When inspiration fails – Where can I pull some ideas from?

My aim has been to post something on my blog each week. Often it has been more than that. But it is now two weeks since I posted.

I have some stuff in the pipeline, 7/8ths ready to go. Nearly all of it, though, is more than a month old. Inspiration for new material to post has been hard to come by recently. I have been pondering why.

There are a couple of possibilities:

• I'm doing too much of the same thing
  

You may know from earlier posts that I have been doing home renovations. In the earlier stages I was quite engaged in the actual activities of the building process. I was learning new skills, and achieving progress which gave a personal sense of satisfaction.

Inspiration for writing never seemed to be a problem.

In the last few weeks, while renovation has still been all-consuming, the process has mostly been marshalling different gangs of tradesmen, and then cleaning up or fixing up after them.

It's all been so much of the same; too much admin and not much hands-on. Inspiration has been a scarce commodity.

In The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron counsels people seeking creative renewal to take a weekly "artist's date" with yourself – go and do something of your own choosing, by yourself, out of your usual rituals.

Those sorts of activities can help top up your creative well, so you can pull inspiration out of it when you need to. Different experiences beyond the quotidian usually help trigger things for me.

Travelling is also, for me, another time when bits of writing seem constantly to beg being put onto the page.

• I'm not doing enough of the same thing
  

The current renovation regimen, with the associated fact of not living in my own house in the process, has drawn me away from my usual practice of daily writing. Or possibly, given me a tangible excuse for not writing daily.

Keeping a journal has so often, for me, brought with it unexpected insights and ideas. It has brought out things which would not have emerged if I hadn't been in front of a page needing to be filled, one way or the other with something, anything, before I could declare the day's journaling complete.

So it may also be that I simply haven't noticed things which might otherwise have brought inspiration, because I have not dedicated time to reflect or allow incubation of ideas.

As Belinda Thomson has noted in her recent blog post on Getting Past PR, there are times when you have to: "Just write". ("The day I lost my voice")

In that vein, I am doing something different – posting 2 articles at once. The second one (The girl in the white Corolla) is one of the few bits of random inspiration that has struck me recently.

In the meantime, I had better take my own advice – do something different, and do something the same.

The girl in the white Corolla – finding random inspiration

A pretty girl in a plain white Corolla looked across at me, as we were stopped at a red light, and lip-synched "Love your car." And something else I couldn't quite make out: "I have one too", or "You're sexy too". The latter is admittedly unlikely. I mouthed back "Thank you" and then got all shy, hoping the lights would change. A 1999 MGF VVC, with the rare rear spoiler, has apparently still got it.

It's interesting to see what one little incident throw up, if you take a moment to notice that things are being triggered. Three things came up for me, in the next few moments.

Random inspiration

I'm not sure what made the incident stand out (beyond vanity), except that a few moments earlier I had heard a song on the radio, from an Aussie troubadour whose name I wish I could remember, called "Mario Milano's Monaro". I was perhaps just struck by the simple narrative of the song and the unexpected pleasure of the girl in the Corolla encounter.

Sentences started lining themselves up in my head, like some kind of prose poem. I can't recapture that poetry now, or perhaps I just thought it was poetic at the time. Something I hadn't appreciated, but can see now, is that inspiration can be an enjoyable experience in itself, rather than just the precursor to some sort of concrete output.

Patina

There's something re-assuring to me about the look of well-worn leather, or the dull gloss of a frequently used though aging spanner. I flatter such things as having "patina", although there is another way of looking at it, to which my wife subscribes, called "shabby".

I was mildly peeved by the comment from the guy who recently serviced the MGF, that it was "a nice tidy daily driver". Hang on – I know there are a few very minor dints and scratches. The alloy gear knob is mildly pitted and the convertible top is scuffed.

But every time I climb in and drive it, it just seems to fit; envelops me in an aura of comfort and familiarity in a world of throw-aways and rapid obsolescence. I love genuine patina, and even a bit of genuine shabby.

Simpatico

A bloke who was in the midst of an affair with a mid-sixties VW kombi (the one with the long sunroof and the flip-up split windscreens) once told me, possibly in self-defence, that there was a concept called simpatico: the reciprocal bond that can exist between a man and an inanimate object.

I'm pretty sure that he restricted the definition to men, although I wouldn't want to preclude the possibility of there being a female version of simpatico.

The MGF is a colour called Nightfire Red, no doubt some inspiration of the marketing department. I've always called it, and by extension the car, "Frankly Scarlett". I reckon I am entitled to misquote Mr Gable for lyrical effect.

Scarlett makes me smile each time I hear the snick-snick of the gearbox when I change from 3^rd to 4^th. I hardly ever notice the symphony of rattles and shakes.

