One of the greatest challenges I face as a writer is dwindling inspiration. Those days when the Muses play coy and I feel like writing and have the time to do it, but the ideas just don’t come.
I’m the kind of person who looks for causes. Unapologetically. I’ve discovered, I think, a few. One is change in sleep patterns. I had a few days off and, feeling perpetually sleep deprived, slept in a bit. This immediately impacted my writing. I need a schedule, and I write early.
Another factor is my writing depends on what I read. I’ve been reading a book which, although entertaining, isn’t really inspiring. I draw so many ideas from what I read that having a long, nondescript book in hand can set me back ages.
A third factor is lack of encouragement. When it has been months since I’ve had something accepted for publication, it begins to feel like I’ve lost the touch. Everything I read seems better than that which I’m writing.
And jealousy. I know a very successful writer. He never studied writing, but married a physician so he’s never had to work. He kept writing until he got noticed. I’m green. Very green.
As strange as it seems, the Muses come to me when I’m stressed or indisposed. In the shower, pounding along the pavement late for work, just as I’m drifting off to sleep. They play with me, they tease me. They kiss me with ideas and dart away as the reality of the office materializes before me.
It’s been many days since I’ve written with a sense of purpose. I’ve started a new novel that seems based on a good premise, but I can’t seem to sketch out the action that propels it forward. I rub my eyes and go to bed.
Often this situation lasts for a few days or weeks. What do I do about it? The only thing I can do: I continue to write. It may not be my best. It may be dumped in that growing heap of effort that leads nowhere. But I’m convinced there’s nothing the Muses love more dearly than a frustrated writer.
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