I've had my coffee. Sleep too. Not quite enough, as per usual, but I've done fine on less. So where does a person who is said to inspire others get her inspiration? Sometimes it is as elusive as the Willow the Wisp, and just as naughty. It's 10 a.m. The kids have been delivered to school and here I am with a long list of things I'm uninspired to do. I need rain. I need wind. Either would do. Anything other than this painted on ceiling that only someone who has lived under it could describe.
I can work. Of course I can work. I can always work. I'm annoying that way. What I can't do is cower under the covers, Gene Wolfe or no Gene Wolfe, though reading is partly responsible for the lack of sleep.
This happens sometimes. It's the downside of art as a day job. The disipline of working on committments, projects, and orders is what keeps most artists from being, well, artists. Ideas I've got. Want ideas? I've got notebooks full of ideas. Stories, paintings, kinetic works. I've got em. Everybody has ideas. It's the dogged determination it takes to build them, to stick with a project that may or may not pay off for months, to edit one more time, to squeeze a moment of inspired creativity between loading the dishwasher and ordering supplies.
Hmmm. Here's what I'll do. I'll put on something. Classical. Prokofiev. No. Dvorak. And I'll tackle that list. I'll let you know where it goes...