[Alveron] shrugged. "I'll arrange something to bring the two of you together early on. Is there anything you require for the practice of your art?"Years ago, a roommate learned that I liked to write and advised me to take a toke every now and again "to help with your art." I laughed off the suggestion, and today I'm half convinced his pharmacological council was more a dig at my straight-laced nature than a serious suggestion. Still, plenty have taken that idea to heart, from alcoholic Beat Poets to laudanum-consuming Romantics convinced that their substances of choice would transport them to a compositional Xanadu. Others have attempt a more mystical approach, seeking out idyllic vistas and pastoral glades in hope that the muse will torch their minds with creative fire.
"A goodly amount of paper should suffice, your grace. Ink and pens."
"Nothing more than that? I've heard tell of poets who need certain extravagancies to aid them in their composition." He made an inarticulate gesture. "A specific type of drink or scenery? I've heard of a poet, quite famous in Renere, who has a trunk of rotting apples he keeps close at hand. Whenever his inspiration fails him, he opens it and breathes the fumes they emit."
I laughed. "I am a musician, your grace. Leave the poets to their superstitious bone rattling. All I need is my instrument, two good hands, and a knowledge of my subject."
The idea seemed to trouble Alveron. "Nothing to aid your inspiration?"
"I would have your leave to freely wander the estates and and Severen-Low according to my will, your grace."
I gave an easy shrug. "In that case, I have everything I need for inspiration."
Kvothe would call hogwash on both approaches, and so do I. Creativity both comes from and addresses universal human experiences, the stuff that suffuses our everyday lives. Who needs the bizarre machinations? Keep your bottles and beaches. Give me a fresh pad, a new pen, a little quiet -- and let me write.
(Picture: CC 2007 by Matthieu Aubry.)