Once as I was looking through the bookshelves of an old friend, I stumbled upon a book by American poet Donald Hall. The book was titled String Too Short To Be Saved. He prefaced the book by explaining that as he explored his mother’s attic, he found a box with her neat handwriting on the label: String too short to be saved. Later I read that this moved Joan Didion and Ralph Fletcher as much as it moved me. It’s these details about life, the small pieces that seem to amount to nothing that will add up to something later when they are connected with other small bits. Like Hall’s mother, I save these bits–no, not the stuff, I hate stuff–these words that seem to amount to nothing. They are the words that will bring my pieces to life. Instead of a shoebox in the attic, I keep them in my notebook because you just never know.