It’s not that my mind is empty.
Far from it.
My mind is a blizzard, and every idea a snowflake.
Banks of ideas are depositing themselves into shelves of my brain, accumulating, growing, heaping into what I’m sure will become mountains, the kind you jumped off of as kids and scraped your jaw to pieces at the bottom of. Those kinds of mountains.
But catching a snowflake? You can hold out your hand as they fall around you, and take a glimpse as they settle on your mitten, but you can never make them last long enough to memorize their every detail.
You can take a shovel and dig at the mountain, but then all the snowflakes jumble together so you can’t tell one from the other.
You can take tweezers and pluck one up and put it on a glass slide stolen from the biology lab and keep it in your freezer. But then it’s not the same, not fresh, not pulsing from a recent exit of the heavens or electric from nestling with its brothers and sisters in the bank of snow.
So, you can see, my mind isn’t empty.
No, no, not at all.
I just can’t catch the damn snowflakes.
Sure, I have a WIP novel that has grown from a single snowflake to a tiny snowball. I have a small snowball for a themed anthology. I have a pinch of packed snow for another anthology.
But to build on them?
I can’t get the snow to stick, to wrap layers and build.
And there are so many options.
What to do, what to do?
The snow of ideas is overwhelming and underwhelming, like the fiftieth time a person from Hawaii sees real snow (though I’m not from Hawaii and grew up with snow) — weird and out-of-world, but by this point rather mundane.
Until I figure out what the heck I’m supposed to do with this snow before it gives my mind an eternal snow day, I’m going to curl up with a Christmas mug* of tea, a handmade quilt, and The Book Thief and let the snowflakes fall.
Advice from anyone with experience in snow-removal/nurturing?
*Christmas mugs = the best part of Christmas, after family dinners and candy cane hot chocolate.