Saturday, June 18th – 3:31pm
Here’s a story that might sound familiar:
Guy sits at the end of a bar and scribbles something on a cocktail napkin. His pen runs dry. He asks for another; plus a second glass of that Pale Ale on draft.
Wow. The first sip of it is cold and fantastic. He writes further on the soft paper. His scribbling has turned to rambling and the rambling turns into an idea. An idea or a dream? A dream—what an unreal thing—like the shape of a cloud or the end of a rainbow. Only with defocused eyes can you really see it. Maybe that’s the second beer talking.
Mwah! Finished.
He kisses the napkin (except with one hand so it’s not as poetic as you see in the movies), then tomahawk throws the pen into the bullseye at the far end of the bar where some big-bellies play darts. He pays the tab with a single twenty and tells the bartender to keep the change.
What?
I said keep the change.
Oh, thank you.
I won’t need any change where I’m going.
What?
I’m sorry I was muttering to myself.
Okay.
He walks home. The napkin soaks the sweat beading on his hand. It’s hot as hell out here. The orange from the sun bounces like a pinball against the skyscrapers and keeps blinding him no matter how he holds his arm.
Screw it. He pushes the napkin to the bottom of his pocket and wipes his hand dry on the outside of his pants.
Home at last.
The first gust of air from the lobby is the same as when you stick your head in the freezer after the AC’s gone out. Guy walks up three flights of stairs, enters his apartment, loosens his tie, and hu-ruffs onto his couch.
The napkin, he thinks. Don’t forget the napkin. There is gold in this pocket. Thin, inky gold. He’s smiling now. The idea of a lifetime, written on a dinky bar napkin. Guy decides he’ll frame the thing when this is all said and done.
He clears the center portion of the coffee table. There’s an empty beer and two Chinese takeout boxes still sitting out—one had shrimp “something” in it and stinks real bad. Screw it. He feels giddy: only half-remembering what he’d written.
The prophecy, the golden scroll, the napkin.
He irons it flat with his hands, then leans in to read his small marks.
What have you written, Guy? What have you dreamt for yourself …?
Ever heard how the design for the Sears Tower in Chicago was inspired by a pack of cigarettes?
Wowee, maybe there’s something to those lung cancer sticks …
What about the one where Aaron Sorkin wrote “A Few Good Men” on a whole stack of cocktail napkins?
Someone, get me five G&Ts pronto! … oh, sure, yeah—some cocktail napkins too.
Why is it that the worst kind of napkin and a cheap pen have such a mythological quality when combined? Together they form the pinnacle origin story of the Modern American Dream (that being, to get stupid rich and stupid famous).
Maybe it’s not the napkin we’re caught on; maybe it’s the “struck with inspiration” narrative that we’re all stuck on. The American zeitgeist (i.e., the cultural cliché) of the past 60 years is literally built on those stories: Not always with cocktail napkins, but always with a rugged unpreparedness and well-timed spontaneity.
Yet, I, the aficionado of none, SEE THROUGH THE MYTHS. Everyone is “struck with inspiration” on occasion. Do not idolize the pen or the bar or the cocktail or the napkin. Take the magic out of the myth. ZAP! There’s no magic in what I’m speaking about. The myth of the origin story is ALWAYS crafted looking backward. And you, the great gobbler of all things labeled “advice,” will either give up too early because you don’t think you have the special stuff. Or, you’ll spend a lifetime doing the ol’ bar crawl séance hoping a few drinks at the place where “that one guy thought of that one thing” will spark something for you.
There are two main differences, though, between those whose origin stories become cultural cliché and those whose stories die a quiet death:
1. Where do you spend your thoughts?
There is artistic inspiration, entrepreneurial inspiration, and mediocre inspiration (e.g., your grand plan for Chuck McDoowad perfect surprise party).
Sorkin was “struck” with a story that would go on to change his life because he ate up theatre like a fat king with a turkey leg. He wanted to act, he went to school for musical theatre, and he wrote the script on those cocktail napkins while bartending at a theatre while the first act of a French musical was going on.*
You, on the other hand, will not find an idea that tops the “fidget spinner” because your mind is CONSUMED by your desk job … and sports … and shrimp fried rice. Also, really? The fidget spinner is what you’re trying to top?
Ever noticed how every “million-dollar idea” you hear about from that uncle who still smokes loose tobacco from a pipe is the most superficial, first-world, so-convenient-that-it’s-not-convenient idea you’re ever heard? That’s what you get when QVC and Good Morning America are your go-to sources of innovation.
2. What do you do when inspiration strikes?
You act on it. You write. You buy those tacky rainbow note cards and pin them to the wall like you saw Steve Martin do in Bowfinger. You cash in favors. You reach out to that pipe-smoking uncle. You find the right story to tell. Then you sell (just the idea at the start). You sell the crap out of it; you sell the crap out of it to people of influence. You sell and you get rejected and you sell again and you get rejected and you sell again and you see one of their eyebrows raise and you get rejected and you sell again …
Capisce?
There is no idea ATM to cash in your ideas for a quick payout. There’s no mob of people waiting to give you money (minus those gone-viral products with incredibly smart brand positioning).**
I would know … this isn’t my first rodeo.
But my point — my beautiful, self-gratifying, ego-saturated (hey ladies, did I mention I’m a writer with a HuGE vocabulary) point — is that there is no “ah-ha” moment except the kind that comes after you’ve spent a long time sulking in the gray zone of wanting a new idea, or a problem to solve, or a story to tell, BUT NOT HAVING ONE. That gray zone is the zone of inspiration. The zone where a constipated brain finds something to bite down on and push like there’s no tomorrow … I promise you will find something in that toilet if you push long enough.
My final note is this: If you want to get struck by lightning, then jump in a rooftop pool while holding a big, metal umbrella.
Take that metaphor as you will.
All the best,
Sean Patrick Greene
*That’s not meant to paint the story with yet another mythological brush. Rather, it’s meant to embody that Emerson quote, “You become what you think about all day long.”
**In the case of the viral peanut butter brand, the entire business was shaped around consumer demand and modeling an already tested idea. But even prior to the virality, there was an uphill battle for getting the brand going. For something designed to influence the trends rather than meld into them (which is what artists often strive for), the uphill battle for influence and virality lasts a lot longer. A LOT longer.