The Seasonal Writer

It is the fifth eighth of March, and I’m not sure how we got here this quickly. (I originally started this post on the fifth, and in an almost self-fullfilling prophecy I had to abandon it for more adultifying® responsibilities.) As cliché as it may sound, it seems as if ‘only yesterday’ it was New Year’s and the ball was dropping in the NYC and Buffalo respectively, or an anchor in Ft. Lauderdale, or a giant Peach in Atlanta, and there was youthful celebrations while those of us of a more seasoned age were already fast asleep. (After you’ve seen a share of New Year’s you realize that the Gregorian calendar will flip without your assistance, and when you awaken in the morning, it’ll be next year.) Where does the time go? I haven’t a clue either.

This is not some philosophical essay regarding the passage of time – although there is some quantified evidence out there from psychologists that the passing of time seems to speed up as we grow older. It is a matter of endless debate by individuals who like expensive coffees and corduroy jackets, who enjoy hearing themselves pontificate, regarding dopamine levels and the aging process in general. It is a topic of endless discussions and theoretical papers written to try and quantify something that is fairly subjective – the passage of time. It is what it is, and no one can ever say with a measure of certainty because too often we do not digest the surrounding sensory input the same way. Just ask any sports referee who never seems to see what millions of other do. The fact is, at least from my humble perspective, that it was just the start of 2025, and I find it amazing we are now more than three months into the year. I’m left to ponder how soon is Labor Day around the corner? The window to wear ‘white’ is a very, very short one.

Over the last three months I have continued to tinker on various projects. This includes making an attempt at my first fiction novel. I do not have any delusions regarding the quality of my writing, or the ability to guide a reader along the journey of a specific narrative. I feel, again IMHO, that the responsibility of any writer, fiction or non, is to play the part of a tour guide. The author of a work is at the front of the line escorting each individual starting with Chapter 1, and then navigates the reader through the labyrinth prose with all its plot twists and turns. It is as much to do with the journey as it is the destination, and if successful the reader enjoys their time on the ride. I have no miscalculation of my skills in this area. I am no great spinner of stylistic yarn. I do not profess to have a skill in navigating the reader through any great plot twists or reveals. I write for my own enjoyment and nothing more, and what I have written is intended to be the type of novel I would enjoy to read. If anyone else thinks it is worth their time, that makes the project so much more rewarding.

As far back as I can remember I always wanted to write something. Perhaps there’s a measure of arrogance involved with writing? After reading several different novels of the same genre one starts to think that they can also produce a similar work? I’m not sure if that is entirely the case, but I think it plays into an inspiring author’s mind. Whatever the case maybe, one actually has to sit down and do the work. Best selling author Tom Clancy was frequently asked what should aspiring authors do. His response was, “Write the damn book.” On this point I completely agree with Mr. Clancy. Stop talking about writing, and actually start writing. That seems like such a curt response, but it doesn’t make it any less true. This short blog post is a perfect example. I started this particular post three days ago, but life calls one away. It is just the simple reality when you have a full time job and other responsibilities in life. However, if it is something you want to do it is important to take the time to sit down and actually do it.

I know that for myself I will be writing less as the winter in the northern states begins to recede, and the temperatures begin their rise towards the eventual summer. There will be even more draws on my time, and desires, to enjoy the warmer temperatures because they seem to be so fleeting in the north. The summers are savored like wine in that regard. Therefore I have every intent on enjoying them while they last. Then, when the calendar flips over again, the days grow shorter and the nights become cold and drafty, there is no better time to sit down and start punching the laptop keys again. It is sort of a built in seasonal schedule – again, from my perspective. Already over the last few days there has been enough warming of temperatures to melt most of the snow, and what has been left behind is the wet brownish marshland of dormant fields. The only snow piles that remain are those pushed up by plows to unusual and unnatural heights, but even these have slowly decayed in their stature. I’m not saying I will not be writing during the warmer months, but I will certainly be writing less. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing in that it gives me a chance to reflect and edit projects I’ve already written. If anything, again keeping with a seasonal perspective angle, the warmer months are perfect for editing existing works, and the winter, with all its blowing snow and bone chilling temperatures, is perfect for creating new ones.

Each writer has their own method of producing copy. None are wrong nor right. The only infallible rule that must be followed, as Tom Clancy put it, is to sit down, do the work, and “Write the damn book.”