I am not a fan of winter. Sure, I fall in love with the first snow, I dig a White Christmas, and every winter season calls for a cute new hat-scarf-glove combo. But come January, when the snow is slushy and sidewalks haven’t been shoveled in weeks, and the tires on my car swish around while I’m driving, and the wind is too bitter to run in, I’ve had enough.
But this morning, I remembered one thing I do love about the start of winter. Getting up early, when it’s still very dark out. Walking straight to the living room (ok, quick stop at the fridge for a Diet Coke) and instead of opening the blinds, I open my laptop. I don’t turn on any lights and write in the dark, sleepy and cold, a blanket or two across my lap.
And by the time by husband walks into the living room, ready for work in a warm winter sweater, I’m a thousand words into a new novel, and not so mad at the cold.
I love summer in Chicago. I want to jog by the lake, run errands with my hair still wet from a cool shower, enjoy a four o’clock happy hour at an outdoor beer garden. But summer is not good writing weather.
Winter, I don’t love you all that much, but I will take your sleepy, dark, cold mornings and wrap them around a fresh first draft.