It's winter, and at least where I live, it's cooooold. And with the cold comes an onslaught of complaining about snow and cold and ice and dark, and general overall grumpiness. We all do it sometimes.
In fact, I am one of the few people I know that admits to liking winter, even when I'm wearing my gloves and coat at my desk. I love snow, for starters. It's so beautiful and deadly and mysterious. And I love any excuse to not take out the trash (it's snowing) or to stay in bed longer (it's too cold). There's a sort of coziness to being trapped in the house with the wind howling outside and water frozen into peculiar shapes raining down from the sky.
But the most notable thing about winter, is that although cold and dark, it offers something that other seasons do not: time. And as a writer, time is something I often do not make enough of.
This is me, Ariele the writer, grateful for an excuse to not go outside.
What shall I do instead, then? I ask myself.
Get something to drink?
Listen to some music?
Have some dinner?
But, once I've run out of excuses to procrastinate...
...I suddenly realize I have time to write. There is no reason to leave, no reason to go outside, no excuse to ignore the characters yelling at me inside my head.
During other seasons, I would have procrastinated and then run out of time due to the variety of extra activities I generally engage in - going to the beach, walking, gardening, etc. But in the winter (particularly January and February) there is nothing going on. So all I am left with is time to write.
That's not all winter offers though. When I stare out the window at the stark, cold, white and grey landscape, there is an emptiness just begging to be filled. There is a romance hiding among the snowflakes. There is inspiration, waiting to be had.
I guess that's what words are for.