It always starts with a whisper, an overheard sentence at a coffee shop, a picture that won’t leave my mind, or a conversation that lingers like the aftertaste of an embarrassing moment. Suddenly, my notebook is open, and I’m scribbling like a literary first responder. Mornings are fueled by Gatsby-level ambition, afternoons by too much tea and self-doubt, and nights by a burst of magic. Writing, for me, isn’t just a routine but an old Hollywood love affair.

Does your desk reflect your mind? If that's true, then mine has quite the story to tell. It's a part workspace and part sanctuatry. Every object on it has a reason for being there, even if that reason is: I just didn't feel like moving it. Here's a look at things I keep the closest, and why they matter more than they should.