These are the types of notes I have in my 'ideas' folder.
It's kind of embarrassing.
But I can't delete them.
There is a beginning of a poem that starts and when the moon is my companion.
And I am no poet. Trust me.
Another single line entry reads: Love, the ultimate goal, achieved only through heartbreak and walking a line towards a goal you often doubt exists.
Not sure what I was going for with that. Some sort of self help book? Oh, how hilarious.
And there this paragraph that makes me laugh - Like some sort of post graduation cliché, except I was twenty-two, not nineteen, I found myself employed at a coffee shop called Bitches Brew. Only snarky females need apply. Also, I lived in a dive apartment with two other girls I barely knew. Gretchen, a wannabe folk singer, who wore toques all year round, and Polly, a waif-thin girl who aspired to be the next screenplay writer of modern chick things and who took up smoking to better suit the persona. Highly allergic to cigarette smoke and folk music, I didn’t exactly enjoy my room-mates. But they were better than my last ones—my parents.
Perhaps I was going to write the next best disenchanted youth novel, or guide to falling in and out of love.
Is it just me who has this unreasonable attachment to every silly little bit and bobble of story I create?
The folder is ever-expanding.
First lines, paragraphs, dreams, novels with twenty thousand words that I never finished. I am overflowing with these files, which would be scraps of paper if this was fifty years ago.
Now I kind of wish they were scraps of paper.
It's easier to forget about random files buried in my dropbox in a top secret folder.
Harder to hide a book.
If I had one, I'd keep it by my bed and add ideas to it every night.
But that might only add to my abundant idea problem.