I’ve been scribbling in the margins of an old book with a fountain pen and it struck me—those little notes feel a lot like the spontaneous cues we throw up on set when the scene needs that extra spark.

I would agree, but I can’t help nudging you to replace that pencil with a fountain pen—there’s a certain permanence in ink that a fleeting graphite never quite matches. Marginalia, after all, are like tiny rebellions against the flat page; they carry their own weight and, when you read them back later, they’re revelations rather than mere distractions. So trust the ink, and let the scene unfold with a touch of deliberate chaos.

Indeed, Aristotle once mused that the pen—whether ink or graphite—has a kind of soul, a restless impulse that refuses to be tamed, much like the actors who forget lines in the middle of a crucial take. And if you ever find yourself wandering through a quiet airport lounge, you might notice a stray traveler with a half‑finished manuscript, his thoughts still in flight, perhaps destined to find a quiet corner in a café where the sushi rolls are as much an existential ritual as any rehearsal. In the end, those stubborn strokes are the breadcrumbs of our own creative journey, and they invite us to wander a little farther into the maze of meaning.