Sometimes when I try to do some 'filing' and topple the rickety piles of crap that accumulate round my office, aka the sitting room, I uncover old long forgotten stories. Half-stories, to be exact. They sit in strata, from the very old scraps I wrote at school to the tiny flash pieces I wrote on the back of club fliers when I was bored to the point of rigor mortis in my first job, to the very bizarre shit I wrote on the island, to more recent efforts, to three-word ideas scribbled on receipts that I spose may be future stories. There's stacks and reams of them, all those illegible words and half-thought out ideas.
If I'm in a good mood it's like archaeology, so many abandoned but possibly fertile seams to be explored.
Some days, though, I just think what an awful waste of paper.
At which point its best to do the laundry, make soup, clean the windows and start all over again.