Why Waiting for Inspiration Slows You Down

I was never very good at Blackjack. Too much about gambling leaks out my control, and when my husband and I were $80 bucks down one whimsical Vegas trip back in 2007, I was quick to call it and head for the buffet table instead. At least there I knew I’d get a return on investment.

Songwriting can feel remarkably like gambling if the currency of luck is inspiration. When it strikes, inspiration feels amazing, bringing clarity and focus like a sudden winning streak. But too often inspiration runs on its own schedule, and if you wait until you feel inspired to write a song, you’ll be handing your consistency over to a lottery system.

It’s no wonder that professional writers across all mediums tell us that when we make inspiration the gatekeeper of our work, we end up stopping and starting far more often than we need to. The writers who grow aren’t necessarily the most inspired, but they are often the most consistent.

When I talk about songwriting craft, I’m not as much interested in the product of the song, but the songwriter themself. Care for the writer, and the songs will follow. One of the best things we can do for ourselves as writers is create a routine. There’s a common assumption that inspiration comes first and then we write. But more often, it works the other way around. Routine doesn’t stifle creativity, it protects it.

When writing becomes a regular practice, we remove the question of whether to begin. What to write becomes clearer, and the act of writing itself starts to generate momentum. That momentum is what invites inspiration in.

When we show up consistently, something begins to develop beneath the surface. That thing is instinct. It’s what makes the rest of us wonder how artists like Joni Mitchell could ever write a song like “Both Sides Now” that transcends time, generation, and even genre.

What’s striking isn’t only the vulnerability of the lyric, which is a quality we often equate with inspiration. It’s the design, the structure, that is so powerful in delivering the content itself. That structure comes out in choices like lyric repetition, the focus on a single topic within each verse section, the refrain that ends the verses while gaining meaning each time, and the melodic shapes and harmonic choices that appear so simple and yet so intentionally chosen. That kind of structure doesn’t come from a single moment of inspiration. It comes from time spent writing.

There’s also a kind of feedback loop that develops through regular practice. We begin to notice patterns like the kinds of melodic phrasing we return to often and the chord movements we default to. Even our average or unfinished songs do something important, showing us how we write. That awareness becomes the foundation for growth.

Inspiration often gives us a starting point, but it’s not what carries the song forward. That comes from staying with it and exploring different directions, trying ideas that don’t quite work, adjusting the tone, the melody, and the structure. Over time, something begins to emerge because we stayed long enough to discover it.

There are many days I don’t feel inspired to write, and that’s okay. What matters is deciding in advance what those days are for. I could explore melody without worrying about lyrics, free-write for ten minutes, experiment with chords or rhythm, or even write something intentionally “bad” and free myself up to play rather than judge the outcome.

Over time, I shift from “I don’t know what to do here,” to “I think something feels wrong in this area,” to finally “I’m feeling something’s off and I have an idea about how to change it.” That progression doesn’t come from waiting, but from practice, giving yourself repeated experiences inside the writing process.

Inspiration still has a place, but it’s not responsible for your body of work. You are. When you build a consistent relationship with writing, inspiration becomes something that joins you along the way instead of something you have to wait for before you begin.