It might surprise you to learn I abandon my writer’s notebooks every so often. Whenever life gets too confusing, I ditch those sacred, spiral-bound graveyards of half-baked epiphanies that seemed genius at 3 AM but read regrettably pedestrian in daylight. But these days, I cling to those pages, primarily digital these days for many reasons, as a lifeline. For me, they serve as proof that I’m still a serious writer. I must remain prepared to document the next great idea that would undoubtedly change the world or at least get a few likes on WordPress or thumbs up on Medium.

Still, there’s a fine line between being prolific and being an idea-addicted masochist. I must have four hundred unfinished essay drafts — which will almost certainly remain unfinished until my future self stumbles upon it in a fit of curiosity. 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. Then, you rush off to capture it before it slips away, because we all know how unreliable memory can be. 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.

Unfortunately, this collection of hopefuls ends up becoming the Pile of Perpetual Procrastination, the bulging folder on my desktop labeled “Back Burner,” 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. Who knows how many of those ideas will see the light of day? Most are doomed to die in draft purgatory, victims of my overactive imagination paired with a narrowing attention span.

Yet, the ideas keep coming, like unsolicited advice from distant relatives—frequent, unnecessary, and often wildly inappropriate for the task at hand. But even as I attempt 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, although 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 banal things like video games, television programs, and the like.

Sure, I’ve cut back on notebook scrawls and constant idea-harvesting, being far more intentional with what I write down. I take the mindset that what I write down needs to be something worth returning to later for the basis of some reflection. This only increases the flow of my creativity. I just become pickier on what I consume. It’s a bit like going on a diet, but for your brain. Instead of devouring everything in sight, I choose my meals carefully. Sure, sometimes I’ll splurge, but for the most part, I must practice restraint. Otherwise, I’ll drown in my own brilliance, or more likely 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; I’m just 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. 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. The more cogent ones end up in my Obscure Curiosities digital garden where one day they may blossom for someone else. Honestly, I’m okay with that.

~ Amelia Desertsong