Inspiration is a myth. A myth is a female moth.
Sir Philip Sidney on "inspiration" - a classic example of the hypocrisy of inspiration:
Code:
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain -
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;
Invention, nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,
And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way.
Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite
Fool, said my muse to me, look in thy heart and write.
Oh, the poet studied the classics (other's leaves) in vain, studied the metrics and nuances of other poems (others' feet) but all of that hard work was useless until the muse inspired him to look into his heart, and bang, out popped this poem. Yet the poem itself is a conscious imitation of the classics. The theme, the structure, the meter.
We tend to forget that "art" is "artifice", and thus artificial.