I consider myself a writer, but lately, I’ve found myself to be more of a writer in theory than one in practice. Yes, I’m talking about writer’s block. I’ve had English professors tell me that writer’s block doesn’t exist, with the implication that I should take a swig of whiskey, smoke a cigar, and make like Hemingway – i.e., typing and retyping the same sentence over and over again until it’s perfect. My problem with writer’s block, though, has never been one of being unable to write. It’s been one of being unable to write anything worth reading.

It was in this sorry state that I went to see an on-campus production of William Shakespeare’s "Julius Caesar," notable for the fact that it was student-directed and contained almost no male actors. I sat down for the first act, moping my lack of creative direction and hoping to lose myself in the bloody, murderous, and often homoerotic world of Ancient Rome. That happened, but something else happened, too. By intermission, my mind was buzzing like a kicked-over hornet’s nest. When the play concluded, I went home and didn’t even bother to take off my shoes before I sat down and began to write once again.

"Julius Caesar" (and particularly the brilliance of the actors playing Brutus and Marc Antony) gave me my mojo back, but they also led me to think over the ways in which inspiration comes. Sometimes, my inspiration has come from something as simple as going to a bookstore, looking around at the cookie-cutter young adult novels, and thinking, “I could do better than that.” More recently, it’s resulted from watching a television show in which a character who was supposed to be horribly disfigured had barely a scratch on his face, and wondering what the story would be like if the character were actually ugly. But often enough (often enough for a statistically significant effect), my inspiration has come from viewing other forms of art.

I went to an arts high school, and as part of the graduation requirements, I had to partake in and understand the workings of a variety of art forms – dance, visual art, filmmaking, music, and of course, theatre. Often my understanding of those art forms is informed by my background in writing – I look for themes in visual art collections, foreshadowing and plot in dance pieces, and character building in the text of plays. And somehow, through some alchemical process, thinking critically about other people’s art helps me reconnect to my own.

I’ve always thought that the core function of art is to make you feel something – even if the only thing you feel is envious that someone else could do something so incredible. I didn’t go see "Julius Caesar" expecting it to help me get back into my main character’s head, although that was a rather wonderful side effect. I went to see it hoping to be transported to some other place and riveted by the action onstage. Isn’t that why anyone goes to a play or a dance performance or a gallery opening? Art takes you places, and this time, it took me up and over my writer’s block into the promised land of plots that make sense and dialogue that doesn’t suck.

I’m not sure how long the effect will last, though. Which is why I’m going to see "Julius Caesar" again tonight.