I caught myself saying out loud: "Hey, I missed you" when I picked it up from the Park'n'Fly a few weeks ago.

We both love that long drive home from the airport, with the daggy 60's playlist on the iPod that goes for hours. Scarlett never complains about my rendition of 24 Hours from Tulsa, and it actually sounds in tune to both of us at 3,100 revs. That's part of the reciprocal nature of simpatico.

If ever I'm going to be seriously challenged by the central notion of impermanence, of all things rising and passing away, it will be when I can no longer half-slide, half-fall into that patina-covered leather bucket.

But anyway, I wonder what the Corolla girl actually said as I pulled away from the traffic lights blushing.

PS – If you haven't heard of Mario Milano, or his famous wrestler's finishing move the "Atomic Drop", then either you are under 50 or your dad has never bored you by recounting Mario's battles with Killer Kowalski and Skull Murphy. You could start here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mario_Milano

Unfinished business

She's a wonderful woman, my wife. I started a conversation with her that I should have started 18 months ago (well, I'm a bloke, okay?). She said: "Yes, I've been thinking about that," and suggested 3 options to resolve the issue.

Suddenly, a potential problem was no longer a piece of unfinished business.

I have had another piece of business going on, which I didn't even realise was unfinished. I was playing around with an article ostensibly about clever budget ways to get from the airport to the hotel, without spending big bucks on a taxi.

A client had managed to book me into a (modest) hotel on completely the wrong side of the CBD from both the airport bus terminal and the job the next morning. I found a free shuttle bus that went to even that hotel, patting myself on the back for having done so.

As I was writing, it sort of emerged that the piece was not a helpful travel-tip blog at all, but a lament for lost status. Life used to be like this:

• A big black car would waft up to my front gate and Peter would whisk me in a comfortable cocoon to the airport.
  
• Even when I was flying economy, my god-almighty but hard-earned frequent flyer status got me preferential check-in, frequent upgrades and very decent food and wine in the no-riff-raff lounge
  
• At the other end, depending on the city I landed in, Spiros or another equivalent would collect me in a similar cocoon at the other end to take me wherever I was going.
  
• If the plane was delayed or cancelled, I'd be flicked onto the next flight ahead of the other punters without even being asked.
  

I swear, when I first saw George Clooney in Up in the Air, I thought it was about me, right down to the slip-on shoes to get through security faster, and definitely the same status obsession.

Those were the days, I was telling myself too often, sitting on some shuttle bus or other and trying to feel virtuous about it.

The kind of clients I work for now I wouldn't consider putting to that kind of expense, and I am certainly too much of a tight-arse to pay for it myself. I'm hanging on by a thread to some residual frequent flyer status, but even that is going to evaporate in a couple of months.

But I think I may finally be close to getting over the trappings of status, and finishing that piece of business.

Brigitte and I just did an overseas trip where we had no lounge access and check-in 3 hours ahead. Buying a drink at the airport bar. Finding the cheapest airport transfers and being pleased with ourselves for having done so. And hey, it was okay.

I guess the issue about unfinished business is recognising that it is actually unfinished. For me, that means usually means picking up the signals – little things that keep recurring like thinking or talking, with mild regret rather than fondness, about the good old days. Someone I don't really want to talk to, or something I am reticent to talk about.

I have someone who has unfinished business with me, and it will probably always be that way. I have finished it on my side, and unilateral finishing can be a challenge, but sometimes it's all that may be possible.

But gee, that champagne in the no-riff-raff lounge was nice. Even though I am getting close to qualifying as riff-raff myself.

When less is more – facilitating on the run

I normally subscribe to the same theory about workshop sessions as the British Army SAS does for its clandestine missions: "Proper planning and preparation prevent piss-poor performance". Last week I did a job where we just winged it – but only as a considered decision. And we came out the other end in reasonable shape.

Why would I take a punt like that? The important factors were:

• A client with whom I have been working for a number of years, and with whom I have good chemistry
  
• The previous form of this client in being difficult to pin down ahead of time, with their travel commitments and generally "fluid" way of doing business
  
• Their commitment to intent, if not always to content.
  

I have to say it felt uncomfortable to turn up a blank page of flipchart, and say: "Okay, here's the agenda." The first thing we put down on the page was the finishing time. Then we agreed in very explicit terms on the purpose of the session – particularly important in this context – and co-created the rest of the agenda.

What worked in the session?

• Prior agreement (admittedly only the day before when I finally pinned down the CEO) that we could evolve the whole thing in the workshop itself
  
• A frank chat at the beginning where everyone shared, in turn, "How am I feeling right now?" and "What am I up for today?"
  
