I walk everyday. 

There’s something about moving my body that makes the noise in my head dissolve just enough for ideas to slip through. Most of my stories start that way: a scene out of context, a half-thought that hits mid-step, a sentence that demands to be written down before it disappears. This is my inspiration.

I’ve stopped believing that every idea belongs to me. I think some of them choose us. I believe in the old concept of genius — not as talent, but as something almost otherworldly that visits when the conditions are right. You can’t force it to stay, but you can make it comfortable enough to return.

That’s where meditation helps me — transcendental or otherwise. It’s not about clearing my mind; it’s about creating a safe room for thoughts to rearrange themselves. Sometimes the idea comes in whole, vivid scenes; sometimes it’s just an image I have to protect until I understand it.

Fantasy works the same way. Desire too. They come from that same pulse — something primal and deeply human. But the sexiest thing I can actually make is safety. Safety to explore without fear of judgment. Safety to not please everyone. Safety to seek the pleasure you actually want. 

So I listen. I walk. I take notes. I keep space for the quiet arrival of whatever comes my way. Because inspiration is patient — but only if you are too.