What a strange autumn it's been, with all the plants still flowering on the last day of November - including, in our garden, sweet peas:
Unbelievably, the jackdaws in the roof next door had a second brood in November, and for the last fortnight the pigeons have been courting on the little roof beneath my writing window. We had our first touch of frost this morning, but it hasn't stopped them!
The abnormality of the season has made me realise how far I've always fitted my writing schedules around the seasons: often as winter approaches I draw a big psychological line under the last project or set of projects and plunge in earnest into the next. But with the delay of winter this year I've been unable to escape the feeling that the season is still ahead of me, and I've had to work hard to drum up the sense of urgency that makes me work at full-tilt. Do other writers find this, I wonder?
2 comments:
I'm with you on this. Winter equals travelling (if I can), or curling up by the fire with books, laptop - and generally shutting out the dark. Not standing by the back door watching a tree-creeper finding insects in the bark of the apple tree. Nor sitting at my table with a view of the garden to write.
The birds and flowers aren't the only ones to be confused.
Jo, it's amazing, I think how deeply the seasons and can affect one psychologically, in terms of one's writing. I always find the spring is a period for me when connections really start buzzing in my head: it's a really good time to be finishing off a novel for which you've spent the winter laying the groundwork in a kind of dreamy state...
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