Books on writing praxis suggest an old-fashioned way of bookmarking things for future reference. Basically: boxes.
When mystery writers come across interesting gyrations of the news, stories that contain an inherent “what if”, they file them away. When Woody Allen wrote humor something would pop into his head and he’d dash it down on whatever came to hand and chuck it in a box. Recording ideas as-they-occur is key.
“Save it and put it in a box” is a common theme. Eventually the clippings and jokes generate their own internal heat, mulch down, and then one day you sift through and find a story idea glistening in the peat.
Typically I’m too disorganized to go through these things once I’ve collected them. I’ve never been good at the “review” stage of pack rat projects, which is why GTD doesn’t work for me. But now I’ve found something that works.
A few months ago I saw this video of Adam Savage’s (MythBusters) obsessive Model Dodo/Maltese Falcon project:
Notice his rapid-fire clicking through the slides, which seems to work for him. Notice his “CREATIVE PROJECTS” folder, which replicates the “save it in a shoebox” system digitally. Apparently he’s done it on a massive, automated scale. I imagine he has it rigged up to automatically save pix off the nets matching keyword-rules he enters in some byzantine RSS image-grabber. I’m not that teched out, I build my card houses low to the ground.
I’m happy with drag-n-drop — when I see something neat I drop into the trusty old Finder something I’ve dragged from Fox or ‘Fari. I don’t use the bookmarks bar because “out of sight, out of mind” is a self-truth I’ve become comfortable with. I take salad drawers out of fridges and I don’t “bookmark this page”, both to avoid rot. Putting the virtual shoe boxes visibly into the file system keeps me in constant contact with them. I keep my tomatoes on the shelf.
One of my box stories is the recent murder of William Sparkman. My fantastically elaborated narrative is this (the investigation is ongoing and it might be hyped out of proportion; I’m just waiting out the truth before adding iambs):
Bill Sparkman headed into the Deep South as a US Census worker, into the Kentucky backwoods, rural Clay County, a place whose largest exports are moonshine, marijuana, and meth.
One sweltering afternoon he came upon a group of Southern Gothic inbrednecks out of Gummo or Deliverance picking banjo out on the stoop of their kudzu-choked clapboard.
“Hi there fellas, I’m from the Federal Government.”
Visions of a Black President and Ruby Ridge course through moonshine-addled brains tweaking on the latest batch of Cousin Jimbo’s crystal.
“What an ugly thing to come out of such a pretty mouth.”
When Billy didn’t show up at work for two days a search was organized. They found him just outside a cemetery in a remote part of Daniel Boone National Forest, bound to a tree by his neck. Not hung, but tied so tightly he’d asphyxiated, gagged, with the word “FED” carved into his chest.
There are no suspects.