Well, Christmas is almost here. I have avoided Christmas tunes by selective radio listening and refusing to do any Christmas shopping until frighteningly late. Life is good. You see, as a musician, I find Christmas music heinous- unless you play the ancient tunes on ancient instruments. I'd be perfectly happy to listen to a rendition of Greensleeves on recorder or lute, or even a sackbut (which I may have spelled wrong, but it's so much fun to say.)

Last night, my record was broken, because I actually played in a Christmas Concert at the Masonic Center. The concert went well and didn't annoy me because my tolerance for holiday music hadn't been tested yet this year. One song that didn't annoy me, but usually does was Walking in a Winter Wonderland. What bothers me about this song is simply its overuse. There's nothing wrong with it, I've just heard it a thousand times.

This morning, I went for a walk in the snow. The song, Walking in a Winter Wonderland just doesn't set the mood for me that Winter really is. So, without being overly poetic, I just thought I'd muse about what it's like for me when I walk in a winter wonderland.

On my way home from dropping my daughter off at school, I noticed the sound of my boots packing the snow each time I stepped. Even with my head bundled in a hat and a hood, the sound intruded. Everything else was silence, like the blanket of snow shushed the wind. Nothing moved but snowflakes, and even they fell in slow motion. A car went by from time to time. Loud, but a reminder of life.

I love best in winter a white sky. Blue is too bright. Today, the sky is gray. The gray sky mutes the colors. Trees are black lashes in the distance. Near, they are bark colored- a tone neutral to the point of being indescribable. Pine green seems near black. It is a study in contrast, but not tone. Simple. Calm.

No more cars now, just my feet. I begin to hear the impact of snowflakes against my jacket. Such tiny missiles they are, but slow as they fall, they don't alight. They chip against me, hard little shards that seem so delicate.

To me, this is wonder. This slow walk through stillness, so quiet that a solitary snowflake makes its impact. I talk to God in these moments, and he doesn't answer. It doesn't matter, though. I don't answer him, either.

I say to God, thank you for my feet, that can crunch through this snow, and for my ears that can hear it, and for my eyes that can see this beauty.

I am calm now, and inspired. I would love to write, or sit in a window and snuggle with my guys. They, too, have an appreciation for snow. I think, though, that I have things to do. Lots of shopping. Ugh...

I've been thinking lately about ideas. Sometimes people say, "I have an idea. I just have to develop it." I think that's wrong. Ideas don't get developed. Ideas just are. They are complete in and of themselves. What needs to be developed is our expression of the idea.

I'm a writer. I write. I don't get published, unless you count this blog, and I don't. I am an unrecognized and unpaid writer. That's ok with me, because none of the things I love to do achieve recognition or payment, and I'm not in this life for the money. I must confess, I do enjoy recognition. I thrive on kudos as much or more than the average person.

Still, I started out this entry about ideas. Or, maybe Ideas. They say every story that can be told already has been. All we do now is find new ways of expressing ideas. Love, revenge, sacrifice, journey, coming of age... the list could be a lot longer.

Ideas are amazing. They're invisible, but so powerful that, in the minds of the wrong people, they can be devastating. On the other hand, they can bring enlightenment. Inquisition/Reformation, American Revolution/Stalin's rise to power, Love is All You Need/I'd Rather See You Dead, Little Girl than be with Another Man.

I'm working on a novel manuscript. Maybe this is obvious, or maybe it's strange. I don't know, but I think stories convey ideas. They aren't just stories. Even if the storyteller thinks he or she is only telling a story, essential truths are at work, either in the mind of the storyteller, the receiver of the tale, or both.

My first novel is about embracing who you are. My second is about how our judgments of one another shape our relationships. I have two in the works now that are just stories. I don't see a moral, or a myth, or a fairytale. I'm bogged down in the middle.

This happens to me every time. It's the crucial What is this story about, anyway? phase. I've considered some archetypes. Beauty and the Beast: Beauty's love saves the beast; King Kong: 'Twas Beauty killed the beast; The Hunchback of Notre Dame: Damn, don't they both die? I can't remember. Then there's the Christ figure, but that's been done. To death. Ha ha.

I don't know if I'm communicating with the world here, or trying to blog my way out of a slump. As I said in my title, I'm organizing the shelves in my mind. It's kind of funny. As I sit here typing, I can see this much of my title: Organizing the sh... I suppose you don't have to assume the next word is shelves. Another word would be just as appropriate, just not a word I use myself, unless I am completely alone and pissed off.

Ah well, I must soldier on. Scene after scene, building conflict until the point becomes clear. What idea am I expressing that I cannot yet see?