Why is it so difficult to write of grey days on sunshiney ones?

Sunshine is the antithesis of the mood. A slap in its face. A dare.

Write this, the day says. Not this. Feel this. Do this.

A sunny day is an all-out assault on the senses. A royal decree that one must feel a certain way. A formula that conjures its opposite intention. Days like these are egomaniacs. A sunny day is a preening glorification of itself. “I am beautiful,” it says: “Admire me. I insist.”

I have never been one for doing, feeling, what I’ve been told.

                   …Not love, quoth he, but vanity, sets love a task like that.

As magnificent as days like this are—as much as I will long for them in the S.A.D. days of December—sunshine is the mean friend, today; the racket, when the plot asks me for a whisper. The sunshine is all up in my face today…which is a fine place for napping cats, but not so much for questing writers.

Come on, universe—I’m trying to write a funeral, here.

[The vanity quote comes from a poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt that I’ve remembered for umpty years from a Dorothy Sayers mystery.]

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