One of my favorite moments in Neil Simon’s play The Odd Couple occurs when Oscar has invited the Pigeon Sisters down for dinner, and a reluctant Felix is trying to make conversation with the ebullient young women. Asked what he does for a living, Felix tells them he writes the news. "Really?" says a Pigeon. "Where do you get your ideas?"

Most writers know this question, having been asked it by friends, family, casual acquaintances, and every repair person who visits the house. Getting "the idea," or the inspiration to tell a story, is part of the lore of writing, the mythology of literary creation. When asked how she got the idea for Harvey, playwright Mary Chase replied, "I looked up from the breakfast table one morning, and there he was." This is the kind of story that can give new (and not so new) writers an anxiety attack: the belief that a million- dollar idea just "comes to you," that the lucky few are visited by the spirit of creativity and originality. Even Shakespeare, in his prologue to Henry V, implores the gods to inspire him: "O for a Muse of Fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention - "

Most of us, when having breakfast, rarely encounter an invisible 6-foot rabbit. Or a Muse of Fire, for that matter. We encounter the blank page, the empty computer screen.

The idea of "inspiration," as it’s commonly understood, does a great deal of damage to writers. For one thing, it de-values craft, which I think is the most important part of writing. It also validates the notion that the writer him- or herself is somehow not enough. That some special talent or knowledge or divine gift - something outside of themselves - is necessary.

What makes any discussion of inspiration so difficult is that writing is such a special, intangible, fragile process - and, at the same time, a demanding, back-breaking, often unforgiving task. And not for the faint of heart. Inspiration, by its very nature, cannot be grasped, or looked for, and certainly not commanded to show up. It emerges, unbidden; embedded, I believe, in the deepening layers of craft a writer develops.

I often recommend a book by George Leonard called Mastery to my writer clients. It’s a short, simple defense of the concept of "practice," of craft for its own sake. Leonard contends that the peaks of achievement, whether in the arts, sports or any area of endeavor, come from a love of the day-to-day practice of the thing. Because the truth is, in any consistent endeavor, you spend most of it not on the peaks, but on the level ground, where you rarely see any noticeable improvement. If you just live for, or get pleasure from, the peaks, you never grow. Love the craft, the practice of your art, and the peaks will come.

I conceptualize inspiration in the same way. Learn the writer’s craft, write regularly, grow to love the practice for its own sake - and inspiration will either come on a particular day or it won’t, but you’ll have prepared the way for it.

The professional writer, the true craftsperson, understands the pragmatic wisdom of Leonard’s advice. Albert Morovia said, "I pray for inspiration...but I work at the typewriter four hours a day."

That’s fine, you may be saying, if you’re a poet or a songwriter. But what about writing that has deadlines, impatient producers, that has to meet the sometimes formulaic demands of TV and film?

Okay, let’s look specifically at screenwriting. Though in many ways perhaps the most pragmatic of literary tasks, even it lends itself well to this approach. As your craft attains depth and consistency, as you master the tools of story-telling and character, you create an environment available to the nuances of inspiration - even within the strict narrative and commercial confines of the form. Moreover, you may develop, as Leonard suggests, the understanding that true love of something comes from the doing of it, not its more obvious fruits. As one of my writer clients put it, at the end of a long personal struggle to accept the ups and downs of his writing career, "Love the process, not the pay-off." Given the shifting winds of fortune that accompany any writer’s life, the smart money is on craft. Practice. The doing of the thing.

If inspiration shows up, so much the better.