A writer’s notebook is a junkyard; a junkyard of the mind. In this repository of failed attempts, different inks speak of widely-spaced times and places, the diverse scrawls of varying levels of calligraphic awkwardness, lack of firm writing-surfaces, different modes of transportation.
All the places a good idea might blossom into something bigger and better.
No writer should believe in serendipity. All of us do.
Here Hardy and his first wife, Emma, noted down incidents culled from local newspapers. One entry (barely three lines long) is headed Sale of Wife. Out of that fragment came The Mayor of Casterbridge.
Of course, almost everything else in the Facts notebook resulted in nothing at all. A notebook is an act of triage on the world outside. A little ‘fact’ goes a long way in fiction.
can you imagine
if google just disappeared from the internet
and then we couldn’t google what happened to it
because google was gone
It took me a good two minutes to work out that that is a picture of a person in a translucent waterslide and not someone trapped in a human test tube in a horror film
this is why we need google
The one thing I love about re-reading my favorite books is the ‘no need to rush’ feeling. You already know everything that happens to your darling babies, the plot, and your otp, so you can savor every detail like a sip of the perfectly brewed tea on chilly sunday morning.
one difference between cats and dogs is that dogs do absolutely nothing to mask their clinginess while cats pretend it’s a coincidence they’re in the same room as you 97% of the time
"The fact I am laying on your face means nothing"