Digressions: My Life in 500 Words or Less

Earlier this week I posted a Bobservations, an original quote based on a personal observation. It said, “Inspiration is like a bowling ball: you never know when it will strike.”

That statement is true enough. But inspiration means different things to different people.

Inspiration can be motivation to take spontaneous action, or it can be the development of a solution to a long-standing problem. Inspiration can prompt creative endeavors or practical ones. In my case, inspiration often arrives as part of my writing day. Inspiration is the spark of imagination that ignites the desire to write. Or, more accurately for me, inspiration is the spark of imagination that amplifies that desire.

Most of the time, inspiration is not necessary for me to write; the desire to write — thankfully — seems to be ever-present in me.

Sometimes, however, inspiration can affect writing in other ways. It can determine a direction or re-invigorate an idea. It can fuel the fire that already burns inside.

Lately, as I’ve been working on my novel, I’ve found sources of inspiration which have enhanced my drive to write. My novel is a family saga based, in part, on stories my parents told me about their lives. So in the past I’ve used music and vintage photos to add to my inspiration as I wrote.

While I’ve gotten quite a bit of writing done, I am at a point where I am creating things such as a timeline graph in order to note important events in the novel. The time range in the novel spans more than 100 years.

The graph and other organizational work I’m doing is necessary, but it cuts into my writing time. That has meant fewer new words produced.

Time for some inspiration enhancement.

In fact, I began thinking about something I recently discovered at my family home. It is a small collection of poster-sized art my Dad or Mom saved, likely my Dad. They are illustrations saved from old Mexican calendars. I specifically remember one of the illustrations from a calendar that hung in my grandparents’ home in Saltillo, Coahuila, Mexico, back in the ’60s or ’70s. Another one seems vaguely familiar.

One of them depicts an evening serenade, a young woman sitting on the sill of an open window of her home, a young man just outside the casement, holding her hand, a horse and musicians behind him. The other shows a boy and his dog on alert near the edge of a precipice, mountains and clouds in the background, a thatched hut nearby within which sits a young woman.

These images are part of my memory of visiting my grandparents. These memories are part of the fabric of my past.

I have posted these illustrations on my wall so I can look at them as I write.

Memories can be inspirations, too.