So we’ve been inside. A lot.

And honestly? That’s not the worst thing in the world.

This stretch of winter, the quiet, frozen middle, is when I tend to get the most work done. I’m currently putting the finishing touches on my next release, tightening scenes, polishing language, making sure every piece is exactly where it should be. At the same time, I’ve already started outlining the novel that comes after that one. New characters. New themes. New problems to solve. There’s something energizing about standing at the edge of a fresh story, even while you’re still wrapping up the last one.

It’s a strange but familiar rhythm: closing one door while quietly opening another.

And as I move from one project into the next, I always find myself thinking about stories more broadly, not just the ones I’m writing, but the ones that have survived long enough to shape how we tell stories at all.

The classics.

Not in the dusty, academic sense, but in the living, breathing way. The stories that somehow keep finding new readers. New formats. New lives. Stories that refuse to stay put in one era or one medium.

It’s fascinating, really. These narratives have traveled farther than any of us ever will. They’ve been told aloud, written by hand, printed, filmed, adapted, rebooted, digitized, and streamed. They’ve survived technological revolutions, cultural shifts, and the occasional questionable adaptation choice. And yet, they’re still here.

Maybe that’s why I keep thinking about them now, during a season where time feels both frozen and strangely fluid. When the world outside is locked in ice, stories become movement. They cross centuries while we sit at a table, coffee nearby, turning pages or scrolling screens.

Starting a new novel always feels a bit like joining that long conversation. You’re adding something new, yes, but you’re also responding to what came before. Borrowing tools. Learning rhythms. Seeing how stories adapt, survive, and continue.

So in the article that follows, I wanted to explore that idea: how the classics move through time, how they’re reshaped by new technologies and media, and why they keep working long after their original moment has passed.

Because even in the coldest months, especially in the coldest months, stories are how we keep things moving.

Stay warm out there. And if you can’t sled today, maybe it’s a good day to read… or start a new story.

Leif J. Erickson is a science fiction and fantasy author from a small farming community in west central Minnesota. Using his time wisely when he was a farmer, Leif developed many ideas, characters, and storylines to create over fifty unique first drafts and outlines for stories. From his start in a small town school, to college at North Dakota State University, back to his family farm, then to the bright lights of Minneapolis, Minnesota, and back to his small farming town, Leif has always had a love of writing.

When Leif isn’t writing he can be found with his wife hiking in state parks, canoeing local lakes and rivers, exploring local and regional ghost towns, experiencing museums, or simply reading or hanging out with friends and family. Leif draws on the local nature and ecology to find inspiration for his writing while he also asks what’s possible for technology and the human race, weaving them together for amazing stories that will stay with the reader for years to come. Leif looks forward to having many novel and story releases in the years to come.

You can see all of Leif’s Books here: Leif’s Amazon Author Page