Character and Inspiration

Today it was sunny again, a really smiling day that tempted an unusual number of people out onto the sidewalks. When I went grocery-shopping with Gi. I also saw that the median of the street in front of our apartment was bright with striped red and yellow tulips; further up there are yellow crocuses. I also noticed for the first time that the branches of the oak (or relative thereof) that grows in front of our living room window are full of buds.

Perhaps it's the spring that gives me the feeling that I can write something again, but so far I have no idea for a short story, which I'd rather do. My French Revolution and scion-of-noble-family-living-in-Victoria books are something I'd rather postpone until ideas and information have gathered, but my subconscious and conscious are working away particularly at the latter. For the second book, I've decided to give the main character misanthropic leanings. Which reminds me that I've been thinking that it's safest to give my characters at least one glaring shortcoming each. It's an easy way to make them more interesting, and to keep me from describing them in a bland and idealized way. Since I want my writing to be realistic, I don't want to have any of my characters embody my ideals, though I do want to like them. One problem I have is that I really don't want to put anyone whom I know well into my stories, which cramps me especially because my circle of acquaintances is so small.

I've also found that, as with knowledge of all sorts, that the more I know people, the more I see that I don't truly know them. This is not to say that they deceive or disappoint, but rather, to the contrary, that people have so many more sides to them than one believes, and that they can, for example, show compassionate vulnerability when one least expects it. It's already incredible what different sides of the same personality can be shown in a situation depending on its details. Take a stressful journey, for example. The car breaks down and the driver must hike to the next gas station. The mood, the behaviour of the driver can be very different based on what day it is. On Monday the driver might be in a foul mood; on Tuesday stoic; on Wednesday struck by the humorous side of the situation; on Thursday impatient; on Friday overcome with tears of disappointment and exhaustion. Then many small factors in the environment might play a role. If the day is sunny, the behaviour of the driver might be different from what it might have been if it had been rainy. If another automobilist comes up to help, depending on the impression that automobilist makes, the behaviour will be different again. Small factors in the history of the day and week preceding also make a difference.

That's also why I really dislike it when people judge others based on an insignificant action. Human nature is too complex to be judged based on a small acquaintance. It's a sad fact that people can act in ways contrary to their nature for their whole lives, or nearly their whole lives, mostly because their environment or upbringing is adverse.

Anyway, I hope that a short story idea will come to me soon. I believe very much in inspiration, though I also believe in writing fairly regularly even without inspiration for practice and on the off-chance that something will come up after all. Perhaps the Scarlatti sonatas will spark something, or the opera I've been watching on YouTube (after many clips of Joan Sutherland, Marilyn Horne, Renée Fleming, Luciano Pavarotti, etc. I'm starting to see that opera has its good points despite terrible sentimental plots and frequently lousy acting after all). Today, by the way, I found an old black and white clip of Arturo Toscanini conducting the NBC orchestra in 1944; the performance of the overture of Verdi's Forza much impressed me.

In terms of the piano, I've been experiencing plenty of inspiration today and yesterday, the source of this inspiration probably being the fever. It feels disconcertingly devilish when I'm playing with 4/3 my usual agility and speed, and fingering snarls are dissolved as if by magic. Yesterday I had one of my "genius days," which only come about perhaps twice a year -- pieces by Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann and Schubert all went phenomenally well, though pieces by Mozart and Mendelssohn and the scherzo in Schubert's B flat major sonata didn't. But today I played "soullessly," so I broke off after a while. It's rather annoying that when I play very well it's a product of the subconscious and not the conscious, and that I have essentially no control over it. I think this lack of control is what gave me the "devilish" feeling. I suppose that if one is a genius one has this feeling often, and it's one reason I'm glad I'm not a genius.