The facts, to get them out of the way.
Earlier this year I worked on the writing staff of a TV show called »Kidding« which is a really fancy project, starring Jim Carrey, directed by Michel Gondry (it’ll be on Showtime starting September 9, watch it so I can have a job next year). Much like how Paris looks like you’d expect Paris to look like. A TV writers room looked exactly like I imagined. A bunch of white boards with indechiprable scribbes about scenes in different colored markers, index cards pinned up to a wall, a kitchenette with every possible snack, etcetera.
Rather than continue about the experience of writing with a group rather than alone (the biggest difference is the requirement to wear pants while in a group, plays can be written in any state of dress), I want instead to talk about the myth of inspiration.
Making art is a job. A wonderful job, a beautiful job, a job where your only responsibility is the constant attempt to explain the mechanics of your heart, but a job all the same. Some people believe that making art is sacred, and requires inspiration from some far away place, perhaps where the muses of Greek mythology frolick and sing. That belief is complete bullshit.
Creativy can be learned, the imagination can be trained to find mystery in the everyday, and anybody who says different sucks.
The myth of inspiration was proved again and again working on that fancy TV show (it’ll be on Showtime starting September 9, watch it so I can have a job next year). The writers room started at 10 am, and we were creative at the stroke of the hour.
Inspiration is for suckers. The rest of us have to get down to work.
