More often than not when I hunker down at my desk, usually around midnight, to finally pen these silly forgettable missives, I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to ruminate on when that typewriter screen flickers on and I cautiously set my reheated steaming leftover morning coffee down between the keyboard and monitor. There are also more times than not that my eyes well up with tears, because it’s usually mere hours before the deadline to get this essay to the editor.
I scold myself, “Dang it Steve, you always do this. You know the agreement is to provide a prize-worthy literary masterpiece to the paper every three weeks, which means you have roughly 21 days to compose your next collector’s item. Yet here you are, fussing about, the clock ticking, the leftover coffee cooling, and the creative juices trucker seems to have stalled on the interstate, or simply skipped her delivery to you tonight.” Most of the time some idea magically rides in on a white horse in my head to save the column, usually right about this far into it. Usually.
How did others, years ago manage when sitting down to create their own masterpiece? Did they ever feel the pressure? Did they sometimes hit a creative wall as yours truly has obviously done here? Did they have a certain routine? I think about what Austrian composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart must have suffered through. Was he ever faced with a deadline, with nothing on his sheet of parchment, after hours upon hours, before finally generating one of his more memorable melodious movements? And by the way, can I just ask Mr. Amadeus, why did you affix your musical ditties to terms like “movements” anyway? I mean really, to some, that term can come off somewhat unpleasant.
I wonder if Wolfy sported the same pair of lucky trousers, ate a certain meal every time, like maybe pudding, carrots, and ox snout, before tickling the ivories. Did he mix up his socks, maybe wore just one, bowl a few frames before sitting down to work, or perhaps compose his greatest works while sitting on the toilet, hence the nod to the term “movement”?
Or how about our dear friend, French post-impressionist artist, George Seurat? Staring at a blank canvas while lounging in the park on an island in France on a Sunday. Did he have any inkling back then that Broadway stars Bernadette Peters and Mandy Patinkin would one day sing a trunk-load of songs about him and his life? Would he even care? What was George’s routine? Prior to his fancy paintings did young Georgie typically enjoy a warm croissant smothered with his favorite apple butter? Did he wear the same smock? Did he paint with his cat curled up and asleep on his head? I understand he was a bit full of himself, as artists can sometimes be.
Needless to say, more than halfway into this column one can get a sense that this will not be a work of literary art for the ages, dare I admit hardly even one for the pages. But there’s still room to save it, isn’t there? Surely I’ve earned that opportunity for redemption. Let’s see what else I might find up my sleeve.
Waiting for inspiration can sometimes make for a lonely existence. I have other things I really could be doing, should be doing, like sleeping. Still, I carry this responsibility to entertain you very seriously, and so I wait, hoping for a sign, like a baseball player watching for the lightning to pass over so they can get back to playing, a mountain climber searching for that next crevice in the rock formation with which to return to climbing, a circus clown pushing through the other 32 sweaty clowns to exit the VW Bug, so he can get out and continue pursuing other career options.
I get to thinking perhaps if I recall some recent dreams I’ve had, that might help. But I rarely remember them, except for the recurring dream of me falling down while trying to escape from a large warehouse filled with evil ducks, and the automatic overhead door is slowly lowering towards my legs and I am frozen in place with fear, unable to move them out of harm’s way. My legs, not the evil ducks. There is really no entertainment value in sharing that with you, so I won’t go there.
I suppose I could write about my two dogs, Wally and Clare, both rescues by the way, and how they inspire me. I once told a dear friend that I think dogs are God’s favorite creatures because he gave them the same letters as his, just backwards, GOD-DOG. Pretty thought provoking, wouldn’t you agree? My friend reminded me about all the dogs in other countries with languages that aren’t English, so that pooch parade was rained on. Joke break, “It’s raining cats and dogs. I just stepped in a poodle.” Nope, still not helping.
Okay, my leftover coffee is cold, my eyes are heavy, and I feel I may have disappointed the both of you reading this. The masterpiece you have come to expect will have to wait another three weeks. I promise it will be more entertaining than this, and that’s an easy promise for me to keep.
Steve Burnette is an occasional contributor to the paper when space is needed to fill. He also serves as the executive director of the historic Murphy Theatre in downtown Wilmington, Ohio, and serves on the Board of Directors of the Ohio Arts Professionals Network.
