Inspiration, to me, comes in many forms. It’s Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Elena Kagan and Sonia Sotomayor. It’s J.K. Rowling and Pablo Picasso and Stephen King. It’s my grandparents, my mom and my dad.
I haven’t been everywhere, far from it, but I have seen enough of the world to know how much more I need to visit, how many places demand exploration and immersion. Below are just a few of the trips I have yet to take.
My family has taught me how to fight for the right to create, how to make it the most important thing in your day and your life.
They have shown me that there is no direct route and how to forge my own.
Instead, I thought I’d write about inspiration in the kitchen and in the office.
And to do that, I need to talk about the Great British Baking Show.
The writer aesthetic is cozy. It is sleepy and comfy, it is intentionally messy buns and no makeup and stretchy jeans. It is the uniform of the rainy-day, tea-drinking, muse-chasing writer, and it is my favorite.
When it comes to weird, unhelpful or generally unusual talents, let’s see if you’ve got me beat.
No. This is not my theme song. It’s my tank song.
I have been given a lot of advice.
And while a great deal of it has been good (and, naturally, a great deal has been truly terrible as well,) nothing has yet come to claim the crown as these simple words from my grandfather.
What do I do when I’m not writing? The things that will inspire me. The things that make me happy.
How can I pick the most beautiful, of these mirages and fantasies? How can I say one of these ancient histories sparkles more brilliantly than the next, when they all glow with their own stories, just as I glow with mine?