The Paradox of Inspiration

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I like to think of myself as a creative person; but creativity, no matter how unusual the connections, does not occur in a vacuum. I usually get my ideas from observations I have made from the environment that are then associated with some random tidbit of knowledge or other recent occurrences. I might realize how something is in some ways like something else, in other words. My mind usually bubbles such thoughts up at random; and this is often the basis for my sense of humor, which is my crutch in social situations, a crutch that at least allows me to turn banal happenings into amusement.

In times past, I have written short stories inspired by the vacillations of women and the pure randomness of it all (stories of the naïve, socially retiring Wally; a redneck's crude response to a "survey" that was really a leadin for a telephone-based dating service). One time when I was really searching for inspiration, I noticed some coins sitting on my desk and wrote a simple philosophical tract about the need for change.

Yet my environment has been anything but stimulating for quite some time now, and I have noticed a sharp reduction in the original thoughts I've been making along with an increasingly fuzzy memory. I have attended two different colleges, and I have found neither environment to be particularly inspiring. Indeed, usually, I found myself bored witless in my dorm room just doing homework or aimlessly browsing the Internet. My attempts to build social connections at both universities has been almost complete failure.

It's just hard to write about sitting around in your dorm. I need change. I'm going to graduate soon (couldn't be sooner), and I want to make enough money to begin traveling so that I can actually experience some joy and not just let myself rot.

It happened to me while housewifing, not in college, but I do understand perfectly. What triggered the spells of inspiration I did get?

Running around the state in my car seeing odd things.

Listening to sciecne fiction's own music genre, filk.

Listening to the wildest music of the Romantic Era - often at top volume while driving. It has the added advantage of totally freaking out the boom box crowd.

Rewriting scenes, endings, etc in my favorite science fiction universe, usually under the prompting of "This just isn't RIGHT!". Lois McMaster Bujold says that all writers have a redemptive streak; hers was rewriting horrible situations in a book called "Mad princes of Renaissance Germany."

Less helpful: going to the sort of lectures offered the general off-campus public, such as through the Institute for Medieval Studies, or when Jared Diamond came to town.