If I’m not sending in self-tapes or memorizing my lines or touching up my huge hair in a crowded, dingy bathroom before another audition, I’m probably buried in a book with the sun streaming in through the south-facing windows of my 3rd-floor walk-up. Or I’m strolling through Washington Square Park in the sweet company of a cappuccino, probably decaf. Or maybe, if I’m lucky, I’m in Montmartre, sitting outside a corner café, writing, or more accurately, wrestling inspiration into submission.