Finding Inspiration

So I’m still thinking about The Lovers, still thinking I want to find my passion, follow it to where I belong, and fall in love with Life again. And last night I was talking to a friend about the formulaic fiction that’s in bookstores now and the recipe-following authors who are producing it. Between the two of us, we couldn’t decide what was worse; the authors and their predictable fiction or the public’s enthusiasm for what amounts to fast food.

I don’t know about the rest of the literate population, but when I pick up a work of fiction I’m making a huge emotional investment. I’m involving myself in the lives of people I will come to know and love - or hate. From the first word to the last, I’m right there with them, committed to them, for better or worse. But time after time, book after book, I encounter the same cookie-cutter characters who possess about as much depth as the paper on which they were written.

I think my friend summed it up quite succinctly when he said, “Books aren’t written anymore; they’re published.” And he’s right. It’s all about the celebrity author these days - his last bestseller, his next bestseller. You used to be able to read a book cover to learn what the story inside is about; that’s how publishers sold the book. But the covers on books these days are about selling the author.

Along with solving Life’s mystery and serving others, one of my true passions is writing. From the moment I wake, until I go to sleep, all of my thoughts revolve around words and writing. At the core of my being, I am a writer. But, alas, I don’t do fiction. I can, and have - and with some success, I might add, but it just doesn’t ring true with me. It doesn’t resonate within me like when I piece together a myriad of sources, hundreds of hours of research, and dozens of interviews to craft a non-fiction story that impacts the community, contributes something to the greater good, and has the potential to affect our quality of life, even on a small scale.

I’ve met, known, and befriended a number of non-fiction authors and scholars over the last couple of decades, some of whom have published enough articles and books to fill a small home library. I’ve known writers who, while not quite as prolific, have nonetheless distinguished themselves with numerous publications in their field. Then there are those I’ve known who, having written a single book, spent the rest of their lives milking it for all it was worth, and settled into their “fame” like cow patties in a hot, dry field, until even the flies lost interest in them. One of them especially annoys me; having exhausted, twenty years ago, what little writer’s inspiration he was born with, he now keeps an online blog in which he prattles on about himself and links to and comments on the news and other author’s works, yet insists he’s a scholar. And my annoyance doesn’t stem from professional jealousy; I’ve already published more words than he could ever hope to write.

Inspiration is the thing. You have to be inspired to write, inspired to craft and create something out of nothing more than a thought. The heart is the seat of inspiration. It’s the rich and fertile (or sterile and polluted) field where we sow the seeds of thought that sprout ideas that then become our inspiration. All good writers know you write with your heart, and if they don‘t know that, then they aren‘t good writers, even if their name is on a dozen books. Inspiration is what separates the creative thinker from the unimaginative bore. It’s the difference between a chef and a grill cook.

Somewhere between my last life and this one, I lost my inspiration. I think it exited at about the same time and through the same window as my faith. Life had betrayed me, and I stopped believing in her. But she had always been my inspiration.

I have always found god to be the most accessible in his role as creator. He’s a writer, too, and with a word created the sun and the moon, the heavens and the earth… Life as we know it. In that place where his creativity and mine meet, we find common ground, and there we become one in purpose and desire. That’s where I find belonging; that’s where I feel whole, where my heart is it’s happiest.

Perhaps my passion lies in my creativity as a writer. Perhaps that’s the path I should be following now in pursuit of my bliss. Perhaps in writing me into his story of Life, god meant for me to find new inspiration in my fall from grace. Perhaps.