I don’t know if they ever really are. I mean, there are often works that you make for a particular moment and then maybe the next time you show them, you show them in a slightly different way so that they become more precise or more communicative. So they’re constantly evolving. Also, when you stick one work next to another work, suddenly it has a new resonance. You could almost argue that, in that new context, it’s a new work again. So I don’t know if you ever really finish anything.

I’ll taste it, taste it, taste it, taste it. I ask myself, “How can I make it better? It needs more whatever, salt, vanilla.” Taste it again, again, and again until I think, “Okay, this is it. Let’s not mess with it anymore.” Then I’ll taste it one final time and be like, “Okay, add a percent. Just increase it by one more percent, just a little bit more.” For example, salting a ganache, I’ll salt, salt, salt, salt, salt; taste it. Okay, it can use a little bit more salt. And then I’m like, “Okay, it’s good now.” And then, at the very final moment, I’m going to put a little bit more salt. Walk away. That’s good. Whatever it may be.

When I look at a piece and I feel like it’s done. Usually I feel like everything is sitting where it should be, and nothing’s out of place. If I turn my back to the work and turn back quickly, nothing stands out as wrong. All the different elements seem content where they are. Nothing is too off and nothing is too perfectly placed. Everything has to be where it should be.

Songwriting-wise, it’s very easy to tell. Sometimes I’ll write a full song with a chord progression that I like, but it won’t feel like the final thing I have to say about a topic. Like, these aren’t the right words. I haven’t gotten to the [core] of what I want to say—I know it’s there, but I haven’t reached it. I’ll usually take that chord progression and write something else with it. And I’ll just keep writing songs until I get to the bottom, just digging layer after layer after layer, and eventually I’ll get to the truest form of that song, and the truth behind what I was trying to say. When I’ll get there, I don’t know, but I’ll always know when I haven’t.

At first I’ll think of stuff in my head for a while. The more I think of an idea, the more promising it is— it just naturally occupies space in my brain. Then I start making notes with pen and paper. If it’s a story, it’s more like a moment, or just it’s kind of a more fleeting idea. And if it’s a novel, it’s something that I can see approaching in a lot of different ways, and sticking with for two or three years. I might write a scene or two and just kind of see how it feels. Then I will type an outline. That’s when I really feel like I have a path forward, even though I don’t feel like I have to stick to the outline, but it is very reassuring to me to have it.

In my own life I think there are times when I’m not in the mood to write, but I don’t consider that to be writer’s block. If I really don’t want to enter my own book in progress, I’ll try to think about why and find a way around that. So I start from the beginning cleaning it up. Almost treat it like it’s a messy room and clean it up. Or if there’s a scene that I don’t want to write because it bums me out, maybe I’ll just work on a different scene and come back to it. Or I’m having trouble writing because I haven’t done enough research. So I go do the research. I try to troubleshoot, or figure out what the underlying reason is.