My Inspiration

Isn't it funny what inspires us? I was standing outside this evening, waiting for a bus that seemed like it would never come and starting to hunch over and cower to the biting wind that was nipping at my face. I knew it was going to be a little cool when I headed home and I was even prepared, donning a skull cap and gloves for my courageous stand against the elements. But when the bus didn't come when I thought it would, my bravery decided to desert me. I thought it would be there in 5 minutes, not 55 minutes. My hands began to freeze within those gloves. As I gazed across the street at the comfy chairs in the window of Starbucks and the relaxed patrons enjoying hot beverages while sitting in said chairs, I grew even more weary. But then I thought about the frigid plains of Soviet Central Asia that Langston Hughes described in the chapter that I just completed of his autobiographical I Wonder As I Wander.

The damp snow on my hat brim and on my shoulders crusted over and froze into crinkly sheets of thin ice. The snow that stuck to my face made it a white mask, as were all of the other faces around me.

This was his very vivid account of an overcrowded train ride through rural, post-Revolution Soviet Union in which he and his travel companion had to jump off the train into a snowbank as theirs was not a destination big enough to warrant a full stop, only a slowdown. Suddenly, my spine straightened up and I held my head high. I uncrossed my arms, choosing instead to let them hang confidently at my sides. It sounded like the conditions were sub-zero in Langston's recollection. My conditions were easily 45 or 50 degrees ABOVE zero. I wish I could tell you that I did not curse the tardy bus nor the constant wind at all during the final 25 minutes that I waited out there, but at least I had Brother Hughes to get me through.

I find myself doing the same thing at the gym. Well, in theory anyway. When I was working out for more than the purpose of trying to look good in the mirror, I could pretty easily coax myself into shooting 10 more jumpers, or doing 10 more push-ups, or running 10 more laps. Now, I am motivated by more cosmetic things like the aforementioned mirror, and not wanting to have to replace expensive suits in my closet.

My writing pursuits are inspired by several things. My drive to work at the craft as often as possible comes from a statement that another writer that I met made to me last year. He said that "If you're going to call yourself a writer, you have to write everyday." This has been a challenge, but I'm much improved over this time last year.

From the "billboard material" files, I occasionally like to look at an email that I received in response to a writing position I applied for last year. The editor of this rather obscure travel magazine said, among other things that my outlook was too negative and that he didn't think I had the ability to entice people to want to travel, insinuating that I would more likely scare them away from it altogether. Perhaps there was some truth to what he wrote, but the fact that he turned me down for the gig inspires me to prove him, and any others that doubt my conviction, wrong.

Finally, I'm inspired by my 9th grade english teacher, Father Cobb. It was his assigning of a "saturation report" and his less than lukewarm response to my rough draft that sent me down this path. So revamped was my final draft, that he read it to the class , stopping after one rather descriptive passage and exclaiming, "This is GREAT writing!" Thanks, Father Cobb, for making me straighten up, stand tall, and not letting me settle for mediocrity.