I’ll be honest: I don’t write every day. I used to. I believed in the ritual of daily pages and discipline over inspiration, and while those things have their place, I’ve found my best writing comes when I leave space for living. I’ve had to learn to forgive myself for days when the words don’t come and trust that they will begin again. 

Just last week, I did something wildly romantic. Not in the grand flashy way–but in the way that made me remember why I do what I do.  

I was in Orvieto, a hilltop town in central Italy, with cobbled streets so narrow a car cannot pass through them. It was the golden hour, the perfect moment when every wall turns to honey and every shadow softens. I’d been thinking about two new  characters all afternoon–a young American woman and a flirty Italian tour guide–and I’d just finished scribbling a scene between them on the back of a wine menu.

I wandered into a tiny bookshop where the owner keeps a cat named Luna and classical music playing low. I browsed for a while, then bought a well-worn Italian edition of Jane Eyre–my comfort read–and tucked a note inside before placing it back on the shelf. The note simply said:

“If you’ve found this, then you believe in romance too. Go have a glass of wine in the plazza, and fall a little in love–with someone or with yourself..”

Then I left. That was it. No fanfare. But walking away, my heart raced like I’d just kissed a stranger under a streetlamp.

That’s the kind of romance I live for. Not knowing who will find the note, or when. Just trusting someone will. Maybe they’ll be lonely, or brave, or both. Maybe it will be exactly what they needed. That’s the power of a little magic in the real world. 

Writing, for me, has always been about belief in connection, in timing, in second chances. I’m fascinated with how people come together. What wounds they carry. What songs they love. What keeps them awake all night. I want to know how they fall apart and how they choose to love anyway.