I try to ignore the stories flitting around in my head because I know from long experience how difficult it will be to catch the right words, keep them lively, and get them in the right order on the page.
Sooner or later, though, they demand a telling and end up in novels living in my computer. I seriously question if a tree should die so they can become published,
As for poetry,don't even mention it. From time to time my brain is invaded by a tenth rate dead poet who simply dumps verses straight into my head. If I can write fast enough, I get a whole poem out of it, though I never understand them. I admit, some have a strange beauty, but are they mine? They feel like dictation.