I’ve always none that my muse is not really a healthy one. I become most prolific in a depressed and forlorn state. I guess I never let it bother me because i was simple glad that I felt inspire at all. The other day my husband said that it bothers him when he sees me heading into that state, because he knows that I’m going to be sad and listless and filled with illusions of discontent. While I can recognise what he’s talking about, I’ve never fought those moods, loving what I produce during that time.
It made me think though about the beauty in my life and why I never find it inspiring. I always seem to dwell on the moments and ruts of despair; the cup is ALWAYS half empty and I’ve gotten used to that perspective because melancholy produces creative bouts of writing. I wonder though if one’s inspiration can vary. I have been locked in a habit for years and are finally asking myself if it’s healthy and if I can produce just as much or perhaps more from drawing from the beauty around me.
This is all hypothetical because I really don’t know. I’ve decided to pray about it and ask God to enable me to write in a way that’s productive both relationally (with my family) and creatively (with the pen).