Just like Joan Didion, my notebooks start with an entry prompted by real life. I jot down a few observations, a description of something that passed by, a taste, a smell, a pretty girl. Often it’s a note about an event, because I tend to be a describer and an image painter. But soon the entry turns into something else, something moving on its own, moving swiftly. A wind picks up and the words begin to flow and before long a few hours have gone by and in the settling dust some trail of pure fiction has been created. My biggest job is just to keep up before it passes, the original real life idea left far behind.
After reading: Joan Didion – On Keeping a Notebook