What Inspires My Writing
I’ve been reading Light the Dark, edited by Joe Fassler, where each chapter presents a writer describing what inspires their work. As I turned its pages, I found myself asking the same question: What inspires mine?
I have an ache; I feel it every time I witness selfishness, indifference, greed, arguing, gossiping, slander, lies, or pettiness. These things erode the fabric of human community. I look at the West and see it drifting into dystopia. Really. It’s not just coming; it’s already here.
That ache is best named by a word coined by John Koenig in his Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, Anthrodyniathe: The exhaustion that comes from witnessing how cruel people can be to one another.
Yet sometimes, a small act of kindness breaks through, reminding me that not all humans subscribe to this cruelty. Sometimes, there is still brightness in the village.
On Friday, I wandered back to the town where I had spent my mid-to-late teens. Fifty years have slipped by, yet as I walked its streets, it felt as though nothing had changed. I’d heard that an old neighbour still lived nearby, and curiosity tugged at me to see if I could find him. Such moments anchor us to the past Someone pointed me toward a café come restaurant with the name JOANNE ‘A’ MUNCH.
“Ask for so-and-so,” they said. “He’ll know where your old neighbour is.”
But when I arrived, the man I was told to seek out knew nothing of my old football playmate. Still, I had come this far, and a warm brew felt like a good consolation.
“Do you take credit cards?” I asked Johanne, the owner.
“No,” she replied. “What is it you want?”
“I’ve no cash.”
“Never mind. What do you want?”
“Just a cup of tea. If you give me your bank details, I can transfer the money online.”
She shook her head with a smile. “Forget it.”
Her words carried more than hospitality. They carried kindness—simple, unmeasured kindness. Joyful. Unjudging. Against the backdrop of human harshness, even the smallest acts of grace shine all the brighter.
The stranger’s response was a reminder that kindness still exists—in the cracks and corners of life, where we least expect it.
Some years ago, I experienced another such moment in Sweden. Every time I hear Rednex singing Wish You Were Here, I think of it. We had taken a family trip to Gothenburg, and I was reading Moberg’s The Emigrants. Inspired, we decided to visit the Emigrant Museum in Växjö.
When we arrived in that charming town on a bright July morning, I spotted you. Approaching with a smile, I asked, “Excuse me, can I park here?”
“Sure, welcome! It’s fine to park here,” you replied warmly.
Then, with a curious look, you asked, “You are from where?”
“Scotland,” I said.
“Oh!” you exclaimed, nodding approvingly.
Later, as my family and I wandered through the town, you reappeared, apologetic. You explained that you had made a mistake—the spot wasn’t ideal for parking after all. But you didn’t leave it at that. You kindly guided us to another location, assuring us it would be better. I thanked you, touched by the gesture. For a moment, it seemed as though you wanted to linger, even join us. Looking back, I wish I’d invited you to walk with us. But as the saying goes, the owl of Minerva flies at dusk—wisdom often comes too late.
After exploring the museum, we stopped at a café for snacks and drinks. When I went to pay, the waitress smiled and said, “Your friend paid a little while ago.”
“Sorry?” I asked, startled.
“Your friend paid it a little while ago.”
“Did he have a moustache and a light-blue striped shirt?”
“Sure.”
Moments like these rise unbidden in memory, like the Northern Lights. They shimmer silently in the soul. Unfinished, like the cadence of an A-minor hymn. They whisper this, too, is humanity.
I have many such memories. They interrupt life’s plot. They are not planned. They simply happen.
And that is exactly how they are meant to be.
