There are only so many notes, so many octaves in the frequency we can hear. There are only so many words created, so many words you can fit into a dictionary. Everything has been made, has been done. Sometimes every note has been sung to its finale that when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Sometimes every word has been written to epilogues that when you pick up a pencil, no letters form. It’s hard to come up with things people have never seen before. It’s even harder to make things that you have never seen before — almost altogether impossible.
Feeding your muse is easy when she is around. The tricky thing is what happens when she is lost somewhere out in the world, holding the keys to your inspiration. So you walk around, kicking pebbles into drain holes as your hamstrings start to wear but you don’t stop there. Inspiration, it’s like the weather. You can plan for it. You can forecast it based on what you have to work with today. But it always reserves the right to shut you in, freeze you or tear you to pieces.
This is the cost of constant creation, of creativity. It is also why the arts are shunned in the world of profit. For priceless work to make profit, the creator covers a greater cost and pays a greater price.
Waiting out every dry spell.