I never really had one place to put my ideas. When I think of something maybe I’ll write it on the nearest piece of paper or on my hand or on a napkin. Sometimes I’m sure I have such a good idea there’d be no way I’d forget it and then a few hours later I’m smashing my skull in trying to remember. Although I’ve kept a journal for 10 years, I’d never write my story ideas in them. I’m too anal. Ideas don’t belong in journals, experiences with women do.
When I moved to Vancouver for Film School I started keeping my story ideas in a separate book. It was a nice sleek black book and I put a lot of thoughts in there and they were all jumbled and by the end of the year the whole thing was full of rando’s. I loved flipping through it and seeing the progression of ideas or sometimes the degradation. On my very last day in Vancouver school I lost that black book. Since then I’ve only had one other ideas book, which is now completely full. This book is one I’d take every day with me to Fabrica where I’d use it almost every day for 2 years. I didn’t lose it. Now I quite like taking it off my shelf and flipping through it.
When I do a flip through I usually stop at the doodle-o’s I have in there. I’m not by any means an illustrator but I’ve always wanted to be one. I’ve always wanted a sketchbook like the real drawers have. They’re so fun. I just don’t understand how to transfer reality on to paper in that way so it takes a lot of energy to draw and I’m often disappointed with the results. In 200 + pages of writing from those nearly 2 years I managed a baker’s dozen scribbles, or so. Because I drew so rarely in this ideas book these suckers are tied to very distinct memories. I can recall where I was and who I was with when they were sketched out. In my apartment, in those wooden pews, in Munich, on the train heading to Vesuvius, on the train from Sienna… And so on. And so forth.