I have a thing about seasons in writing. Summer is my most unproductive time, mostly because it is hot out, and people are drinking outside. I hate being holed up during the Summer and yearn to break free from the shackles of my desk/coffee shop, run around and politely ask someone to show me how kites work. Plus, because of said hot weather, the hippies tend to smell even less great.
Winter is my writing malaise season. It starts of wonderfully (snow! Christmas and/or other Winter Holidays! presents! (premium) hot chocolate!) but–at least in New England– Winter usually decides that it might like to stay a bit longer, and so it holes up on your couch through the start of Spring, deleting the shows you TIVO’d and drinking all your (organic!) 1% milk until finally, sometime around May, you’re like “Hey Winter, we need to talk.”
And Winter, sitting there, eating your Barbara’s Bakery Shredded Oats (organic!) cereal in its nightshirt watching reruns of Two and a Half Men, barely looks up, so you get pissed and grab it by the ear, and pull it out into the hall, and say, “Enough. You used to be cute and wonderlandy in December but now it’s May. Go back to Northern Canada!” And you kind of feel bad for a sec, but I mean, give me a break.
Yeah, um, so Winter is not my fave.
Spring has its moments, of course, and it probably would exist on some similar level to Fall if WE ACTUALLY HAD A SPRING FOR MORE THAN SIX DAYS. Weather in NE goes from Winter to Summer without pausing for season station identification, and as such, doesn’t truly give me the productive lengthy coolish change that I need.
But Fall, baby, that’s where it’s at.
Drop me your fave writing seasons in the section underfoot. After all, knowledge is power, friends.