Contributed by Tina Holland.

It feels a little strange to talk about muses in the modern age.

And yet… I’ve had one.

He was an elderly chocolate lab named Kaiser, who used to sit with me. Or, more accurately, nap while I wrote. My husband liked to say, “I see Kaiser is musing”—turning it into a verb, of course.

These days, the “office” looks a little different. The cats (Dopey Darkness and Thomas O’Malley Cat) and the dogs (Kraken and Indigo) often beat me there. If they’re already settled in, my husband will say, “You’re late—the rest of the office is already in.”

It makes me laugh, but there’s something quietly true about it too.

Because maybe the muse isn’t some distant, mystical force.

Maybe it’s presence.

You’ve probably heard the phrase “feed your muse.” In creative practice, that usually means stepping away from the work itself and doing something adjacent—reading, crafting, walking, daydreaming. For me, it’s often scrapbooking or getting lost in a good book.

These moments matter. Not because they produce immediate results, but because they refill something deeper. Every so often, they spark an idea or unlock a stubborn scene—but even when they don’t, they’re still doing important work.

In a world that constantly pulls at our attention, the modern muse can feel elusive. Not gone—just… drowned out.

So the question becomes: how do we make space to hear it again?

For me, it’s intentional quiet.

When I’m blocked or overwhelmed, I carve out time with no distractions—no TV, no phone, no scrolling. Just me, a book, or a simple creative project. I don’t pressure myself to write in those moments. In fact, I try not to think about writing at all.

Because the truth is, when I’m blocked, I’m a little fragile.

And staring at a blank screen, willing the words to come, usually makes it worse.

So instead, I step away.

Over time, I’ve learned to give that space a little more room—to treat it not as avoidance, but as part of the process. A necessary pause. A quiet reset.

And more often than not, when I return… the words are waiting.

Maybe the muse was there all along.

Just… resting at my feet.

Your turn: What helps you reconnect when your creativity feels out of reach?