The Myth of the Muse

How to Create When You’re Uninspired, Unwashed, and Slightly Crying

As I write this, I am aching, exhausted, and—if I’m honest—kind of pissed off.

It’s been a week. One of those ones. I finally tackled a long-overdue day of Swedish Death Clearing (if you know, you know) in the many sheds we’ve mysteriously accumulated. I endured the monthly Brand Meeting at work—an organisational ritual so exquisitely structured and relentlessly “neurotypical” it feels like a full-body assault on several of my autistic traits. On top of that, I’m missing deadlines for my own creative projects left, right and centre.

To add insult to injury, the internet is full of chirpy people declaring that the 1st of April is the real New Year’s Day (apparently, it was until the Gregorian calendar kicked in—feel free to picture a smug pope and some deeply confused peasants). Cue a wave of posts about fresh starts, new goals, the sacred rebirth of spring… and honestly? I’m already knackered. I’ve spent the past three months grinding away at my creative plans. I don’t want another bloody New Year. I want a nap.

Here’s the rub: one of my enduring challenges as a neurodivergent person is that I cannot for the life of me ‘sequence’. I’m brilliant at ideas. Fabulous at visualising the finished product. But the bit in between—the foggy land of steps, structure and scheduling—is a swirling miasma of confusion and dread.

I’ve also discovered, aged fifty-something, that I’m mildly dyslexic—despite my literature degree and my stubborn love of long words. That sequencing difficulty? It’s part of the package. Combine that with euphoric moments of “Let’s do ALL the things right now!” and I end up setting myself what I believe are modest goals, which in fact turn out to be 14-point life overhauls dressed up as a floral bullet journal.

Even my goal of doing less this year (bless my heart) has become somethingl I must ruthlessly achieve, or I have failed. I’ve weaponised my own rest. There’s so much to unpick here—neurodivergence, toxic productivity, the creeping panic of midlife time-awareness—but here’s the truth: I’m overwhelmed. Again. And the only way out is through.

So, what do we do when inspiration has legged it, the Muse is ghosting us, and we’re standing in our kitchen wearing yesterday’s socks and today’s anxiety?

We micro-move.

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Creative Micro-Moves for the Uninspired, Unwashed and Slightly Crying

1. The 7-Minute Scribble

Set a timer. Open your Notes app. Grab a scrap of paper. Write anything—literally anything—for 7 minutes. No editing. No thinking. Just move the words from your head to the page. You can stop after 7 minutes. You probably won’t want to.

2. The ‘Beauty Reboot’

Pick one small sensual thing that reminds you you’re a human being, not a malfunctioning to-do list. Perfume. Silk scarf. A spoonful of something beautiful. Let it re-enchant your nervous system.

3. Voice Note Wander

Go for a walk and talk into your phone. It can be a poem, a rant, or the beginnings of a post like this one. Speaking can bypass the critical part of your brain that’s stuck on perfection.

4. Steal a Structure

If the blank page is terrifying, steal someone else’s scaffolding. Use a prompt, a haiku, a “how-to” post, a dialogue form, or a list. Creativity loves to be held—especially when your executive function is fried.

5. Make Something Tiny

Write a three-line poem. Take a photo. Cut out a magazine picture and glue it in your journal. You don’t need to make a masterpiece. You just need to make something. Small is holy.

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A Final Word From Your Muse (Who is, Surprise, Actually You)

There is nothing wrong with you if you’re too tired to begin again.

There is nothing wrong with you if the word “goal” makes your shoulders tense.

There is nothing wrong with you if you’re in midlife and panicking about time and dreaming big and also wanting to lie in the garden with a cocktail and a dog and do absolutely nothing for at least a week.

You don’t need to wait for the Muse to arrive, trailing silk veils and good lighting. You are the Muse. You’re also the one who forgot to buy milk and cried at an advert yesterday. Both are real. Both are holy. Both are deeply creative.

Take a breath. Take a micro-move. Take the pressure off. Then—if and when you’re ready—begin again, not with a bang, but with a whisper.