A rainy walk to a tiny nail salon. Thai food in Brooklyn.
I often said that writers are of two types. There is the architect, which is one type; the architect, as if designing a building, lays out the entire novel at a time. He knows how many rooms there will be or what a roof will be made of or how high it will be, or where the plumbing will run and where th electrical outlets will be in each room—All of that stuff before he drives the first nail. Everything is there in the blueprint. And then there’s the gardener, who digs the hole in the ground, puts in the seed and waters it with his blood and sees what comes up. The gardener knows certain things. He’s not completely ignorant. He knows whether he planted an oak tree, or corn, or a cauliflower. He has some idea of the shape but a lot of it depends on the wind and the weather and how much blood he gives it and so forth.
George R. R. Martin
I still catch myself feeling sad about things that don’t matter anymore.