Notes to Self: Too Many Ideas

It never fails. The moment I commit to one project—the book I’m writing, the workshop I’m designing, the article I’m drafting—every other idea I’ve ever had decides NOW is its time. Characters start whispering. Whole new book outlines materialize in my head. A hundred competing projects tap me on the shoulder, all begging for attention.

It feels like a flood: exciting, overwhelming, intoxicating. And in that flood, I’ve learned there’s both wisdom and mischief.

On one hand, creativity is a river. When it surges, I don’t want to dam it up. Ideas arrive because the channel is open. To turn them away completely would be to shut down the very faucet I’ve worked so hard to open. Creativity begets more creativity. Inspiration is proof I’m alive to the work.

But on the other hand, I know myself. Sometimes those floods are less about brilliance and more about avoidance. They show up when I hit a hard patch in the project I’ve already chosen. Maybe I’ve reached the messy middle. Maybe I’ve written myself into a corner. Maybe my system is overwhelmed and my brain decides, “Let’s escape into something shiny and new instead.”

So what do I do when it happens?

I’ve created a simple practice to help: I let myself briefly go down the rabbit hole. I’ll jot down notes, capture the essence of the idea, sketch the bones of a scene or a concept. I give it just enough air to know it won’t be forgotten. Then I set it aside in my “idea file,” a place where all the half-formed sparks get to live until it’s their time.

And then I return to the project at hand.

Because this is the truth I’ve learned again and again: not every idea is meant to be a project right now.

The artist’s life is long. There will be time to bring these stories forward. But if I scatter my attention across every idea that arrives, I’ll never finish the one I’m in. And finished work—the book, the story, the offering—is what carries the magic into the world.

So I’ve made peace with the flood. I trust it. I honor it. I let it teach me about where I might be avoiding my edges. And then I recommit, again and again, to the project that needs me most right now.

That’s the practice. Showing up. Staying with it. Returning to the work, even when other doors are calling.

Because the truth is, they’ll still be there when I’m ready. And I want to be the kind of artist who doesn’t just dream in stories, but who writes them.