Caveat for all the writers who really want to write someday, but who believe can’t write unless they feel inspired: you may not want to read this post.

(If you’re still reading, don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

Working on this book for thirteen days straight has reminded me of a truth I’d forgotten: a proven* way to become inspired to write is to start writing, and then keep writing.

You read that correctly. Instead of waiting for the inspiration before you start writing, take whatever weird little nugget of a thought you have, and start writing about that. If the weird little nugget is, “I forgot to buy mustard,” start writing about a person who goes to the supermarket or the corner bodega or the general store or the gourmet shop or Costco—in other words, anywhere you can go to purchase mustard—and follow them around the store to find out why they forgot the mustard. Did they leave the list at home? If so, why? Were they distracted when they were getting ready to leave the house and they left the list on the kitchen counter? Or are they accustomed to chatting on the phone with their spouse or significant other or parent while shopping and that person tells them what to get, only this time, that person is unavailable for a specific reason—out of town, had a fight, died, just separated, is working and can’t be disturbed, is trying to get the baby to sleep, is running a marathon—so the shopper is on their own. Or maybe there’s some hostility attached to the mustard, such as how they only need it because Rachel is bringing her new boyfriend Kyle when the group goes on a beach picnic and the shopper is in charge of the sandwiches, and nobody likes Kyle because he’s so judgy, and he claims he can only eat this certain brand of mustard, so the shopper subconsciously doesn’t want to buy it, especially since with any luck, Rachel will dump him before the next picnic and nobody else likes that brand.

All those possibilities out of something as mundane as “I forgot to buy mustard.”

And it doesn’t have to end there, either. The forgetting of the mustard can be a sign of something else, such as early-onset dementia or the breakdown of a relationship. You can explore the personalities and dynamics of the group of friends who go to the beach picnics, including the secrets they’re hiding from one another—Sophia has a crush on Rachel, Paul can’t stand George’s stupid jokes, Bethany is cheating on her husband Richard (which Sophia and George know, but Paul and Rachel don’t). The possibilities are literally endless, but until you start writing it all down, you’re probably not going to find any of it.

(Truth: before I started writing this post, none of these ideas existed for me. The forgetting of the mustard had its genesis in the fact that a couple nights ago, I went grocery shopping, but even that connection was thin because I didn’t buy mustard, nor did I forget anything—at least, nothing I’ve remembered so far.)

For weeks before I started this 100-day project, I was struggling with the third section of my book. I knew vaguely what needed to happen, but knowing the end doesn’t tell you squat about how you get there. For the first few days, I didn’t touch the third section; instead, I went back to the second section, where I was fairly comfortable, and worked on things like chronology and editing language. Even though the third section was looming, I let myself focus on a section where I was more comfortable, essentially revving up for the tougher part ahead.

Last week, I decided to play around with the missing material in the third section—and this time, I was able to come up with a plot line. So for the past several nights, I’ve been constructing pieces of the story that didn’t exist at this time when I started this program, but which is serving multiple purposes so far.

Would I have come up with this new plot line if I hadn’t been writing regularly for several days? Maybe. After all, ideas sometimes hit out of the blue. On the other hand, there’s a strong argument for the idea that because my mind has already been in the story every night (and during the day when I’m doing other things), it was already primed for another new idea.

So for those of you who are waiting for inspiration, I’m here to suggest that you might have the whole thing backward. Maybe instead of hanging around waiting for the muse to show up, you tell the muse, “To hell with you, I’m going to write anyway.” Obviously, I can’t guarantee anything, but my guess is that you make it a point to write day after day—even if what you’re writing isn’t your dream of the Great American Novel, maybe if you feel as if you’re writing utter crap—sooner or later, the muse is going to show up. After all, nobody likes being ignored, right? Of course, while you’re writing every day, you’re also out living life—talking with coworkers, watching out the window while your commuter train speeds through towns, watching the dynamics of the kids and parents in the drop-off line, noticing the neighbors’ landscaping as you speed-walk through the neighborhood at lunchtime. And all that life can give you ideas, too.

Start writing, and keep writing. Obviously, you don’t have to follow this practice if you have a better method that’s enabling you to produce lots of brilliant work. But if you don’t . . . maybe give it a shot. Worst thing that happens is that you write a huge pile of stuff, and maybe it’s all crap. But maybe you might unearth something in that pile that is your very own brilliant nugget of an idea. Wouldn’t that be fabulous?

*Proven by me. I did it. At least, I’ve been doing it for thirteen days.