Or I do what I hate most and project onto a character. Have some slightly nonsensical angst, over done metaphors and comforting boyfriends. All errors have equal custody between me and sleep deprivation
Enjolras doesn’t consider himself an artist. He doesn’t think in colors, or notes, or couplets. He writes speeches, words that are facts, not a reimagining of the world, rendered subjective. Enjolras isn’t an artist, never has been, never will be.
So when he spends hours staring at a blank page, days reaching for the perfect verb to unify his listeners— well then he must be tired, or stressed, or simply not trying hard enough.