There’s a moment, usually around 10:47 a.m., when I am standing in my kitchen holding a half-empty mug of cold coffee and a single sock, and I think: This is it. This is the creative life. The sock isn’t mine. It belongs to a neighbor’s cat who visits solely to deposit laundry on my fire …
I have a confession. I own a planner. Actually, I own four planners, because I keep buying ones with softer paper or more pleasing grid patterns, convinced that the right one will finally turn me into a person who wakes at 5:45 a.m., drinks hot water with lemon, and produces a thousand flawless words before …
I am not, by nature, a morning person. My default state is a sort of affectionate grumpiness that needs at least two cups of coffee and a solid thirty minutes of wall-staring before I’m safe for human interaction. Yet here I am, every single day, alarm shrieking at 6:15 a.m., shuffling to the kitchen in …
For most of my adult life, I was sure creativity was a skittish woodland creature. You know the type. It tiptoes out only when you’re half-asleep, a little hungry, and staring at a blank wall at 2 a.m. while a single, dramatic tear slides down your cheek. Flash a day planner in its direction and …
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 …