I have a writing routine that helps me consistently produce workable words on the page. I also go a few days at a time ignoring that routine or allowing life to get in the way once in a while. None of that stresses me. I do not believe in writer’s block. There are times I’m not mentally or emotionally able to write, but those are my reactions to external causes. I can always write, even if it’s rambling gibberish that I discard later.
My muse is hope. I’ve discovered she’s a fickle goddess. She embraces me when she will, and I am at her mercy when she comes. Whether I’m already writing, moving towards my desk, or settling in for a long night’s sleep, when inspiration strikes I’ve learned to transcribe as much onto the page as possible. When she doesn’t inspire me, I have to do it myself. I’m getting better at that part.
The truth is, whether the words are reluctant to come, or spew onto the page from some hidden well of ideas, I still have to write them out. No one else can pull exactly the same idea from their imagination as me. Another author might have similar ideas, but even those ideas need to be shaped into plots, scenes, characters and stories. My versions are vastly different than anyone else’s take on the same ideas.