Where The Muse Meets The Writer

At 19 years old, a year after joining college, I started writing again. In my younger years, I had written fiction stories which teachers had used to teach composition writing. This small deed had put a stamp in me that I was a writer and was going to make it big someday. It gave me hope that I could use my third language, English to express myself and inspire others to do the same.


Fast forward to college and a free WordPress blog, I was writing again in my dorm room which I shared with three other roommates. I wrote about my school life, my faith, my pursuits and my passion to seven hundred followers every week. In my eyes, I had made it.


However, I felt that living in a student community and sharing my space with roommates inhibited the muse from coming from. I felt the muse did not feel invited into this space and was claustrophobic. Surely, the muse wants ample space where her robes flow and her fingers twirl as she induces creativity to her host. Or so I thought.


One of my roommates knew of my desire to move out, rent a place of my own and work on my creative projects. We both looked forward to graduating and having a place of our own. However, I continued to update my blog every week, making sure to write blog topic ideas on my notes app as they came.


Early in the morning and late into the night, I crept into the shared study room, studied, worked on my assignments and updated my blog. This sacred routine was a source of peace, inspiration and connection with other bloggers. I knew it, from deep within me, that the muse appreciated the stillness and silence and she was always waiting for me at this time.


Two years later, I graduated and went ahead to live with my sister while interning at a Creative Agency after which I got the role of a full-time writer and marketing assistant. I have my own studio apartment now and the muse has become more adaptable. She answers when I beckon. She doesn’t discriminate based on time. She appreciates the new place, the odd working hours of a writer and she adores lemon water.


The muse no longer waits to be invited but lets herself in. I feel that she was always there, but she needed me to grow up first. 




This post first appeared in a few words.

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