Perhaps I shouldn't admit this, but I can go months at a time without feeling the muse. I hit the hay at night without having penned a single word, with no regrets about not having done so, nor any unfinished thoughts or plots in my head. My diary pages remain empty and my laptop remains untouched.

And when this happens, I go with it. I don't press the creative spirit, because I'm confident it'll eventually come back - when I'm rested, less busy, inspired.

It's hit me now. I'm scribbling away. My diary pages are filling up. I have two short stories in the works, with more ideas on the way. I am eagerly awaiting edits on my next novel - which I ordinarily despise. (Write drunk; edit sober!) I'm seeking new opportunities and even re-reading old poetry.