Inspiration is fleeting, a momentary pang of insight.
Real creativity is work.
It’s ink stained fingers tapping along the edges trying to find the rhythm of a word dancing on the tip of your tongue, straining to convince it that a piece of paper is a better place for it to settle on then some weird organ that some cultures think is interesting to eat.
Real creativity is running into that hail of bullets knowing you’re going to come out missing a limb or two, or maybe a friend you’ve known for 10 years.
It’s raw and passionate and fucked up and usually makes you want to smash your face into a brick wall because you’ve been staring at this damn screen for 3 hours and the most you’ve come up with is that Timmy is a loner.
Who the hell names their kid Timmy these days anyway, no one I hope.
There is no magic to creativity.
Most of the best writers and artists are plodding along usually bored out of their minds trying to figure out how to come up with something that won’t make them want to kill themselves after they release it.
It’s a dangerous game, this creativity business and anyone who wants to take part in it has to be ready to slice up their soul into itsy bitsy pieces and put it in the blender and hope to hell that it’s a semi decent smoothie at the end.
So fuck inspiration.
Just do the work.