Roberto Bolaño and I are one in the same in that the sifting through our second, third, and fourth drafts of scratched up manuscripts, mortally wounded by red ink, mismatched combinations of chicken-scratched and robotically processed words would be a quick descent into pure absurdity.
Naturally, I have some notebooks reserved exclusively for poems, for work scribbles, or for story ideas. But largely, I am a shockingly unorganized writer, and every few weeks, I’ll stumble across an orphaned piece of writing that I had entirely forgotten about, hidden in the dark crevices of a notebook shoved hastily under my bed.
The writing and I exchange words and tears; it mournfully wails that it has long been forgotten, and I get down on my knees to beg absolution. Like most things in life, organization is a game I am slowly learning to play.