When the weather changes, schedules adjust. Kids are back in school, the days grow shorter, summer vacations end. The upside? More time to write.
The long days of summer should mean more time, right? Wrong. Where I live, those hours are filled with lawn care, house maintenance (the penalty for living in a 120-year-old frame house), and an attempt at gardening. Attempt is the key word. If we depended on the fruits of my labor, we’d starve by July. This is particularly painful when all of my neighbors are exclaiming about their over abundant gardens (yes, over abundant . . . I blame my failure on bad soil).
The upside of the long summer days is a recharge. I’m more apt to solve problems, find a way through a sticky plot point, and come up with ideas . . . the always exciting next project. This summer that was particularly true. We were able to see people in person for the first time in a long while, travel a tiny bit, and feel energized. (Except when I visited my failing garden. I managed to kill a sage plant that flourished all the winter.)
The cold weather makes me thankful to stay at my desk. Perhaps I’m channeling Stephen King, who suggests writing at a desk facing a blank wall. Winter is a form of blank wall. This year, fall also means my husband returns to in-person teaching and I will be alone in the house for hours at a stretch. A light at the end of the Covid tunnel. The empty house is my blank wall.
I have big plans for this winter, mainly to make up for the last year when my ambition faded into a mist of something. By the time there is talk of 2022 New Year’s resolutions, I hope to be halfway though mine!