“Among the ideas simmering in his head is… one of many ‘one-page book treatments’ he dashes off on rough paper while students complete assignments.”
I opened today’s papers and found me. Except that I don’t spin fantasy novels in class.
I write about my pupils, humanity amidst examinated calm, the quotidian elevated by ideals.
These writings are alternately found on folded sheets in my bag, masqueraded as the accoutrements of reality.
I sometimes stumble upon them and get surprised.
* * * * *
“He stores these loose sheets in a box in his bedroom.”
I pen ideas on recycled paper and official forms, in birthday notebooks and well-organised blogs with carefully maintained tabs, neater than my cubicle or bedroom can ever be with their horizontal clutter.
I acquire new handphones faithfully after two years for their ‘notes’ function (and corresponding memory space) and nothing else.
* * * * *
“… and plans to some day give up his job and spend all his time developing these into fully fledged books.”
