I’ve always loved stories that start small. A little thing, a chink in the armor of the universe that lets some light in, a butterfly flapping its wings, builds into something bigger, something grander, until before you know it you’re off, sailing for parts unknown while each stop on the way brings new twists, new characters, and you wouldn’t have expected any of it when you began.

Imagine shearing off the cover of Alice in Wonderland and passing it off as a staid Victorian novel, and then reading in wonderment as the heroine steps down the rabbit hole and everything familiar recedes or is bizarrely reborn. Imagine turning on a movie after the credits, without any idea where it will go, only to end breathless two hours later screaming at the Statue of Liberty or as the savior of a distant planet.

Those are the stories I can’t get enough of, and they’re also the hardest to create. That sense of blissful innocence at the beginning is crucial—you have to look back and say “I can’t believe this all started in a rundown old tea store!” It’s hard to capture. I usually succumb to the temptation of reading the back of the book, or the back of the box. But once, every so often, it happens, and I’m utterly enchanted. More than anything, I’d like to create something that kindles that feeling in others.

I never got that chance, not yet anyway, but I did get to feel something like that firsthand once.