There is a feeling comparable to an itch. Slight, constant, and ever-so-present in its physical nothingness, it lightly taps on my mind with the unignorable force of a whisper.

The itch is intriguing in its urgency, but it doesn't push or nag. It doesn't aggravate, and it doesn't bribe. All it does is exist. Appear. Be. I can't help but fall for it. What can I do? It's simply irresistible. It builds a little home in the corner of my imagination and hunkers down for a while. Its source is unknown, its time of origin a mystery. All I know is that the idea is there, and it won't be leaving until I do something about it.

This is artistic inspiration -- suddenly catching something in the mind's eye that hits you like a kiss and leaves you reeling for long after. Like I said before, it cannot be ignored. Many a night I have laid in bed with eyes closed but mind open wide, unable to sleep thanks to one of those delicious little whispers. Against the dark, swimming backdrop of my eyelids I begin to see the idea take shape. It takes color, form, movement. It appears as a panorama, then a zoetrope, then a full-blown motion picture only for me to see. The view is spectacular.

In a moment of empowerment, I own this itch. I take it under my wing as mine to foster, and in doing so I've signed a contract with myself. I am now bound to bring this idea to life.

Take up the pencil, the paintbrush, the dancing shoes. Cue the music and mix pigments until exactly the right hue jumps out before your eyes. You'll know it when you see it. You'll feel it when you see it, rather -- like muscle memory, as you can still feel the lovely traces of that panoramic display imprinted in your mind.

This next part is tricky. Just before the pen hits the paper, the brush dips in the paint, or the foot touches the floor, there is a moment of suspension. It is a scary, silent pause, and it buzzes with the threat of looming anxiety - Goliath-sized waves building on the horizon. You have to be careful. You have to be brave. Make the first mark on the page and take a breath. Search in your mind for the familiarity of that panoramic display, and once you've found it (it won't take long), hold on for the ride.

Now the itch is a guiding force. It is an unseen hand on your shoulder, counseling you in the right direction as you begin the process of giving dimension to thought. Your imagination is a flurry, your body a fluid instrument. Brush in hand, watch as those transparent whispers condense and materialize into the space in front of you. The time may evaporate for a while. Let it. It's a good feeling.

The mind of an artist is a complicated thing. No two are quite the same, but there's no denying that every one of them knows the itch -- that incessant, invisible, incredible source of inspiration that circles back and back again, whispering in our ears the ideas of what may become.