An Italian window

And finding joy in the process

Photo by Miti on Unsplash

Nearly 20 years ago, I went on a summer holiday to Italy and spent three weeks exploring some of its great cities - including, Rome, Florence and Siena, and then switched to a car for a tour through the magnificent countryside of Umbria. The trip left a lasting impression on me for a few reasons; it reaffirmed my love of Italian food, art, and culture… all kinda obvious, but the trip also led to something a little bit more unexpected, creatively speaking.

I’ll try to paint a scene for you through the haze of my long-term memory:

For the final few days of the trip, I was staying in a town near Perugia, Umbria. I was sat in the kitchen of an apartment with my laptop open in front of me. It was a heavy, bulky thing, and it took up most of my rucksack, but I had been determined to bring it with me. A few months earlier, I completed my teacher training and felt under pressure to prep work for my new job that began in the September.

I had made an initial visit to the school in May, where I met my new colleagues and stood in what was to be the classroom where I would spend most of my day. However, even before I boarded the plane to Italy, I felt the beginnings of anxiety bubbling in my stomach: brand new courses required planning, and existing resources had to be updated (according to my new boss). Despite not being paid yet, I was keen to get ahead on certain tasks, but couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in a little over my head - hence why my laptop came on holiday with me.

What a loser…

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At one point, I stood up to stretch and I moved to the window to look outside. Instantly, I was mesmerised by the morning sun brushing the green hills that folded into the distance. The scene interspersed with the odd building and tree.

As I stood there I felt like my brain was struck with a burst of energy. Images played out in my mind’s eye - a male, a boy, lost? They were the first things. Then - adventure, a family member is missing? His father?

It was scrappy. The loose threads of… something.

An idea for a story, perhaps?

Then, I had this sense that I was seeing the world around me with a whole new level of vibrancy. And for the next couple of days before my flight home, I was lost in a world writing furiously about that idea on my laptop.

Screw the school work - it could wait.

Photo by Gabriella Clare Marino on Unsplash

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That window and the gorgeous Italian countryside became the inspiration for my first book. Now I say first book as though I am a published author - I am not. You definitely won’t find my work in any bookshops. Yet I did finish the book and after plenty of stop/starts and life getting in the way, it probably took me around ten years to complete - yikes. I even submitted it to some publishers (shout-out to the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook). Although it might not be that surprising for you to hear that nothing came from this - and I mean nothing, zip… radio silence.

I was disappointed, no doubt, but let’s be honest, I had no clue what I was doing - with writing a novel, that is. But maybe that’s a story for another time.

However, the other week I was digging around on an old hard-drive looking for some photos when I came across the book. It provided some entertaining (and cringe-worthy) reading.

The plot was a complete mess with massive holes, and key parts of the story appeared to have been ‘inspired’ from other popular books, something that I failed to register at the time (e.g., three friends, two male, one female - male protagonist has some magical powers, world resting on their shoulders, that sort of thing, and a bald villain…). Hmm.

It had been a number of years since I last looked at it, but after reading only a couple of pages, I was transported back in time and reminded of how the story began.

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For a long time after my Italian holiday, I sat around waiting for bursts of inspiration such as the one I had in that kitchen. It became so acute that I told myself I couldn’t possibly start writing without it. So it’s no wonder that when I set time aside to write, instead I found myself twiddling my thumbs and doing very little.

It took a bit more of life getting in the way for the penny to finally drop that those inspirational bursts are exceptionally rare, and that if I was going to write more, whether that was creative writing, essays such as this one, or even doing other projects like photography, you can’t just wait around for inspiration to strike.

And the reality is that once you start doing something more regularly, then there is joy to be found in the weeds of the process. It is perhaps then that a more gentler and sustainable form of creativity and inspiration can be fostered. The work itself can provide it own reward.

Rosie Spinks

recent post about showing your work really resonated with me in the context of writing her newsletter, but I felt that some of the messages applied to other forms of writing:

It’s something I’ll continue doing whether my audience is small or enormous. Because the boring daily process is actually so much more nourishing than the shiny yet unpredictable outcome.

I have been thinking a lot more recently about inspiration as I am attempting to write another novel. It’s a completely different story to my first attempt (not another Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings fantasy rip-off), and it is in the very early stages. There have been few bursts of inspiration to speak of, and instead I am focusing on the dull glow of progress from making writing a regular habit. And hopefully, this time it won’t take me a decade to complete it, although a view from an Italian window might be nice while I write.

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