Chasing The Muse

'I never thought that inspiration could be the death of creativity'. A writer's reflection on trying to find inspiration without drowning in content consumption.

Today a plume of turmeric puffed in the air and stained my top like liquid gold, I found my blue steel pasta maker (used once) haphazardly balanced upon a tulip vase at the very back corner of the cupboard, and the dreaded ‘messy’ draw now has some semblance of order - that is all to say, the day I carved out for writing has ended very productively for the random household chores of yesteryear, but I’ve not much to show for completing (or even starting) any actual writing projects. At least I can find the blade attachment for the whiz banger now, which I never use due to its lingering garlic taste from one homemade pesto recipe…

This week marks the two-month anniversary of leaving my corporate job to pursue my dream of a writing career, and this will be my first official article written since that date. Never mind any sort of poetry, nor short story I promised myself I would dedicate my newfound freedom to. I’ve struggled to actually get any sort of metaphorical or physical pen to paper. I seem to find productive solace in ‘planning’; I have an abundance of newly purchased, beautifully designed notebooks and planners full to the brim with ideas and well-intentioned planned-out weeks, but besides looking gorgeous stacked up beside my laptop, I’ve yet to see any execution of their inners materialise in any meaningful way. I find the act of stumbling across and purchasing a notebook inspirational up until a point - the point of actually writing and then I lose all gusto.

What has become disappointingly clear since becoming self-employed (or self-volunteered since I’m not actually earning anything at present), is that working for yourself means you have to actually be the boss of holding accountability of yourself. Taking on the role both creative mastermind and taskmaster is a tough balance and the worst bit is I have no one to moan about the boss to besides myself, which ends up being this odd inversion exercise ending in an ouroboros of chastising myself and bemoaning myself.

In my defence, I had no idea that leaving my 9-5 world would also coincide with getting engaged and now needing to plan a 2026 wedding and thus, I’ve practically turned amateur wedding planner (thank God for my Papier wedding diary).

Some notebooks are in a league of their own.

Besides this nuptial side-hustle, chasing the muse has become my full-time job. In some respects, that is what I need right now. It’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to fully submerge into being creative, that I need some time to be inspired again.

I think part of my problem has been attempting to take on too many projects, whilst also stuffing myself into a singular creative-outlet box. Writing is paramount to me, my next career goal, however it is not my only form of expression. I should tackle whatever inspired project I concoct up at the very moment it strikes, but instead I have avoided other pieces of myself: drawing, knitting, baking, crafting, all because my social presence demands I brand myself, and in branding myself I must be consistent in one or two things. But honestly sometimes, I can’t bring myself to write a single line. And so, the list of ‘want to dos’ grows like a weed harbouring the corner of my creative brain and I sit paralysed, avoiding doing anything that isn’t to do with writing, because if I’m not writing then I am failing. I’m finding this mindset is stifling more than anything else.

So, it’s time to redirect the inspiration, to seek the writing muse, to hunt in all corners, whether that’s through books, style or my current fixation: home decor. I’ve found myself drawn to the idea of patina decor, patina being the natural act of materials weathering and tearing through well love or age, like the oxidation of copper which coats objects malachite; a green that not only evokes the brilliance of nature but the passage of time, giving things beauty and gravitas. Living in an extremely modern rental which insists on a millennial grey colour pallet, sharp corners, and life be neatly packed away and hidden behind built in cabinets causes my wild, earth-witch heart to sink. In desperate attempt to bring the outdoors in, I’ve furnished every corner with as many plants as humanly possible, and am slowly building up a look that brings comfort, warmth and life back into a very sleek and uniformed flat. My current mission: to create a gallery wall of antique style and mismatched demeanour; frames of varying sizes, rustic earthy colours and some rough edges, unusual mounts, tiny prints, renaissance-reminiscent artworks and large nostalgic photographic moments. I’ve recently purchased an old wooden brick mould which I plan to hang vertically and finally have some kind of storage for the knickknacks which I have currently cluttering the only provided surface my home has to offer - a kitchen sideboard.

Current Pinterest board: Patina Interior Inspo

My hope is that breathing some life into my surroundings will fuel some fire within me to write. If I am surrounded by inspiration, then every inhale and scout around the room will absorb some creative dust. It’s like with modern architecture, its lacklustre exterior pales in comparison to the more grandiose building of old. If you want to soak up culture, any sort of municipal building from the 60’s onwards is not exactly one’s go-to. Give me impossible stonework and spires, Georgian windows framed by dramatic drapery tumbling from impossibly high ceiling to floor, gothic frescos, imposing gargoyles, heavenly stain-glass, give me tiled porches and ornate letterboxes, walls with bricks placed, seemingly haphazardly but with intention, by calloused hands and determined hearts.

Tentatively rejecting my new-found hermit status, I took myself on a date. This, I found to be another tactic to tempt the muse. It may seem cliche, but taking oneself out for dinner is an excellent aphrodisiac for the creative self. I drank wine, ate red meat and poetry sprang forth from me. I feverishly scribbled down by candlelight a short story idea whilst stuffing face with roast potatoes and grinning gratefully to my waitress who had thoughtfully moved a recently arrived family with screaming child in tow (demanding immediately a bowl of chips for said child) away from my romantic bubble and to another (better) table, far, far away.

What these acts of tangible activities has taught me is that in a world of social media overconsumption, I’ve become sickened by some kind of cheap muse. Too much to comprehend, being enticed like some kind of siren call at every turn until eventually drowning in empty ideas. I’ve been stunted by the sheer volume of it all, and the repetition of content ideas, hooks, (not so niche) niches. Scrolling through versions of my would-be self, reflected back to me by far more successful people and knowing I would just be another drop in an incredibly vast, widely accessible ocean, leaves a mental exhaustion. Ultimately, what more could I bring to the table? There is an aspirational element of course, but the instant, huge quantity of it is, frankly, debilitating.

Slow-inspiration, tangible-inspiration which oozes of precious time spent in curating, building, that’s the kind of muse I seek. She’s there, she pops up in the quiet moments, the moments I finally switch off from the internal and cyber noise, and accept my own pace in the race, one which hopefully is building a creative quality and identity that embodies the muse in a meaningful and lasting way, a way that is all my own.

I never thought that inspiration could be the death of creativity, it’s an easy way to lose sight of your own path. And so, I’m building my fortress, blocking out the influence and praying I find the muse within. Or else, it’ll just be another half-finished project I’ve abandoned for some random domestic task I’ve distracted myself with…