On Inspiration

As I continue to write and evaluate what I write, as I continue to read interviews with artists about their writing process on websites and in magazines like The Paris Review, one thing becomes increasingly apparent—inspiration comes secondary to discipline. While this seems to be generally agreed upon by serious artists (Ergo—if you disagree, you are not a serious artist. Kidding.), sometimes it can seem a touch threatening, as if the magic or mystery of art has been replaced by a staid workmanship. I don’t see it that way at all. Rather, I view discipline as a grappling every bit as serious as Jacob wrestling with the angel in Genesis, a confrontation that lasted throughout the night until at last the struggle gave way to blessing. Art can be easy and instinctive. Oftentimes it is not.

Anyway, I didn’t set out to write a blog on differing perspectives of inspiration and discipline, because while I would take discipline over inspiration six days out of the week, I still want some inspiration for my own writing on the seventh, and this past couple of days I found it in unexpected places. This weekend, after I finished Michael Chabon’s Manhood for Amateurs, I read James Tate’s now canonical 1967 collection of poetry, The Lost Pilot.

It was fine. I’m glad I read it.

But for reasons I can’t quite put my finger on, I was expecting great things, and my expectations were unmet. Part of my disappointment, I think, goes back to the strange sense of connection I felt with the book even though I had never read it. I’m sure other people have experienced something similar. I had this completely unfounded idea that James Tate’s first book was going to be something right up my alley, something that would inspire me and be similar to what I wanted to do with my own poetry except much better. And all this based on…what? A poem or two I read in some anthology? His name? (Which I do think is pretty cool.) The title of the book? Like I said, the book wasn’t bad (I realize that's an understatement), I enjoyed much of it, and maybe I’ll write more about it later, but when I finished the last page I was left feeling peculiarly tired. Drained. Uninspired, when I what I wanted was to be excited and energized.

Where I did find inspiration last week was when my wife (Angela) and I were watching the documentary The Promise: The Making of Darkness on the Edge of Town. After the album Born to Run was released in 1975, Bruce Springsteen was embroiled in a legal battle with his former manager and was prohibited from recording new music for a period of almost three years. He had lost control over his own art, which must have been devastating. That’s the kind of obstacle that ruins people. But Springsteen, in a time fraught with barbs and thorns not only kept his band together, but wrote approximately seventy songs, only ten of which he used on the album that eventually became Darkness on the Edge of Town. He practiced, and he wrote more than he ever had before, and he toured, and three years later in 1978 he finished one of the most savage, dark, human, and riveting records I’ve ever heard. And as I watched the documentary I couldn’t stop thinking about how tough Springsteen’s artistic situation was at that time, and the things he could have easily filled that empty space with—alcohol, women, self-pity and bitterness—and yet he never slowed down. He was accountable to no one but his own vision, and he worked at it. (I just had the urge to start singing I’m working on a dreeeaaaammmm….)

The other source of inspiration—and feel free to laugh at me, but I’m going to be honest—was when Angela and I were watching the most recent episode of The Office. Michael is showing his just finished movie, Threat Level: Midnight, when he picks up vibes that Holly doesn’t like it. In a fit of temper, Michael says (and I’m paraphrasing, because I’m not going to rewatch the episode on hulu just to get this right): What do I have without my movie? I don’t have anything. Without his “art”—his movie, his comedy, his HBO pilot—he feels like he has nothing. But the reason comedy is so great is because it blows up ridiculous human qualities into caricatures—what we haven’t noticed before is expanded until one would have to be blind to ignore it, and when it’s that visible, everybody can have a laugh. Look at how egotistical we are! How selfish! How manipulating! How petty! For me, there was a reminder in that last episode when Holly inquired What about me? that art—however much time I pour into it, however much I value it—is not everything. And that's a good thing.

While this may not seem like an inspiring idea, for me it was a valve turning to release pressure, as well as a reminder. That Life is changing even as my own life wanes, and it’s a series of moments and relationships that will always exist beyond the confines—however entrancing and true—of poems, and novels, and the photographs we frantically take to try and preserve seasons we know are already passing. But even as I write that last sentence, I worry that the ring of truth is leaving what I’m trying to get at. Because perhaps the best way, the most noble and honorable way to express the pleasure and pain of this transitory Life is through art. I suppose it’s a question of balance, and of remembering that just as there are seasons of life, so are there seasons of art. A time to experience, a time to read, a time to create, and a time to share. We would do well to remember Shelley’s admonition at the end of “Ode to the West Wind”, that poem shot like a signal flare into the dark sky of humanity, still bright across generations:

O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?