The Reluctant Muse

I often speak with Belle about the nature of the creative process. I bemoan my lack of ambition and inspiration. She insists I must create a least one piece of art each day, whether it's good or not. A song or blog post or some other kind of poetry or prose-as long as it gets done. Successful-and prolific- songwriters swear by this process. Even if you realise halfway through it's going to turn out to be a piece of crap-finish it. This is a habit that must become as ingrained as muscle memory. Surely, according to the law of averages, they can't all be bad. The more more prolific you can become, the greater opportunity for those moments of brilliance. Certainly, this idea is not new, in fact, it's so well known that expounding upon it is ridiculous. What is more ridiculous, however, is that I have not embraced this discipline. It is not a practice of daily life. I write about it to remind myself of it's importance-and how dangerous inactivity can be. I fear my inspiration has atrophied. I haven't written a song in over a year-piece of crap or otherwise. I'm embarrassed to admit this publicly, but it's true.
You can't wait for the Muse to reach down and "touch you with divine inspiration". She lives inside us. She is an inherently lazy bitch who must be shaken out of her complacency every now and then. She must be coerced, teased and tricked with rituals and games. She must be fed and exercised with music, art, literature, vibrant conversation. Any kind of stimulation. Unfortunately negative influence also has a profound effect. Heartbreak, conflict, trauma all inspire great art. It's become a cliche. Perhaps that's the cause of my recent dry-spell. I've been avoiding negative emotions-even going so far as to medicate myself against them. Anti-depressants, anti-psychotics. No drugs or alcohol. My brain chemistry has been completely altered since my last real creative period. This must have had a huge impact on my creative impulse. I'm terrified I've lost it altogether.
Belle assures me that I haven't. She insists I'm a "genius". Flattering. Even if I was, that's based on a back catalogue written during years of heartbreak, substances and existential angst.I'm not that person anymore. I fear she was the artist, not I.
Could there be a marketing demographic consisting of people who want to hear songs about joint pain, empty-nest syndrome, menopause and fear of mortality? Belle assures me there is. She says it's called "Adult Alternative". Thank you, CBC.