Maybe my muse and mojo are sipping margaritas in my subconscious, waiting for me to loosen up and join the party.
Somewhere between that second cup of coffee and the sixth scroll through Instagram Reels and Facebook videos, a chilling thought creeps in: Have I lost my muse?
And while we’re at it … my mojo too?
My muse – that magical inner fairy who used to sprinkle glitter on my brain and shout: “Create! Be bold! Use semicolons with flair!”
And my mojo? That mysterious force that made me feel like Beyoncé on a deadline.
Where are they? Sigh. I haven’t seen either of them in weeks. Maybe months.
They might’ve run off together. Possibly started a podcast somewhere without me.
I open my notebook and stare at the page like it personally insulted me. I write one sentence and reward myself with a four-hour nap.
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Then I get a “great idea” at 2am, write it down and discover in the morning it says “banana elevator sadness?”
I start another story and somehow end up watching a documentary about 17th-century spoons.
For “research”, I mutter. Clearly, something’s off. I remember when I used to brainstorm, write, revise and still have time to make dinner that didn’t come from a cereal box.
Now, my biggest creative achievement is refreshing my inbox and pretend that it counts as productivity.
When I sit down to write, my brain says: “Nope. Let’s alphabetise your sock drawer instead.”
I don’t even own enough socks to justify this. Maybe the human brain isn’t supposed to sprint like a caffeinated squirrel forever.
Maybe bills, laundry, a mystery back pain… are all creativity assassins.
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I could also suffer from “comparisonitis”: scrolling through other people’s flawless stories, poems, paintings and sourdough loaves makes my own work feel like a sad house plant.
Should I leave Post-it notes everywhere? “Dear Muse, I miss you. I’ve got snacks. Come home.”
Or create without purpose? Draw cats? Write haikus about coffee?
Maybe napping boldly will help because, sometimes, the best inspiration comes after a ridiculous dream about a tap-dancing walrus in a hat.
Maybe the muse and mojo aren’t really gone – maybe they’re just hiding, waiting for me to stop taking it all so seriously.
Maybe they’re sipping margaritas in my subconscious, waiting for me to loosen up and join the party.
Until then, I’ll keep showing up, typing badly, doodling worse and whispering to the universe: “I’m still here. Ready when you are.” Now, please!
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