• Letting the responses to those questions guide what we were going to create – which didn't quite land where the CEO and I had thought it would, but ended up being just what the team needed to be clear about at this stage of their planning and execution cycle
  
• A much higher degree of check-in with the group, as we went through the process, of how it was working for them; and necessary adjustments of the agenda as a consequence of the check-ins
  
• A very conscious step at the end to see that everyone got to appropriate closure on the issues we traversed.
  

One thing I am not sure really worked: when the CEO said, about the timeframe we ended up facing, "... and David will keep us to time," and I threw a small, but considered, strategic wobbly about everyone need to take personal responsibility about time.

Before taking on facilitation on the run, there are a couple of things I would suggest:

• Be clear with everyone that you are operating in that mode, and engage them explicitly in the co-creation process
  
• At the very least, spend some time ahead of the session reviewing what tools or models you might need to pull out of your kitbag to achieve a result. We ended up using a simple "what do we need to DO, STOP and CHANGE, to get to where we need to be by the relevant date?"
  

At the end of the session, I had a mild whinge about having had less time than originally scheduled for the session. Someone said: "How much better do you think the outcome would have been if we had that extra hour?" After a very brief reflection, I had to admit frankly that we would have had no less effective an outcome if we had spent that extra bit of time.

Sometimes, you really can achieve more with less.

The Advocate – Part 2

Thus the scribe continued for a few days, reading or writing for his customers. He found the words of the scroll echoing as he listened to their stories, which gradually appeared to him in slightly different perspective. What some of them sought to cling to, or wish could be otherwise, he could see as holding them back: from finding any sufficient meaning in their current existence to let them move on; or to let them find a measure of happiness. It was not in his mind, though, for him as a humble scribe to be giving them advice.

A week or so later, as he trudged down to the bazaar laden with his writing materials and silently bemoaning his own fate, he stopped, struck with a sudden realisation. What he had lately been observing about his customers' situations applied equally to his. Wishing things were otherwise gave his days nothing extra, and sapped his own ability to be happy.

He set up his small stall that morning, and looked around the bazaar. He noticed the vibrancy, the natural rhythm of the commerce which surrounded him, the colours of the stalls, the cries of the stall holders. He felt the gratitude of his patrons, for the aid he was able to render them despite their often sad tales. He became attuned to the natural joys which many of them were sharing, joys which he had not previously focused on. He felt his own spirits lift as he read or wrote of them.

At the end of that day he packed up his stall and returned to his modest lodgings with an unaccustomed lightness.

In the succeeding days the scribe's life felt as though it were filled with a little peace, which he had not experienced since his humbling change of circumstance. Then as such things happen, his former accuser whose lies had laid him so low, was caught out in another falsehood. The untruth of his accusations against the scribe was revealed; the local prince reversed the previous punishments and added interest by way of compensation.

The scribe could be an advocate once more, with assets sufficient to last him for life.

The once-again-advocate returned to his former home. He sat amidst his comforts and possessions. As he glanced around, his eyes were drawn to the scroll. He remembered the foreigner's parting advice again: "Find your purpose through its words." He reflected on his recent happiness in accepting his own life changes and even finding small joys within them.

He knew then that he would no longer be an advocate.

He retrieved and unrolled the scroll from his writing materials. He unrolled it, and observed that its spaces, where his name had appeared on first reading at the bazaar in the presence of the foreigner, were once again blank, and shimmering softly.

The scroll called to him. Its potential to transform and enlighten others became clear. The foreigner's parting words retuned to him – "Find your purpose through its words".

He gathered a pack of travelling clothes and his writing materials. He carefully stowed the scroll in his pack. He returned to the bazaar, and put his feet upon the road out of the town.

The Advocate (part 1)

A successful advocate, in another place and time, had made a sound career and a good income from representing wealthy merchants, to protect their assets from depreciation or loss. He was prudent enough to put aside a healthy store of funds, so that he would be able to maintain his situation when he was no longer advocating. A childhood spent in relatively modest circumstances had taught him to hang on to what he had earned.

It was difficult as an advocate to avoid some parties suffering loss, if he was to succeed in representing his own parties. One of those losers took some malicious tattle to the local prince: a story with enough seeds of credibility for the prince to be convinced of malfeasance on the advocate's part. Sentence was delivered after guilt had been decided: revocation of advocacy rights and confiscation of assets. The advocate was reduced to the thing he most feared and had clung to most tenaciously – loss of current and future circumstances.

The no-longer-advocate fell on hard times and struggled just to eat. Former friends and colleagues shunned him, forgetting or ignoring services he had performed or favours he had rendered. "This should not be happening to me," he said to himself. "I took all precautions I could against such adverse changes." He railed against whatever fate had foiled those measures to ward off adverse change.

The no-longer-advocate was forced to seek such work as he could. He could at least read and write, rare enough skills in that time and place. He found occupation at the bazaar. For a coin, he would read letters to people who had received them but could not read them, and write letters for those who wished to send them but could not write them.

