Inspiration in Life for Writing

     I walked into my Monday morning study session, eight-thirty. The room sat chilled from an open window and AC vent. Blinds shifted. Light bounced off the stained white-board. A table that looks taken from surgery stands at the end of the room, and I set my greying Disney backpack down.
     After ten minutes, the first student walked in. She sat in the second row, third aisle. "Good morning, John."
     "Morning." I wiped my eyes and drew a slash where her name listed on the attendance sheet. "Do the reading?"
     "I have a question for you."
     I blinked and set my folder aside. "About the reading?"
     She nodded. She looked up at the ceiling and moved her hand in the air, fishing for the words that would soon come to her.
     When I ask people what inspires them in writing, I am told about childhoods, friends, haunted houses, or food. When I tell people what inspires me, the answers tend to vary based on the day that I've been having.
     I started writing in dark times. I didn't have a happy start to my craft. Yes, I grew up as a reader, just as almost every writer did. Many people think that writers are expected to start with a magical moment.
     It's arguable to say that the start of a writer is not important. How did Hemingway begin? What made Stephen King get his first published novel? If you've read enough, you'll surely find out the answers. But one thing that stands a mystery is how these authors and more get started writing each and every day.
     I watched my tutee as she thought about her question. At eight-thirty, not much thinking goes on unless one is used to the mental-stimulation.
    "John," she said, "How does the use of verbs and nouns convey an author's tone or theme?"
     A fly buzzed in the air. Below me, my legs dangled from my risen seat. I looked at her, mouth open, and my heart fluttered just a bit.
     Inspiration comes to us like questions. Sometimes, we might be stewing on our thoughts for a while, waiting to see what comes out clearly. Other times, our ideas line up, and we're able to toss out something great that surprises even those who are prepared for anything.
     I answered that student's question, and she left the session, an hour later, with new ideas to apply in her essay. Four days later, and I'm still pondering the thoughts this student might have, the questions she's waiting to ask. Like inspiration, they might come easy, but we'll have to wait for and see whatever comes out.
    

Traveling in the Mind and on the Page

     The map of California stands in front of me. I drew it, so half of the state looks bent, and crackles of marker roads lead from one blob, San Francisco, to an X, Los Angeles. I stare at the marker trail and hum to myself.
     At the end of the room sits the professor and one student. She's asking for help on her essay, and while privacy is asked, I hear muffles of thoughts over from the white board in the center of the room. In front me, scribbles of thoughts, ideas and musings create noise in my brain.
      I've driven the road, Frisco to LA, many times. On my trips up north, I enjoy the desolation such a drive creates. There's nothing for miles; then highways become loops and drops. After thirty minutes, it's back to driving on a plain for hours it seems. I call it living-in-limbo.
     In a work-in-progess novel I have, one character is driving from the bay to southern California, and the landmarks are just as important as the scenarios the character faces. He's taking the Grapevine, a road that leads up and down slopes steeper than most get to drive in their lives. Half of the time, the Grapevine is closed. Weather conditions are so adverse that travelers must listen to the radio and news just to know what will happen.
     My eyes follow the trail I've scribbled, and I think of the small curio stores, the repetitive McDonald's and diner locations. My family's stopped at most, so I try to smell the grease hanging in the air, the sun beating down on our necks. At night, the hubbles are the only source of light for miles.
     Traveling is something that I love, for it gives me a chance to see new worlds, even if they're only an hour or more away. Family vacations have turned into horrifying, lonely settings for my characters, and desolate locations themselves have turned into themes of hope, promise.
     Americans, I argue, don't do it enough. Vacations are spent at Disneyland, New York, or somewhere so tourist filled one can taste the churros or street hotdogs. But real, American road trips have fallen out of peoples' repertoire.
     I wipe my hand over the scribbled road and destroy half of California. It's ten. I walk to my professor and pass him what I have. We talk, and we leave the room to head downstairs, where his dog and wife wait. We leave, and I'm back on a lamp-lit road, heading home.

Typing under Deaf Ears

      For the first time in my life, I had to miss a day of work due to illness. For me, it's a big deal (obviously), and I'm still a bit nervous about the whole thing. Really, it shouldn't be a big deal at all. Shouldn't it?
     I drove home on the Sixty Freeway, and everything sounded muffled. My eyes darted across the highway as I looked for any trouble. My head pounded. Burning hotter than my truck's heater, my throat lining tasted like onions.
     I got home after ten minutes, and immediately, I went to sleep. The next day came, and I had to call out. But from then on, my time in bed was spent with my typewriter or a book.
    Sick days can be argued to have been made for writers. On a weekly basis, if our schedules are busy enough, we have to fight for a chance to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. Writing's a career that promises to torment you if you work a ten-hour job (or are a parent).
      I pounded the keys of my fifty-year-old silent-super typewriter, striking a sheet of printer paper--silently. My ears ached. Everything had grown quieter a day after staying home. Conversations felt like shouting matches. Opening my jaw created a pop that shook my head. In a way, I liked it.
     While writing is hard to get to do on a busy schedule, it's also very hard to have peace-and-quiet.
     It's Sunday, five days after day-zero of my cold. I will be returning to work tomorrow, heavily medicated if need be, where writing will have to take the backseat. I feel better. It's not where I'd like my cold to be, but it's where it has to be. Also, my hearing is back.
     Take the time to enjoy whatever life throws at you. Good or bad, it's how we react that makes the difference. Positivity is created by us, not anyone else. By Thursday, I'll surely miss being able to type under very, very clogged ears.