on inspiration
slowing down, noticing, and returning to the practice of creating
I’m sometimes asked where I derive inspiration and what practices I employ when it comes to the creative process. For context, very early on in my writing adventures, I was looking for a framework I could abide by. When I discovered The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron, I felt like I had stumbled upon gold. The sheer act of showing up to the page and writing for writing’s sake felt less stringent than the rigid rules that had been imparted to me in high school and undergrad. There was something liberating about setting down some of those technical expectations and simply returning to the practice itself, something that had been a companion on my journey since I was young.
When I set out to write my next book, Living Artfully: Creating Without Conditions, I outlined five simple practices that I have been employing for over a decade. The intention behind the book was to inspire other creatives to be where they are. Not to chase the muse, but to cultivate a relationship with themselves. A relationship that, through engaging more deeply with your life, allows you to listen to the inner nudge of creativity and to practice what it means to show up fully for your life.
The idea is that in cultivating a more loving, attentive, and accepting relationship with ourselves, life begins to reveal threads along our creative journey, or what I like to call flecks of gold. These threads arrive not through force, but through attention. Through noticing what life and the creative process are subtly trying to reveal, often in ways that are easily overlooked, and yet undeniably present when we allow ourselves to slow down enough to see them.
As a writer, I’ve discovered that inspiration is everywhere, but often we are too busy or unwilling to notice it. To practice presence inside ordinary days is to pay attention to what is arising in the moment. It is to be immersed enough in what is in front of you that you allow yourself to be moved by it. Creativity, like life, asks for a kind of curiosity. A willingness to stay with what appears long enough for it to reveal something deeper, something just beneath the surface that cannot be accessed in a rush.
When you slow down, when you stop reaching for the next thing, something begins to open. The moment offers an invitation. Sometimes serious, sometimes playful, sometimes daring, and often easily missed if you are not paying attention.
I think what many artists and creatives struggle with is the belief that the muse, when chased, will suddenly open itself to us, as if creativity were a kind of mating ritual where we perform and it chooses us. What I’ve discovered, however, is that inspiration does not arrive on command. It isn’t something we can coerce or will into being. It is felt, received, and observed. It shapes you as much as you shape what you create, and in many ways asks something of you before it reveals itself fully.
The invitation, then, is an earnest willingness to behold. To let go of our best-laid plans. To be open to following the threads of inspiration, even when they lead us somewhere we did not expect, somewhere we may not have chosen had we been left to our own devices. That, to me, is the real gift of this journey. The opportunity to let ourselves and our creativity be moved by what the moment is asking for.
There is an innate beauty in living artfully. A kind of surrender that opens doors to possibility. The grasping and clenching that so often accompany our need to control outcomes, whether in our personal or professional lives, stand in contrast to the trust required in the creative process. To create in this way is to hand over the wheel to what wants to be made, and with a kind of faith, to follow that thread wherever it leads.
Sometimes, like anything in life, the result is not ostentatious in its expression, and we discover that the idea doesn’t quite have legs. Sometimes the thread leads to another thread, and we find ourselves following something entirely different than what we set out to create, projects unfolding more slowly than we anticipated. Sometimes the flecks of gold are pieces of art made only for ourselves, born from grief, from longing, from the work of trying to understand our place in the world. And sometimes, we catch that glint of gold at just the right moment, and something clicks into place. Something that feels, if only briefly, like kismet.
What we begin to discover is that our only job is to show up. To follow the subtle threads. To allow them to take us on creative adventures. And to remain willing to explore wherever those portals of imagination may lead.
In Living Artfully, I introduce a framework I call D.A.N.C.E., a way of approaching the creative process that is less about rigid structure and more about rhythm, relationship, and trust. It’s not a formula to get it right, but a way of staying in motion with your creativity. A way of creating more than you consume, of loosening your grip on productivity, and of returning to the steady practice of making.
If you feel called, you can explore more of that here: D.A.N.C.E
Creative Cue: Set a timer for 10–15 minutes. Sit with your surroundings and observe. Notice what is present. What you see, hear, feel, and sense. When the timer ends, write for a few minutes about what you experienced. Capture thoughts, emotions, and any intuitive nudges that surfaced. Then choose one thread and follow it a little further.
Question to Carry:What did I notice, and which thread feels most alive to follow next?
© Alana Foy 2026
