When I was packing I found notebooks everywhere; notebooks under the bed, in the closet, at the bottoms of dresser drawers. Some of them started out as organized containers for notes and assignments and things, but they all ended up being filled with story ideas, half-written shorts, pencil sketches and bad poetry.
I couldn't throw them away, so now I just have these boxes of notebooks. There's probably 20 or so in all (actual notebooks, not boxes). On one hand, I feel good that -- not too long ago -- I was creative enough where I was producing these half-baked ideas regularly, but on the other hand, it's a real bummer that I haven't done anything like that recently.
I did find a folded piece of scrap paper that I had apparently pulled out of a recycling bin at the library. On the back there was a cartoon caterpillar, but on the blank side I had written a pretty promising beginning to a short. I think I'll finish that one. The only problem is remembering which box I stuffed it in...
52 minutes ago
2 comments:
All of my earliest notebooks died an untimely fiery death at the hands of a man who saw no potential in my writing them.
Close your eyes stick your hand in the box and grab one open it then open your eyes, there...finish that one.
When are we going to act out that screenplay? Dibs on not-the-gay-one.
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