I’ve had an interesting relationship with inspiration, and over the last year, it’s taken on a whole new meaning for me. For the 25 years before my move from Detroit to Atlanta in 2010, I was a prolific songwriter. I’d written and recorded over a hundred songs. Music wasn’t just something I did—it was part of who I was.
I grew up surrounded by tools to create. My parents got me recording equipment when I was a preteen. By the time I was 12, I had songwriting software. Creativity wasn’t just encouraged in our home—it was equipped. So, I wrote. And I kept writing.
But when I moved to Atlanta at 35, something changed.
Losing Inspiration
The move was hard. I’d left my community, my culture, and the creative scene in Detroit that had shaped me since high school. Trying to manage the emotional toll of leaving it all behind, I made a decision—maybe even a quiet vow—that I wasn’t going to do music anymore.
And I didn’t. For 13 years, I didn’t write a single song.
It wasn’t intentional at first. It was just survival. I kept creating, but not from a place of inspiration. Instead, I wrote over 60 books during that time—ghostwriting projects, business books, and guides on topics like working from home and building small businesses. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t inspired. It was practical.
What’s wild is that I didn’t even notice inspiration was missing.
The Return of Inspiration
It wasn’t until I moved back to Detroit in 2023 that inspiration returned, and it didn’t come quietly. Suddenly, I’d close my eyes for a moment and hear songs I’d never heard before. Entire dreams were scored with music.
At first, I thought it might be tied to location, like inspiration had geofenced itself to Detroit. Or maybe it was about mindset. In Atlanta, I’d been in “Bible mode,” focused on surviving, not creating. Maybe inspiration only works when you’re open to receiving it.
Whatever the reason, it was like something inside me clicked back on. By the time inspiration came rushing back, I couldn’t keep up. Songs were landing on me constantly, like they’d been waiting patiently all those years, ready to be made.
Inspiration as a Partner
Over time, I’ve started to see inspiration not as something fleeting, but as a partner. It feels like inspiration has its own personality, its own rhythm, and it shows up when the conditions are right.
Take my friend Paul, a guitarist. He played a chord progression that inspired me to write a melody on the spot. A few months later, he shared his original inspiration for the song, and it was nothing like what I’d written. I realized then that inspiration is interpretive—it flows differently through each of us, depending on how open we are.
I also think of the ideas I’ve had over the years that I didn’t act on. Like the time in my 20s when I imagined turning abandoned properties in Detroit into short-term rentals for executives, long before Airbnb was a thing. Or the quirky song I wrote that later showed up in the world as MC Hammer’s “Addams Family Groove.” Were those ideas meant for me? Or was I just one of many people who received them?
I’ve come to believe that some ideas are universal—they’re meant to exist, and if one person doesn’t bring them to life, someone else will. But other ideas feel personal, like they’re assigned to us specifically, and it’s our responsibility to bring them into the world.
A Creative Responsibility
Today, inspiration feels urgent, like it’s on a mission. The songs are coming faster than ever—sometimes multiple ideas in a single day. At 49, I’m flooded with melodies and lyrics, more than I ever experienced in my 20s.
And I’ve started to see it this way: inspiration isn’t just a partner—it’s a responsibility. As creatives, we’re tasked with sharing ideas, stories, and music that move humanity forward. Inspiration is how we vision-cast, how we weave the fabric of humanity and push it toward something greater.
That’s why I’ve stopped taking inspiration for granted. I see it now for what it is: a divine partnership. And I’m committed to honoring it.
Closing Reflection
Inspiration isn’t fleeting—it’s constant. It’s a partner that stays with you when you’re open to it, and it waits for you to be ready again when you’ve closed yourself off.
For 13 years, I didn’t hear the music. But when I came back to alignment—to my purpose—it returned with a force I couldn’t ignore. That’s the nature of inspiration. It’s not something we chase. It’s something we receive, nurture, and act on when it arrives.
