My rough drafts. Gosh, they're a mess. But sometimes, out of that heap of chicken scratch, comes a masterpiece.
The pencils which are constantly behind my ear, lost in my hair, in my coat pocket.
The way I watch people. I stand close enough to listen, but far enough to observe. (Like a total creep.)
My purse. Inside it you'll always discover post it notes I've written to myself, a little notebook, and at least 5 different pens/pencils.
The way I personify others. As soon as I see someone, they are immediately given a story. I'm sure most, if not all, of my scenarios are inaccurate but, in my mind, that's who these people become.
The thoughts bouncing around inside my head. I'm constantly forming a song, a poem, a story, or even a blog post. Truth of the matter is, there are too many. And most of them never make it past a few half-formed sentences.
The books I choose to read. If it's a classic, I want to read it. Afterward I'll give you my honest opinion on whether it deserves all the fuss. (Wuthering Heights? Definitely does not. It's written well but I can't stand how shallow the characters are. Jane Eyre, on the other hand, will forever be one of my favorite reads.)