Thoughts are so scattered, disjointed that it is hard to string them together. I feel that they seem to exist in defiance of being put together into something coherent. I can write notebooks after notebooks of one thought after another, but it seems that I just put them onto a dusty shelf to be stored, for what? I can’t utilize them in any of the writing in an effective way. Whenever I tried to extract one to put it into a story, it felt jarring, unfit, awkward.
I went back to my kindle reader and pull out Greene, Austen, Waugh, Maugham, Ephron to see how they did what they did. Maugham even wrote a book entitled “Writer’s Notebook”. However I find nothing that can be used to apply to my current situation. So writers are not people who can write well, but rather they are the organizers and managers of their own thoughts. The best managers stand out while the rest just gets depressed, starved. They die eventually in disappointment.
