I used to think routine was the enemy of creativity. It felt like a cage—a beige, corporate, nine-to-five cage that would strangle every wild, artistic impulse I had. I was a freelancer in New York City, for goodness’ sake. I was supposed to be chasing muses down fire escapes at 3 a.m., not setting an …
The Myth of the Muse and the Magic of the Mundane I used to believe creativity was a lightning bolt. A fickle, divine visitor that struck when you least expected it—preferably while you were wearing a silk robe, sipping espresso, and gazing pensively out a rain-streaked window. I’d wait for the muse, and while I …
There’s a particular sound a set makes when it comes apart. Not the crash you’d expect. Quieter. The unscrewing of platforms. The soft collapse of a flat that stood for someone’s living room for three weeks. Adhesive ripping away from the floor where Spike had marked your ninth cross. It sounds like something admitting it …
I have a drawer in my apartment that I think of as the drawer of good intentions. Except it is not actually a drawer. It is a canvas tote bag stuffed inside another canvas tote bag, wedged between my radiator and a stack of Playbills I keep meaning to organize by year. Inside the outer …
There’s a moment, usually around 7:42 AM on a Tuesday, when I find myself glaring at my electric toothbrush with the kind of venom most people reserve for someone who talks through the entire movie. It hums in my hand, a smug little timer counting down the two minutes I’m contractually obligated to spend scrubbing …