Stories approach me in many ways: news articles, art, nature, overheard conversations. Before I put pen to paper, swift fingers to the keyboard, I ruminate. The idea stirs restlessly until it finds a question and latches on: what if or how or why. The pen becomes my shovel and I dig. Pieces emerge, sometimes all at once, sometimes in broken bits and missing pieces. I visit libraries or parks or museums and scavenge for the lost parts - it takes some skill and luck, like searching through a cave with a dwindling match. Words pour onto the page, documenting all I know and filling voids unknown. While writing, I retrace my steps. More library trips and seminars. Perhaps I’ll draw a map of the entire excavation site. Perhaps I’ll entice details from the ground with mood boards and playlists. All the while, I continue the digging and polishing and dusting until the pieces come together and take shape. And when they do, there’s no better feeling than that.