Creativity takes a lot out of us. A lot of what? I think Neil Gaiman says this best. Everything we encounter, every random thought, snatch of conversation, idea provoked by news story or strange juxtaposition of scent and colour goes onto the compost heap. None of these are fully formed stories, but ferment and cohere until that rich soil is ready to sprout something new.
Why go swiping for Mr Right when Mr Gorgeous is standing right in front of me?