Finding inspiration in the mundane

Is anything JUST the thing it appears to be?

It’s a stormy day here in Phoenix. I’m writing this the day before it’ll go live, tucked into my bed after having run through the downpour from a downtown restaurant’s patio to my car. It’s so dark that I had to switch on all the lights even though it’s 1 PM. The rare lack of afternoon sunlight has tricked everything into falling into a doze, so everything’s quiet, except for the thunder.

This morning, the sky was clear. Everything shone with a type of brightness I’ve heard people not from the southwest find blinding. What happened? How did we get here in such a short length of time?

I’ve been reflecting lately on how much inspiration can be found in everyday places, if only we know how to look. What compelled one of two women walking down the rain-drenched street to lend her jacket to the other, so she might lift it above her head and keep her hair dry? Why did the local stray tackle one orange cat but sidle up comfortably to the next? Why did that person at the coffee shop tell their friend Valley Bar had “repulsive vibes”? (Maybe this one’s just vengeful on my part: Valley Bar has wonderful vibes.)

I say all the time that nothing exists in a vacuum. This just means nothing exists without relating somehow to something else, creating an invisible web of sorts through which everything conceivable is connected. The glass of wine on my backyard table isn’t just cab franc, as one of my latest personal writing projects revealed to me last week. Nor is the bee buzzing around it just one of thousands of pollinator species doing its daily work.

When I was small, I tapped out prose on my bulky, beige, hand-me-down PC about the way the sand glittered along the side of the I-10. Every time my family drove from southern California to metro Phoenix to visit old friends, that’s what I saw: sand that glittered like snow.

Years later, I came to believe that stories were only interesting or valid if they were about some unfathomably life-changing event. (It probably doesn’t help that most of the stories we read in middle and high school are set against the backdrop of war, witchhunts, or puberty, which I think have a lot more in common with each other than they sound.) I didn’t write anything indulgent or exploratory for a while; everything had to be about something devastatingly heavy, or else it didn’t count.

Years after that, I’d meet my partner, and he’d say: “The mountains in the distance are so freaking cool.” I’d say, “Huh?” and then feel slightly annoyed at his reverence for something so inconsequential. A few months later, thanks to my proximity to him and another friend who knows how to pick up on small joys, I’d find myself agreeing with him. Not a day goes by now that I don’t appreciate the mountains that surround this vast, colorful valley.

There’s a reason my laptop is littered with virtual sticky notes containing quips I’ve overheard at coffee shops, gas stations, and grocery stores. My journal isn’t just a spot for scribbling; it’s also where I stick things like the sticker a stranger gave me and the red Lunar New Year envelopes my friend handed out last month. And the “What’s been inspiring me lately” section at the bottom of each Creativity Under Capitalism issue is an archive of sorts, documenting the little things that have helped my creative gears spin during otherwise dull moments.

Not every great story begins with a life-changing event. Sometimes it begins with the glass of wine on your patio table or the bee buzzing around your lemon tree.

What’s been inspiring me lately:

✰ Birds. It’s not technically spring yet, but you wouldn’t know that here in Phoenix, where wildflowers are beginning to bloom and the birds are singing like they’re getting paid to do it. Thanks to Merlin Bird ID, my secondhand copy of the National Audubon Society’s Regional Guide to the Southwestern States, and all the time I’ve been spending outside, I’ve begun to familiarize myself with local birds and their silly noises. It’s amazing how much your world opens up when you start to notice and understand things that have always been there.

✰ The Sonoran Desert: A Literary Field Guide. Part chapbook, part actual field guide, this beautiful book is an amalgamation of poetry, prose, drawings, and wildlife facts by more than 50 people in the southwest.

✰ Longer days. I tend to be more creative during the spring and summer, so longer stretches of sunlight make me excited for what’s to come.