I was reading a prompt for an anthology about winter magic and lore. Instantly, a story began to develop in my head. I can see it, just as clearly as if I were watching it on television. A circus came to mind, with a clown, but then it morphed into a Christmas bazaar, and I imagined an elderly man with thin white hair and a red nose working on small wooden creatures to sell at his tent-covered booth. His clothing is detailed in my vision: grayish-brown pants with paint marks, cloth growing thin around the knees, oversized and saggy, paired with a thick white shirt that is sherpa-lined to keep him warm.

How real this man becomes in only a few seconds. I don’t have a name for him or any idea where he’s from, but there is a subtle sense of evil you would only see if you were the writer. This fictional man sits at his booth, small curls of wood carvings falling to the floor as he makes another set of Matryoshka dolls, also known to many as stacking dolls. They are displayed on shelves for visitors to touch, hold, and hopefully purchase. But there is a trick. If a patron is greedy or rude to the shop owner, he curses them, and they become trapped inside the last tiny Matryoshka doll. The dolls become toys for children or sit on a shelf collecting dust.

I put this silly little idea together in just a few seconds. It’s all the details that need to be filled in that take time and commitment. I would write this story with prose and dialogue, and do so in a way that readers won’t suspect that the prize inside the dolls was actually rude customers.

Then, I would need to edit it several times to force it into making sense, something presentable for readers or submission-ready for anthologies.

I often lose interest in smaller projects, turning my focus to longer manuscripts. I currently have at least two full manuscripts written that I will never publish, and a dozen or more started. Even more than those, I have outlines floating around that may never be written.

What happens to the clown who was created for half a second, or the little shopkeeper who curses his customers? What happens if they never materialize into a story for readers to consume? Do they disappear? I like to think that the ideas are recycled back into my head, where I can pull from them again at another time. But let’s be honest. If I didn’t write down my idea to share with you, I probably would have forgotten it by tomorrow.

I suppose the answer is they vanish before life is breathed into them.