“Method leads to madness,” uncle Pritchard told me one afternoon while I was struggling to write a single sentence that even remotely inspired me. He’d caught me staring into space while hovering over my notebook, pen at the ready (mind, not so much). He took it as his mission to get me going, so he proceeded to spout a number of phrases that were cliché to nobody but him. “Never break out the driver when a two iron will do. Sugar doesn’t melt, it gets better. All animals wind up orphans if everything goes to plan.” He continued on for what felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. I eventually said “screw this” and ordered us a pizza, no worthwhile words inked.