I’ve heard some writers describe it as “the tunnel.” Something that magically opens up in their heads that allows them to travel to a place where their stories, events, and characters come into crystal clear view. At that point, the writer need only act as a reporter for the events as he sees them. He writes or types as fast as possible so as not to miss a single detail before the door to the tunnel closes again. He watches his characters like a spy, observes their expressions, feels what they feel, and he tells us all about it afterward.
The nature of inspiration is similar for a musician. In my case, it’s something that “comes out of the sky.” Don’t ask me why, but I’ve always felt that “It” came from above, like a revelation. A melody is something anyone in the world can follow, but few can corral. If you picture it as an elusive butterfly, we composers have a butterfly net in our minds. Some nets are bigger and better than others, but we’re all out for the same thing: to capture that fleeting melody, that whisper of magic we can feel all around us, to seize it, and, as if it were a priceless antique, to try to restore it, paying careful attention to each tiny and marvelous detail that only a divine being could have designed. We are, in a way, like mediums who communicate with another world. A world of lovely and elusive phantoms. Phantoms who exist to remind us we are more than animals born of pain and destined for oblivion. Phantoms who may yet explain to us the origins of life, time, and the stars above.