The Nine

Artistic inspiration strikes me in two ways.  Either an idea comes to me fully formed as did Athena from the forehead of Zeus . . . or it doesn’t come at all.

I first realized this when I got the idea for my boylesque debut about a year and a half ago.  In a single flash of inspiration lasting no longer than a moment, I came up with the song, the concept, and my new stage name.  An hour later I had the costume finalized and the choreography rehearsed.  The next evening I brought it to rehearsal, only one aesthetic tweak from being ready for performance.

I’ve had other successes since then, but to date this remains my signature act.  It’s the favorite not only of my colleagues who’ve been with me since my first audition, but it continually gets the highest praise from long-time members of the burlesque community at large.  It’s the standard against which all my other acts are measured, and is at the foundation of my Straight Men’s Fan Club (a tale for another time).  Since then every act I’ve taken to the stage has enjoyed a similar genesis.  An idea, a tune, and a story all emerge as effortlessly as a drunk falls down the stairs.

Which is not to say this is always the way of things.  I tried for months to come up with a new act with no success.  Several failed attempts to bring something of value to rehearsal only resulted in embarrassment.  Six months later I was nearly resigned to the idea of my boylesque victory being a fluke when I was struck by the muse once more, and my tribute to Reservoir Dogs was born.

This happens with my writing, too. 

Several times I’ve sat down to write a blog, pulling ideas from the collection of hastily written notes on my phone (the list currently includes, but is not limited to: wondering if I’ve ever met the dead; bad dreams are a betrayal; Turkish coffee wish; the beauty of transients; Spoonman).  But when I dig up these bones and try to cover them with flesh and muscle and sinew I find the structure can no longer bear weight, and the whole idea collapses and is banished before I can even give it a name. 

Yet if I start constructing the piece as a whole during the very hour in which inspiration begins to light my path, I can find my way through to the end, usually having crafted something to which I’m proud to put my name.

Another example: two weeks ago I was invited to an open mic poetry slam.  With a scant 24 hours’ notice it was further suggested I prepare and present a poem of my own.  I’ve only written one poem in the last eight years, and that was only performed to some classmates (and, a year later, to a webcam).  That night I had trouble sleeping, and to focus my ravaged mind while tossing and turning I started constructing and organizing the elements of what I wanted to say.  I never imagined a poem would take me to the stage in front of paying strangers, yet much to my surprise, several of those strangers approached me afterwards to say lovely things about what I’d said and how I’d said it.

But when I tried to write another poem this afternoon to bring to the show this evening my voice had left me.  I had nothing important or entertaining to say.  I went to the slam empty handed, disappointed, and frustrated.

I don’t express these tales in order to brag.  Well – not only to brag. 

I’ve learned an important lesson when it comes to the creation of art, regardless of the medium; the birth of inspiration is both fickle and fragile.  I don’t know how to invoke it, or how to broaden my frame of mind to receive it, or even if such things are possible.  When it does arrive, it must be nurtured and fed immediately lest it shrivel and die and threaten to never ever return.

Maybe I should keep pen and paper with me at all times.  This is the life I’ve chosen, after all.