Spring is coming.
Didn’t, once. In the angst of my twenties, in my determination to find the dark, Russian side of everything, the changeover to a milder season depressed me. Once, the pink snowfall of cherry blossoms in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden brought me back, from a deep and worrisome mope, a forecast of an affection to come.
I am now in the Winter of one book; on the verge of Spring for the next. This is the time of the long nights; the point at which I have to remind myself that bad is not bad, dark is not the end, and all the book’s answers do not sprout overnight.
I am tired of Winter. Especially in myself.
Typically, last night, after a very long day of writing—nearly twelve hours that I should have wrapped while I still had a glimmer of good sense left in me—the poor book suffered the chill and the dark of the Winter Me. Wanting Spring, I started pruning, to encourage growth and life. Wanting it too much, I could easily have pruned the thing to death.
I think I stopped before I did too much damage. I hope so—I haven’t yet looked at it. In any case, lesson learned.
I have gone from the Winter-bound me of the past, to the Spring of me (with a sneaky, secret fondness for the pathos and melancholy of Autumn.) Maybe that’s why it’s best for me to write in the daylight, where the hope is.
In sunlight, it is always Spring.