The Muse must not be so delicate that only summer days and warm breezes will inspire her to let go of her talent. Else how would the great - if sometimes rather dark - literature of the world be done? But writers must slog on through the buffets and breaks of living, and embrace more fervently their talent however small, as the chill of grief and winds of worry blow through.
The destination is greater than the trials of the journey. To have created something out of self, to have shaped and pummeled words and thoughts into story and prose, is to live generously. The more circumstances might flatten hope or comfort, the more urgent is the need to open wider the funnel of spark and flame, and pour with gleeful abandon thoughts into the cauldron, to boil down into plot and characters, purposefully releasing the Muse rather than clutching her tight.
Life may occasionally cause us to hold our breath, but sooner than later we must let go, and just breathe.