As long as I have other ideas and projects noted, I feel confident that they’ll be alright until I get to them. And my ideas and tastes may have evolved by the time I get to them so that an idea can be discarded or expanded upon in ways that I wouldn’t have thought of had I started on that project right away instead of finishing what I was currently on. It’s good to give those ideas time to ripen and blossom.
I have from the first felt sure that the writer, when he sits down to commence his novel, should do so, not because he has to tell a story, but because he has a story to tell. The novelist’s first novel will generally have sprung from the right cause.
When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don’t expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.
Life’s an old story. we all know how it ends.
We ourselves, will resurrect the memory in order to savor it and carry it forth into the world. We will fling it at one another for laughs. Distort it. We will toss the story into the air at parties and howl over its ripeness. Degraded as it was, we will degrade it further. Make it more swollen. We shall render it impossibly awful, making of it the mythology of ourselves. A comfort. Proof of the trials we’ve survived.
All stories are true. But some of them never happened.
Energy will go into what you love, and what you love will grow. Go for a walk and watch it bloom.
In the end, we begin.
Until you begin to write, then you will see the beauty of writing.
Making a story from the messy thoughts and half-thoughts in her head, building a world and lives and taking them apart again, fitting the pieces together another way until it feels right, as right as she can make it feel.