‘I was once told that the surest aid to the writing of a book was a piece of cobbler’s wax on my chair. I certainly believe in the cobbler’s wax much more than the inspiration.’-Anthony Trollope.
For those of you who are reading this for the love of this title, let me enlighten you with the fact that it’s just an inspiration.
I heard these words while attending my English class. My teacher couldn’t have uttered them on the right time. We talked about inspiration that day-just when I needed it. Actually, not entirely inspiration but whatever it was, it was enough to drive me to an epiphany.
It was the first time I heard about Anthony Trollope. Needless to say, I was absolutely intrigued by the writing skills of this prolific writer, may it be just a few lines I had read. Becoming a writer takes probably what it took him. While explaining why he never had a writer’s block, Anthony expressed his disregard about the way people wait for inspiration. Considering myself for instance, I gave in to write this morning. I have always been excited about writing in the morning-rush hour for the school children and working adults. But that’s also when I hear the birds chirp, leaves rustle and my mind talk. Isn’t that enough of an inspiration? Apparently, yes. People think a writer is all about broken mirrors and colorless horizons, I wouldn’t infer it that way because even while the birds chirp and the leaves flutter, I don’t know what I’m about to write next. I wouldn’t know what I am going to write unless I sit and stare at the paper. I haven’t written since the day I saw sunlight falling on some water droplets because that is my latest piece until this one gets posted. Does that mean I did not have enough of anything to write about? I saw the boy making mischief in classroom, the girl crying over her broken engagement, others being too insensitive to care. But my mind seemed to have been waiting for inspiration. If that’s not anything to write about, I wonder what is.
So that’s what it has come to-obliviousness. Perhaps I have been too oblivious to my own mind talking lately. Had not my teacher said those words, would not have the keys beneath my fingertips been jittering right now? I certainly don’t think so. It was probably my mind that heard itself talking and here it is, producing words I never knew were hiding within its walls. When it comes to writing, I think it’s the mind that’s stubborn. I think all we need to do is pay heed to our mind and the words battling within are soon going to rest on the paper.