The dead of January. Long dark days with little or no sun. The fevered writer sits in the dim snow-obscured light, meditating over plot twists and turns of phrase.
Like a seed buried in the ground, the unwritten story holds tremendous potential while awaiting its release and subsequent growth. The impetus for transforming an idea to a written concept seems a mysterious process and slightly different for every writer.
I hope that this time of confinement provides an environment for many writers to induce those mysterious forces to burst ideas from their seed shells, that they would take root and form. Never have we needed good ideas formulated into good stories as much as we do now.
"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer." -- Albert Camus