Inspiration is a mysterious thing. Actually, it may not be, but I’ve declared it as such because I can’t seem to control it. Whatever it is, it lights on us at some of the strangest times, and the energy it provides transcends anything we’d know as simple alertness.
In a way, I was inspired to write about how uninspired I’ve felt recently. This blog, for instance, is only missing rolling tumbleweeds to accurately portray the level of neglect it’s experienced, and my new—and fabulously expensive—music-production software sits on my home computer without its capabilities having yet been adequately tested. Sure, I’ve had ideas, musical and otherwise, but I haven’t found the energy—or inspiration—needed to develop them, or in some cases even get them off the ground.
I guess it’s not quite the same as actual writer’s block, since I have recorded and written some ideas in the past few months, and I recently came up with a few ideas for some fiction (a long-neglected medium for me) that I think are pretty good on the surface. Perhaps it is more accurate to describe what I am experiencing as developer’s block. In particular, I am finding it difficult these days to accurately translate the sounds and textures in my head to concrete timbres in the real world. It’s no longer a matter of rendering a melody—that’s long been easy for me—but something altogether different, something specialized, for lack of a better word.
In my life I have been used to things happening quickly. I was always a fast learner, and I usually saw immediate progress when I worked on things. Of course, these days, I have gotten to a point where I am skilled enough in several fields to no longer see major strides when I work, and it is more and more difficult to objectively measure progress and development. In many ways, I guess I have been hoping for a new direction so I can emerge from frustration and once again experience the self-satisfied rush of progress.
In other words, I have become stuck in a mire of toil, an uncomfortable place where even minor progress takes great effort and a satisfactory product might be the result of months of enduring self-doubt. Everything I have read about some of the great artists in history—and I am not so naïve as to include myself among them—indicates that this is part of the process. I am left to take heart in the thought that because I keep working on it and because I still love the idea of it I am perhaps doing what I am supposed to be doing.
This sapping of inspiration and zeal seems to be retroactive as well. Depending on the day and whatever mood I might be in, I’ll either greet my previous artistic efforts with welcoming ears or ashamed criticism. As a result, I have essentially ignored several recent requests for recordings of my music, and I have deactivated the website I maintained that had housed some samples of my compositions from a couple of years ago. The music that I recorded in the past usually came about pretty quickly and was often finished within a day of the first germ of an idea sprouting in my head. As a result, I think that a certain freshness was palpable in some of those tracks, but I began to feel that I had shortchanged the development of those tunes, and I wound up hearing more of what I didn’t like than what I liked when I listened to them. At best, I heard potential in the pieces, but not realization. I was left with the thought: I’m better than this.
I have become, then, a composer without a portfolio, a musician who has been working for years who has nothing he is willing to play for anyone. In some ways, it reminds me of the stories I have read about Beethoven’s repudiation of his early work. I also find some comfort in the amount of effort he poured into making some of his greatest compositions seem effortless. It is then perhaps no coincidence that, despite my love of the other masters, Beethoven has always spoken to me the most.
I realized this morning that, whether it is a symptom or cause of my current artistic stagnancy, I have not been listening to music for pleasure recently. It occurred to me that inspiration is more than an idea sprouting from the ether (though it can manifest this way); it is maybe a subtle processing of the things we experience that move us in more ordinary times. Certainly you have been inspired by a piece of music you have heard, a painting you have admired, a poem or story you read, a film you saw, or even the sight of the sunlight dancing just so on the mountains in the distance.
The key seems to be that experience is the fuel of inspiration. I am perhaps stuck these days because my experience has been so routine recently. So while it is perhaps good advice to suggest steadfastly writing through one’s writer’s block, it is perhaps better advice to suggest simply living a little. The flame of inspiration will light again once given room to breathe.
In a way, I was inspired to write about how uninspired I’ve felt recently. This blog, for instance, is only missing rolling tumbleweeds to accurately portray the level of neglect it’s experienced, and my new—and fabulously expensive—music-production software sits on my home computer without its capabilities having yet been adequately tested. Sure, I’ve had ideas, musical and otherwise, but I haven’t found the energy—or inspiration—needed to develop them, or in some cases even get them off the ground.
I guess it’s not quite the same as actual writer’s block, since I have recorded and written some ideas in the past few months, and I recently came up with a few ideas for some fiction (a long-neglected medium for me) that I think are pretty good on the surface. Perhaps it is more accurate to describe what I am experiencing as developer’s block. In particular, I am finding it difficult these days to accurately translate the sounds and textures in my head to concrete timbres in the real world. It’s no longer a matter of rendering a melody—that’s long been easy for me—but something altogether different, something specialized, for lack of a better word.
In my life I have been used to things happening quickly. I was always a fast learner, and I usually saw immediate progress when I worked on things. Of course, these days, I have gotten to a point where I am skilled enough in several fields to no longer see major strides when I work, and it is more and more difficult to objectively measure progress and development. In many ways, I guess I have been hoping for a new direction so I can emerge from frustration and once again experience the self-satisfied rush of progress.
In other words, I have become stuck in a mire of toil, an uncomfortable place where even minor progress takes great effort and a satisfactory product might be the result of months of enduring self-doubt. Everything I have read about some of the great artists in history—and I am not so naïve as to include myself among them—indicates that this is part of the process. I am left to take heart in the thought that because I keep working on it and because I still love the idea of it I am perhaps doing what I am supposed to be doing.
This sapping of inspiration and zeal seems to be retroactive as well. Depending on the day and whatever mood I might be in, I’ll either greet my previous artistic efforts with welcoming ears or ashamed criticism. As a result, I have essentially ignored several recent requests for recordings of my music, and I have deactivated the website I maintained that had housed some samples of my compositions from a couple of years ago. The music that I recorded in the past usually came about pretty quickly and was often finished within a day of the first germ of an idea sprouting in my head. As a result, I think that a certain freshness was palpable in some of those tracks, but I began to feel that I had shortchanged the development of those tunes, and I wound up hearing more of what I didn’t like than what I liked when I listened to them. At best, I heard potential in the pieces, but not realization. I was left with the thought: I’m better than this.
I have become, then, a composer without a portfolio, a musician who has been working for years who has nothing he is willing to play for anyone. In some ways, it reminds me of the stories I have read about Beethoven’s repudiation of his early work. I also find some comfort in the amount of effort he poured into making some of his greatest compositions seem effortless. It is then perhaps no coincidence that, despite my love of the other masters, Beethoven has always spoken to me the most.
I realized this morning that, whether it is a symptom or cause of my current artistic stagnancy, I have not been listening to music for pleasure recently. It occurred to me that inspiration is more than an idea sprouting from the ether (though it can manifest this way); it is maybe a subtle processing of the things we experience that move us in more ordinary times. Certainly you have been inspired by a piece of music you have heard, a painting you have admired, a poem or story you read, a film you saw, or even the sight of the sunlight dancing just so on the mountains in the distance.
The key seems to be that experience is the fuel of inspiration. I am perhaps stuck these days because my experience has been so routine recently. So while it is perhaps good advice to suggest steadfastly writing through one’s writer’s block, it is perhaps better advice to suggest simply living a little. The flame of inspiration will light again once given room to breathe.
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