Here I am talking to you and getting quite excited, yet can't forget for a second that I've an unfinished novel waiting for me. Or I see a cloud over there like a grand piano. So I think it must go in a story. 'A cloud like a grand piano sailed past.' Or I smell heliotrope, and make a quick mental note. 'Sickly scent. Flour. Sombre hue. Mention in description of summer evening.' I try to catch every sentence, every word you and I say and quickly lock all these sentences and words away in my literary storehouse because they might come in handy. When I finish work, I rush off to the theatre or go fishing. That would be the time to relax and forget, but not a bit of it. I already have another great weight on my mind: a new plot. I feel I must go to my desk - hurry up and start writing, writing, writing all over again. This sort of thing goes on all the time, I can never relax, and I feel I'm waisting my life.
Anton Chekhov, A gaivota.
via Narcisicamente (Um blog Neon-Modernista).