I really love the way that Nabokov talks about creative writing, how we're creating the world around us, allowing the chaos to flow and then sucking it all back up.
Something happened tonight. I was pushing the pirate ship home, and a man on the other side of the street stopped playing with his son to offer me help. He was very concerned, asking me where my friends were, why I was doing it to myself. He offered to help push, even to tie it to the roof of his car and drive it (one might have helped, but I rationalized against it, and the other wouldn't have worked because of the fragility). I politely refused, and when I did, he said that his name was Ben, and that if I ever needed a favor, I should come to his house.
We live in a world where the most unlikely things can happen. Stories walk out of the air.
That wasn't all with the ship today. I struggled for forty-five minutes getting the ship out of the scene shop and for over an hour pushing it home because I was too proud and too conscience-ridden to accept help. What stories do I write about that?
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