Sitting in the secret garden at Civitella in the mornings before the heat grew intense was an intensely productive time. Looking out over the Apennines, smelling the jasmine and roses, listening to the birds chattering, I felt a sense of unhurried calm settle over me, and I was able to generate a significant portion of my novel. This serenity had the added benefit of “refilling the creative well,” essential to any creative practice. I conjure the scene even as I block out the exhaust, horns, and skyscrapers of New York to channel that productivity now that I’m home.