There’s a rumor going around that creative people are disorganized—that we’re all flouncing about in silk robes, waiting for a lightning bolt of inspiration while our bills go unpaid and our houseplants turn into little brown skeletons. I’d like to dispute that rumor, mostly because my robe is cotton and my houseplants are only mostly …

Here’s a little secret. Every morning, before the sun even decides it’s worth getting out of bed, I trundle into the kitchen wearing slippers that are mostly duct tape and good intentions. I make coffee the exact same way I did yesterday and the day before that. Grind, filter, water, wait. It’s not glamorous. It’s …

I have a favourite spatula. It’s nothing special, really—a stubby little silicone number with a wooden handle, still carrying a faint yellow blush from an unfortunate turmeric incident back in 2019. Every morning, somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the moment my brain remembers it has a body, I reach for that spatula. …

There’s a photo of me from around 1987. I’m clutching a mug the size of a baptismal font and glaring at a typewriter like it just called my mother something unforgivable. My hair suggests a family of squirrels has taken up permanent residence. The bathrobe I’m wearing looks cobbled together from several profoundly depressed teddy …

I have a confession: I own seven identical alarm clocks. Not because I’m a time-traveling sleeper agent, but because I am, deep in my bones, a person who craves routine the way a Labrador craves a dropped meatball. The trouble is, I’m also a person who believes creativity is a wild, untamable beast, best lured …