It might surprise you to learn that I’ve abandoned my writer’s notebooks. You know, those sacred, spiral-bound graveyards of half-baked epiphanies and plot twists that seemed genius at 3 AM but regrettably pedestrian in daylight. Not so long ago, I once clung to those pages like they were a lifeline. For me, they served as proof that I was a serious writer, always prepared to document the next great idea that would undoubtedly change the world (or at least get a few likes on Medium).
But somewhere between draft number 387 and the ever-growing collection of “brilliant” ideas I’ve stockpiled like a hoarder prepping for an intellectual apocalypse, I realized I don’t need to scribble down everything anymore. After all, I have enough on my plate to feed an army of muses.
Seriously, there’s a fine line between being prolific and being an idea-addicted masochist. The moment you crest into your 400th unfinished essay draft — which will almost certainly remain unfinished until a future self stumbles upon it in a fit of curiosity — you must question your sanity.
Some people collect stamps, others collect rare vinyl records. I collect essay drafts like they’re Pokémon—gotta catch ’em all, right? But these little monsters never evolve; they just sit there, in limbo, looking at me with their accusatory, undeveloped premises.
Ideas are deceptive little gremlins. They sneak up on you during mundane moments—while you’re driving, making dinner, or pretending to care about a conversation. Suddenly, you’re hit with what feels like divine inspiration. It’s that one idea I’ve been waiting for that will really get some attention, you think.
So, you rush off to capture it before it slips away, because we all know how unreliable memory is in this line of work. It’s not enough to jot down a sentence or two. No, you’ve got to outline it, massage it, and whisper sweet nothings into its metaphorical ear so it doesn’t run off into the mental abyss where all those other “surefire hits” are hanging out. Then, you just add it to the pile.
That is, the Pile of Perpetual Procrastination, the bulging folder on your desktop labeled “Ideas” (or the “Back Burner” as I called it to be clever) which contains a treasure trove of half-written brilliance, incomplete thoughts, and a scattering of things that no longer make sense. There’s no chronological order to it, just unmitigated chaos. Who knows how many of those ideas will see the light of day? Most are doomed to die in draft purgatory, victims of an overactive imagination paired with a narrowing attention span.
Yet, the ideas keep coming. They’re like unsolicited advice from distant relatives—frequent, unnecessary, and often wildly inappropriate for the task at hand. But even as I try to maintain some semblance of focus, limiting myself to the “important” projects (whatever that means), I find it impossible to turn my back on new ideas altogether. I’m like the creative equivalent of a dragon hoarding gold—but mine is intangible, shiny only in theory, and highly flammable if examined too closely.
Well, even though I’ve consciously decided to quit obsessively documenting every fleeting thought, I’m still working on ideas constantly. It’s just a quieter, more selective process. I’ve become like an art critic at a student gallery, wading through concept after concept, internally sighing, “Not this one. Maybe next time.” Really, if I’m going to invest the time and energy to nurture an idea, it’s got to be worth it. I can’t afford to waste my dwindling mental resources on something as banal as “What if plants could talk?” (Though, on paper, that topic doesn’t sound half bad. Damn it.)
So, when you cut back on notebook scrawls and constant idea-harvesting—you don’t stop the flow of creativity. You just become pickier. It’s a bit like going on a diet, but for your brain. Instead of devouring everything in sight, you choose your meals carefully. Sure, sometimes you splurge—there are days when you can’t help but stuff your face with a quick, snackable concept. But for the most part, you must practice restraint. Otherwise, you’ll drown in your own brilliance—or at least choke on it.
I suppose you could call me a reformed idea hoarder—no longer a slave to the notebook but still shackled to the constant barrage of “what ifs” and “maybes.” My brain hasn’t slowed down; it’s just learned to be more discerning and cynical. Perhaps that’s what it means to be an “experienced” writer. You no longer treat every passing thought like it’s the second coming of Hemingway’s lost works. Instead, you approach your ideas like a grizzled detective in a noir film—skeptical, jaded, and armed with a deep sense of danger lurking around every street corner.
The irony, of course, is that I haven’t actually stopped working on new ideas. Sure, I’ve abandoned my notebooks, but I haven’t escaped the cycle. The difference is that now, instead of feverishly jotting down every random thought like some maniacal court stenographer, I’ve learned to let them marinate in the brine of life experience. I’m no longer scrambling to catch every slippery fish in the tank—I let them swim around until one really shiny idea practically leaps into my lap, demanding to be written.
But for every one of those, there are a hundred more still lurking beneath the surface, waiting for their moment to shine. They’ll get their shot eventually—if they’re lucky. If not, they’ll stay right where they belong, gathering so much virtual dust in a draft folder that would make even the most seasoned writer weep. Honestly, I’m okay with that.
~ Amelia Desertsong
