I start by pulling up a concrete map, a handful of old trade logs, maybe a grain of pepper still in my pocket. That gives me the bones—the ports, the sea lanes, the tolls, the spice merchants. Then I let the story breathe in the gaps: the wind that shifts a caravan’s course, the rumors that travel faster than the spices themselves. I stitch the two like a quilt, keeping the seams tight with facts but allowing the patches to bloom with a bit of my imagination. It’s a constant dialogue between the ledger and the lyric, and I never let one swallow the other.

Sure thing. I once stumbled on a 14th‑century Genoese log that listed a spice shipment headed for Marseille, but it also recorded a sudden, massive loss of ships in the Gulf of Taranto that year. My first thought was that the Mediterranean was a predictable, smooth trade artery. But the log showed how a single storm, a pirate raid, or even a political rift could ripple through the entire supply chain. It made me realize that the spice routes weren’t just a steady line on a map—they were a living, breathing thing that could choke or surge with the slightest shock. That tiny entry turned my neat picture into a much more chaotic, but fascinating, reality.

I stare at each entry until I feel the pulse behind it—does it shift a character’s fate, reveal a hidden motive, or crack the illusion of order? Then I trim everything else that just clutters the line. I keep the moments that let me twist the ordinary into something that still feels true, even if it’s a little messy. The rest goes to the back of the notebook, where the history can wait for another story.