My general rule of thumb is that, in order for a successful story to be made, a narrative, character, and theme must be present. If you don’t have one of these attributes, you can’t have a good story.

I have a narrative. I have characters. So why can’t I get that bloody theme to rear its head from whatever rock it’s hiding under and just show itself to me? It’s been quite a while since I was this frustrated with my creative career. Writing is a side hobby for me, and my main job is actually being an English professor. Preparing lesson plans can be monotonous at times. However, I will always take pride in the accomplishments I’ve made with this job. I really have been quite successful, you know. And in fear of my own security, I shall not disclose to you the information of each detail of my job or even its location. Just know that I’m quite a good teacher.

Anyways, you may have been wondering when I was last frustrated in my career. How do I know that? I don’t. I’m most likely wrong. Your thoughts are mostly likely something along the lines of, “When will this dull and uninspired story reach its conclusion?” or, “Who let this cocky, arrogant brat be the narrator when he or she is clearly just some stuck-up elite?”

Well first of all, I am male. I associate with men and have no interest in changing anytime soon. Second off, this story is likely to continue for a little while longer, so please stick around. I’m sorry for boring you already, if I have.

I haven’t formally introduced myself yet, and I don’t plan to. I’m sure you’ll be able to interpret quite a lot of things about me just by interpreting and observing the subtle nuances I put in each line of my everlasting monologue. 

So, back on topic, my last wave of frustration came over me near the very beginning of my writing career. After having just moved to England and applying for my other job, I immediately had a burning passion to write. I began writing notes in my textbook-sized notebook. Drafts for stories began appearing all around my newly-rented apartment.

And after three weeks of constant-writing, it was time for me to restock on paper. While I was away, a common occurrence happened to the apartment I was living in. It was closed. Remember, right now England is in turmoil because of that one guy who turns anything he sees into dust because of his Gift. I can’t stand him. He’s been ruining the lives of countless in England for a good while now. The first detective to begin pursuit was killed and people are now more reluctant to help on the case. I hope it gets resolved.

Anyways it was closed because there had been a supposed murder right in my apartment. Infuriated as I could be, I demanded to visit my room while it was under investigation. After some shameless begging, I was inside my room, now empty. All was gone inside of it except a few drops of dried blood which lingered in the closet. 

Words couldn’t describe the sheer torrent of emotion I went through in finding that room empty. Three weeks” worth of work was gone in an instant and turned into disposable dust. Meanwhile there was a person who was also obviously attacked and was also for some reason in my room. He also trespassed into my room. Was he with the killer and betrayed him or did they happen to appear there for different reasons? If so, why would they both go to the room of some unsuccessful writer to duke it out and why would all my hard work have to have been erased as well?

It didn’t matter to me then, and it doesn’t matter to me now. The only thing I had felt then was pure despair and the present isn’t so much different. I can force myself to write now, at least, but occasionally I begin to feel guilty for forcing myself into a hobby and halfheartedly trying to create a story.

I still have many questions, and I’m sure you do, too. They'll most likely be resolved in one way or another. The world is massive and there are countless people who love to tell stories. I’m not one of them anymore.

After talking to you for so long, I think I’ve decided that I’ll just stop writing. There’s no point to me writing anymore, is there? I can’t be a successful writer without truly loving the thing I do. I’ve explained to you, already, the two reasons I can’t continue to write:

1. The horror of writer’s block.
2. My hopes and dreams as a writer being crushed.

Having decided to quit writing, I began to take a walk. After a certain period of time in the middle of the night, I happened upon a rather quiet and peaceful building. I inquired a nearby person about what it was and he simply commented something along the lines of, “Oh! I- uhhhh- think it’s a place where people are encouraged to talk to the Giver,”

The Giver. It’s not a rare occurrence to talk to someone about the mysterious figure who supposedly gave us these gifts. There are questions and theories regarding his true identity as someone who just got a “lucky roll” with life and is praised for being a powerful being. I had never followed the beliefs around it, though. It’s always seemed like a waste of time for me.

I felt compelled to talk to the Giver anyways, or I suppose you could call him “God”. He is “the one who gives Gifts,” much like a pseudo Santa Claus, I guess. I contemplated the existence of a God and came to the conclusion that it’s possible to reasonably deduce that there is a God that exists but there is nothing we know about his or her nature, personality, or anything else about him or her.

Before I left, I asked one thing to “the Giver” purely out of respect and courtesy for the people who were truly devout to this way of thinking. I asked, “Can I have some inspiration, please?”

I didn’t think too much of it. That sentence would simply serve as a “good luck charm” for me. There were people who were truly committed to devoting their time to this extra dimensional being, and I respected them for that. I had nothing to hope for or look for after my work had disappeared quite a few weeks ago.

I don’t know what’s happened to that man now. I wonder if he’s been caught. If he has, then the information definitely hasn’t been made public. I don’t know what the real story was behind the murder. I don’t know if there is a real God out there. I don’t know many things. But I do know two things: 

1. I have the Gift to be able to know exactly what people want to see out of a piece of art.
2. Later that week, I was finally able to start writing that book.