Inspiration

The great Nine­teenth Cen­tu­ry French nov­el­ist, Balzac (1799–1850), once wrote, “It is as easy to dream a book as it is hard to write one.”

Breathes there a read­er who has not thought, “that IDEA would make for a great nov­el”? Indeed, if there were as many books as ideas for books, there would not be libraries enough. Or readers.

Which brings one to the word “inspi­ra­tion.” It is some­thing that good (and even bad) writ­ers are believed to have. I wish I had a dol­lar for every time I have been asked, “What inspired you to write…?” It is as if inspi­ra­tion is some mag­i­cal moment, the fin­ger of God, if you will, touch­ing the hand of the writer, even as my point­er fin­ger search­es the key­board for the let­ter “e.”

The more pro­sa­ic mean­ing of inspi­ra­tion has much more to do with giv­ing breath to an idea, ani­mat­ing an idea, mak­ing an idea very much more than an idea.

I think such thoughts as I start on a new nov­el. It was SO clear in my head before I wrote a word. Now that I have writ­ten that word, plus a few more, I find myself rewrit­ing those words tru­ly count­less times, try­ing to give them life.

But, at least for me, that rewrit­ing is what gives my work some sense of life. I dis­cov­er the mean­ing of my words, my sto­ry, only when the words are there to tell me their mean­ing. It is very much what I recall when my kids start­ed to walk. I would hold them up as they took those first wob­bly steps—how they did grin! But when I let go, they plopped down on their butts. Hap­pi­ly, they did not have far to go. Up again—hand in hand—finger in finger—and more steps. But when they do mas­ter the skill, it is you that has to run after them, and keep them, as it were, going.

The begin­ning of a book is all that rick­ety for­ward move­ment of lit­tle steps. But then, when the prose gains sta­bil­i­ty, has legs, you must run after what you have wrought.

Like­wise, before my first son was born I was entranced with the notion that I would final­ly know one per­son in their entire­ty. I would know their moods, desires, atti­tudes com­plete­ly. Every­thing. That pre­sump­tion last­ed, at most, for a week, or ten days. Then I had to strug­gle hard to under­stand what this cry, that cry meant. Hunger? Tired­ness? Is it, like my first drafts, just gas?

Thus, it is, when a char­ac­ter in a book gets going. What is he/she think­ing when that hap­pens? How can I show that thought? Bring­ing life to a nov­el, to a char­ac­ter, is what writ­ing is all about. But it’s real­ly not the writ­ing: It’s all in the thinking.

Inspi­ra­tion is easy. It’s the per­spi­ra­tion that’s hard.

I need to learn that every time I start writ­ing some­thing new.