I’m not a very consistent writer. I never have been. To sit down and write at the same time every day doesn’t come naturally to me. Whether I’m working on a book, drafting a blog or creating copy for a client, there are times when the words will not come no matter how long I stare at the computer screen. I can find myself writing, then rewriting the same sentence to no avail. It will still be crap until I finally abandon the exercise and stomp off to another part of the house, muttering with frustration.

But there will be times when the ideas simply flow through me and onto the pages so quickly there is almost a word pile-up as my fingers struggle to keep up. That’s when I am thankful for the strict edicts of my year 10 typing teacher Miss Dunn who taught me to touch-type on an electric typewriter back in the 80s – yes, I am that old.

Those times of natural creative flow are so effortless and when it’s done, I always know it is good. Or at least, it meets my own exacting standards of good.

My Muse is annoyingly elusive though and can disappear for hours, days or weeks. But she has vehemently demanded my attention when I’ve been in the throes of abject misery – recovering from heartbreak or struggling with anxiety and despair. She often thrives in those environments of emotional turmoil and my creativity can feel almost uncontrollable. I once felt her call every night for a few short months. More than 200 poems, some several pages long, were the result.

A colleague once showed me pictures of the huge, beautiful canvasses she would paint when depressed. “When I’m happy, I can’t paint a thing,” she said. A lot of artists will tell you their creativity thrives when they are in emotional pain. Perhaps that is the Universe’s way of giving us a helping hand in difficult times – giving us something to cling to as we ride the glutenous seas around us and try desperately not to drown in the darkness.

Pain has certainly sparked my creativity many times but living a life that is inspiring has done the same. I can remember years ago, leaving my Monday night university class where I taught a bunch of smart, eager students who couldn’t wait to learn, travelling home, walking in my front door, grabbing my laptop then hurrying out to my back deck where I would write a blog in 20 minutes or less. The energy of my students was so inspiring that my Muse was jumping with joy.

Over the last few weeks I have started to hear the whisper of the Muse in my ear once again. I was afraid she had died or disappeared forever. I’m thankful she has not.

Half-formed ideas now occasionally bob to the surface of my consciousness before disappearing once more. But knowing they are there, is enough to make me feel hopeful that the creative tap is beginning to drip.

I am not struggling with despair but I am consciously seeking out the inspirations of books and art and passionate conversations. Perhaps this shift has heralded the Muse’s return? Only time will tell.

When does your Muse visit you?

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