We love the romance of inspiration. The lightning bolt. The muse floating in at 2:00 a.m. with a silk robe and a perfect metaphor.
And sure, sometimes it happens like that.
But if you make your living creating anything, a keynote, a strategy, a chapter, a painting, a sermon, a meal, you learn a quieter truth: inspiration is not a reliable employee. She is more like a feral cat. You cannot command her. You can, however, make your porch inviting.
That is the paradox of disciplined self-forgetfulness: structure is often what helps you disappear.
You won’t disappear in a dissociation way, but in a way in which you stop monitoring yourself long enough to actually do the work. The way your inner narrator finally shuts up so something truer can speak.
The myth: “I’m waiting for the muse”
The waiting story sounds noble. It feels artistic. It lets us keep our identity as a creative person without facing the awkward moment where we have to create. The moment has to be just right for us to commit to our creativity.
But what we really know is that waiting is also a sneaky form of self-protection, or as Stephen Pressfield would call it, “Resistance.”
Because if the muse never arrives, you never have to risk making something mediocre. You never have to confront the messy middle. You never have to be seen trying. You can always console yourself because you never, “gave it your all.”
The problem is that inspiration does not tend to visit people who refuse to open the door. The alternative is not forcing inspiration. It is building a container for her arrival.
A container is a regular time. A dedicated place. A few constraints. A ritual that says, “This is where we meet,” without demanding that anything magical happen on schedule.
Flexible discipline, not rigidity
Discipline gets a bad rap because we confuse it with punishment, grit-your-teeth productivity, joyless repetition, or with someone yelling “No days off!” while your soul quietly files a complaint with HR.
But there is another kind of discipline that looks more like devotion.
Flexible discipline is showing up regularly, but not rigidly.
It is saying: I will return to the page most days, even when I am not brilliant. It is also saying: I am a human being, not a machine, so the shape of “showing up” can change.
Some days you write 1,500 words. Some days you write one sentence and delete it and stare out the window like a Victorian poet who has just been betrayed by a pigeon. The point is not the output. The point is the return. There is resilience in this too, but we’ll get to that later.
The return is what trains your attention, and attention is the doorway to self-forgetfulness.
Once you are inside the work consistently, you stop asking, “Am I doing this right?” and start asking, “What is this becoming?”
I heard Salman Rushdie speak a few years ago. As often happens when an author comes to speak, someone in the audience says, “I’m a new writer, what advice would you have for me?”
And Salman Rushdie considered the question for a second. “Most writing takes place at a table or a desk, yes?”
The audience member nodded.
“And most of us sit in a chair to get it done?”
Again a nod. Rushdie took a slow sip of water and cleared his throat.
“So, my advice to you my friend, is to sit the f&*% down.”
And that is the balance between flexible discipline and The Muse.
Ritual is a doorway, not the outcome
Ritual is not a performance. It is not a productivity hack. It is not a guarantee.
It is a threshold.
Writers have rituals for a reason. Not because the mug or the playlist contains special powers, but because ritual lowers the friction of beginning.
A ritual might be as simple as:
- Make tea.
- Open the document.
- Read the last paragraph you wrote.
- Write one imperfect new paragraph.
That last one is important: imperfect. Ritual is not about summoning genius. It is about moving your mind from “me” to “the work.”
Artists do this too. Painters set up their palette. Musicians tune. Dancers warm up. Monks bow. Athletes do drills.
None of these things are the main event. They are the doorway into presence, and in this presence is where inspiration has a fighting chance.
Examples of devotion over drama
One of the most grounded creative ideas I know is this: you do not write when you feel like a writer. You write to become one. (see Salman Rushdie’s eloquent take on this above).
Plenty of writers have talked about the discipline of daily work. Not the glamorous version. The ordinary version. Sitting down. Showing up. Writing badly until it becomes writing.
Same with artists who return to the studio even when nothing is clicking. Same with spiritual practice, where you return to prayer or meditation not because you feel holy, but because you are practicing attention, humility, and surrender.
Spiritual disciplines are basically training in self-forgetfulness.
You kneel. You breathe. You chant. You read sacred words. You walk slowly. You fast. You serve.
None of it forces God. None of it guarantees insight.
But it creates conditions where you become less preoccupied with yourself, and more available to what is true.
That availability is the point.
Hustle vs devotion
This is where we have to draw a line, because hustle can dress up like discipline.
Hustle is self-focused, even when it is productive.
Hustle says:
- I must prove something.
- I must outrun my anxiety.
- I must earn my worth through output.
- I must control the outcome.
Devotion says:
- I will tend to this because it matters.
- I will keep my promises to the work.
- I will show up with care, not force.
- I will do my part and release the rest.
Hustle tightens the nervous system. Devotion steadies it.
Hustle keeps the spotlight on you. Devotion moves the spotlight onto the work, the calling, the practice, the offering.
And that shift is where self-forgetfulness becomes possible.
Because when you are devoted, you are not constantly asking how you are doing. You are asking what you are serving.
A practice for this week: Build a “muse porch”
Try this for seven days. Keep it small. Keep it kind. Keep it consistent.
- Choose a time window you can actually keep. Start with 20 minutes.
- Create a tiny ritual that signals, “We’re doing the thing now.” Light a candle. Put on one song. Open the notebook. Sit in the same chair.
- Define success as showing up, not producing. Your only job is to begin.
- End with a closing cue. A note about what comes next. A simple sentence like, “Tomorrow I will pick up here.”
You are not trying to trap inspiration. You are making room for it.
The muse does not need you to be perfect. She needs you to be available.
And availability, paradoxically, is often built through structure.
Not structure as a cage, but structure as a container.
A porch light.
A doorway.
A place where you can forget yourself long enough to make something real.