There’s something almost magical about the moment you realize your so-called weakness might actually be your superpower.
I’ve always been a collector—of antiquarian books that whisper promises from their spines, ideas scribbled on napkins, scraps of dialogue overheard in coffee shops, half-formed concepts that hover just out of reach, images that speak to something I can’t yet name, and reminders of things I might use someday. For the longest time, I thought that was clutter. Digital hoarding. Evidence of my inability to focus on one thing at a time.
Now I see it as one of my greatest strengths.
Rediscovering How I Create
Over the past three months, I’ve been examining my workflows with the kind of attention I usually reserve for plotting a novel’s climax. I’ve been rediscovering how my CliftonStrengths shape not just what I create, but how I create it. With Input sitting high on my list (yes, my #2), I’m finally learning that my instinct to gather isn’t about hoarding at all—it’s about creating a reservoir. Every Reader’s Guide filed away, every book link added to my master spreadsheet, every blog post rescued from the digital archives is part of a living system I can draw from whenever inspiration strikes.
That means I’ve been building what I think of as my “living library.” Reader’s Guides sit alongside metadata and cover images, ready to be pulled into future marketing campaigns or book launches. Old novels I thought were lost forever have resurfaced from forgotten hard drives and been given new life. Non-fiction drafts I once shelved in defeat are now being expanded into fresh editions that actually make sense. Even this blog—nearly twenty years of posts scattered across platforms and moods—is being organized into themes that serve who I am now, not who I was when I first hit “publish.”
The joy of all this collecting reveals itself when I sit down to create something new. I don’t start from a blank page staring back at me. I start from a table covered with pieces that matter—some polished to a shine, some rough around the edges, but each one carrying the spark of something that once called to me strongly enough to save.
When the Collection Becomes Story
There’s a scene in my novel, Rite of Letting Go (previously published as Midlife Mirages), where a character realizes that all the seemingly random flashbacks she’s been drawn to relive aren’t random at all. They’re the components of a divine message she didn’t even know she needed to puzzle out who is trying to destroy her. That’s what happens when we honor our natural rhythms instead of fighting them. They give us what we need, when we need it, and in a way, they save us.
Your Collecting Is Not a Flaw
If you’re someone who feels guilty for having stacks of notebooks you haven’t filled, endless digital folders organized in ways only you understand, or dozens of browser tabs open because each one holds a piece you might need someday, take heart. Collecting isn’t a flaw in your creative process. It’s fuel for it.
The trick isn’t to apologize for the way your mind naturally gathers and stores. The trick is to honor it as part of your process, to build systems that work with your collector’s heart rather than against it.
Dark forces. A sinister curse. A Southern witch must reclaim her magic and protect her family before she loses everything.
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