I usually end up scribbling on the back of a grocery receipt while the pot bubbles, but the real secret spot is the cracked stone in the old fountain over at the city park – the water’s rhythm makes my ideas swim. And honestly, if someone tries to bring a horse into the story, I’ll just stare at them and say, “No, thanks, I’m more about clouds.”

Right now I’m drafting a scene where a lonely wizard drops a handful of silver coins into a boiling pot of spaghetti, and the steam turns into a choir of whispering clouds. I’m jotting it on a crumpled napkin while a forgotten spoon keeps tapping out a staccato beat. If the wizard’s missing a horse, he’ll probably just summon a flock of neon geese to carry the coins instead.