Writing tends to lose it’s glamorous appeal for me when I imagine another day–with tangled bed-hair, toast crumbs down my shirt, and a list of things I still need to get done that looms over me like Pig-Pen’s dirt cloud. As unattractive as it may seem, I keep submitting myself to it for pain and pleasure.
To stick with it, I make notes everywhere all the time. If you were to dig through my current purse, which is an ugly canvas tote bag, you would find miscellaneous paper slips. These papers are important, I’ll argue, because in some degree they contain a random thought or task I need to accomplish or song line I started.
These idea bits are eventually compiled into lists, or they are shoved in a desk drawer in the office for future organization. There are shopping lists; lists for conversation points I need/want to have with…
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