I was walking the other day, actually it was yesterday, no pardon
me it was a few minutes ago and I had a deluge of ideas for this story
that begins the day after the narrator puts his dog to sleep and these
ideas encompass the entire story including how the dog died actually
poisoned by his neighbor George, a struggling writer out of bitterness
because the narrator had thought George was terrible and should be doing
other things with his life and I thought this is so great, but of
course I had forgotten not just my papers, but my pocket journal as well
and then by the time i got home I thought the whole thing was crap
anyways for all the same reasons that Saunder's outlines here:
"And yes – I always say I try not to write with a definite intention, and that is true. But lately it’s occurred to me that one of the reasons I’m so emphatic about that is to counterbalance my very natural tendency to write with a definite (dogmatic) intention, i.e., to know too well where I’m going. It’s sort of an autocorrect I’m doing on myself to counteract what I know is a lazy or preachy tendency, that doomed a lot of my apprentice stories to lying flat on the page."
"And yes – I always say I try not to write with a definite intention, and that is true. But lately it’s occurred to me that one of the reasons I’m so emphatic about that is to counterbalance my very natural tendency to write with a definite (dogmatic) intention, i.e., to know too well where I’m going. It’s sort of an autocorrect I’m doing on myself to counteract what I know is a lazy or preachy tendency, that doomed a lot of my apprentice stories to lying flat on the page."
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