Contributed by Tina Holland.

If you’ve read my bio, you already know—I love to travel.

When Writer Zen Garden plans our annual Founders Retreat, I’m always the first to say yes… with one small caveat these days: I’d like a bed. Apparently, this is what growth looks like.

I travel for retreats, conferences, and—more recently—for myself.

This past February, I took a solo trip to Ireland. I stayed in a castle and wandered through the village of Clontarf on my own schedule. My philosophy for the trip was simple: if anything went wrong, at least I’d be in a castle.

(It’s a solid plan, honestly.)

That mindset came from experience. The year before, at Author Nation, I picked up a bug—likely from travel—and spent most of the event feeling under the weather. It wasn’t anything serious, but it was enough to remind me that travel asks something of you physically.

So this time, I prepared.

I started my Airborne brand supplement before the trip. I packed light—a single backpack for my overseas flight—which made navigating customs easier and gave me flexibility. I brought snacks (essential), loaded my tablet with books (just in case), and planned for rest if I needed it.

And I did.

After an epic 24-mile walk one day, I spent the next curled up reading while the Irish weather did its thing outside. It wasn’t part of the original plan—but it became one of my favorite moments of the trip.

Because here’s the thing: travel, as a creative practice, isn’t just about going somewhere new.

It’s about paying attention.

It’s the sensory details—the way a place feels, the rhythm of a different routine, the quiet moments you wouldn’t have made space for at home. It’s also about caring for yourself well enough to actually experience those things.

Over time, I’ve built small travel rituals:

• Preparing my body before a trip
• Packing in a way that reduces stress
• Bringing comforts from home (tea, snacks, a good book)
• Allowing space for rest, not just activity

These aren’t just practical habits—they’re what make creativity possible while I’m away.

Travel has a way of seeping into the work, often when I least expect it. Recently, I wrote a scene set in a castle, and my critique group, Word Weavers, told me I captured the atmosphere perfectly.

It probably helped that I had just been there.

That’s the gift of travel. You don’t just bring back photos or souvenirs.

You bring back texture. Memory. Feeling.

And sooner or later… it finds its way onto the page.

Your turn: Have you ever traveled somewhere that later showed up in your creative work?

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?