For a year the now-scribe toiled at his new craft. He heard, as he read or wrote, many tales of gain and loss, pleasure and pain, fame and ill repute, life and death. Along with his patrons he shuddered against the consequences of change.

One day, into the bazaar, came a man in clothes which spoke of distant parts. The foreigner brought with him a scroll, tattered now but obviously once having been richly decorated. The foreigner had a sharp and worldly look about him.

"Scribe, I wish to engage your services," said the foreigner, and unrolled the scroll. "Do what you can to decipher this for me."

The scroll was written in an unusual script, in a strange tongue but in the common language as well, as though each passage had been lettered and then translated. In the first passage, in each tongue, was a blank space. As the scribe read, the space shimmered. He saw, as he looked back at the space, that it gradually formed into recognisable letters – his own name now appearing.

"All things are impermanent," he read in the words now addressed to him. "They rise and they fall away. True happiness is not to be found in shoring up defences against change, which will all crumble, but by finding harmony in its midst."

The scribe noted the words addressed to him, but could not fathom their meaning. Change had reduced him to this humble occupation – where was harmony to be found in that?

"I see your name has appeared herein," said the foreigner. "The custody of this scroll now must consequently fall to you. Find your purpose through its words." The foreigner then turned and disappeared into the crowded bazaar.

The scribe marvelled at the foreigner's gift and parting words, but saw no sense or application in them for him. He shook his head and stowed the scroll under his writing desk. He returned his attention to the queue of customers who awaited him, to read or document their own tangles with change.

(To be continued.)

Love, hate and intrigue

That may sound a bit like the précis of a bodice-ripper, but I was caught in a reflection yesterday about my feeling towards my new Kindle, and a random collection of other things kind of grouped themselves in my head.

Love

• I love that Kindle:
  
  • I love the black leather cover I got with it, which makes it look so solid and blokey.
    
  • I love the built-in dictionary. When an author goes literary on me and describes something as "marmoreal" I can cursor down to it and find out he just means it's like marble (and is specifically outed by the dictionary as being "literary").
    
  • I can still look like a moderately early adopter even though that's not my usual stance.
    
  • And when I bought a Kindle-formatted version of the 6 volumes of Anthony Trollope's Palliser series for US$1, the strength of the Aussie battler meant I only paid 96 cents.
    
• I love competent professional advisers:
  
  • I love the way my accountant Greg doesn't panic about deadlines with the Tax Office, and just calmly sorts out the issues which would otherwise have me in a bit of a twist.
    
  • I love the new contact lenses my optometrist Andrew just gave me, so I can read the Herald comfortably again. Plus I can decrease the font size on the Kindle and not look like I am reading a kindergarten book.
    

Hate

• I hate the way it's so hard now to lose those last 1 and a ½ kilos out of the 4 or so I seem to put on when I took up the role of chief taster for Brigitte's new cupcake-baking endeavours.
  
  • I hate that once I would have burned it off with a couple of long intensive bike rides; now it just seems like a grind.
    
• I hate those fitting rooms in Myer, which have mirrors allowing you to see yourself from every possible angle
  
  • and in particular I hate seeing where those last 1.5 kilos are hiding.
    

Intrigue

• I am intrigued by what people think they can tell you about yourself:
  
  • Before the cupcake tester phase, people had no reticence about telling me I looked too thin.
    
  • The dust and dirt from the current renovations through which we are living have given me some kind of sinus reaction. A stream of people has felt quite comfortable telling me I look "puffy" or "unwell".
    
  • But no-one ever seems to tell you that you look fat, which surely I did.
    
• I am intrigued by the gobsmacked smile on the face of a barista when you say to them: "That was a really good cup of coffee."
  
  • I reckon that unless you are going back to your regular place (which you only go to because the coffee is good) the ratio of great cups of coffee to ordinary ones is about 10:1. So when you get a good one somewhere else, surely it's worth acknowledging.
    
  • I said one day in a cafe: "Who is the barista today?" One girl said: "I am. Why, what's wrong?" Seems like the last thing she expected was: "Nothing – I just wanted to say it was a great cup of coffee."
    
• I am intrigued by the availability of a "premium leather" version of your good, old-fashioned, regular Blundstone boots.
  
  • I have taken it as validation of my right to wear them all this winter as going-up-to-the-village boots, and in fact pretty much wear-wherever-I-like boots.
    
  • It must be okay because the premium leather version cost $27 more than the standard version – even if they don't look too much different, I know they are.
    

And finally, I am intrigued by the fact that stuff like the above wants to order itself in my head as a potential blog post. No doubt, there is more than one person out there who would want to say to me: "Get a life."