Winter

I haven’t published in a long time.

For the past few years, I’ve been writing, in that way I know full well I’m not supposed to. I’ve written 7 outlines, 5 drafts, 2 double revisions. I’ve sent only one draft out for editing. One of the drafts was trashed completely, another was a co-writing effort that has since gone by the wayside. These half-finished projects used to fill me with anxiety, mostly shame. I know now that some projects will be half-finished. It’s the way of things.

3 drafts are interconnected stories. The edits must be completed on all 3 together. That takes longer.

I value a series with solid interconnections. So, that’s what I’m writing. It will be published when it’s ready.

I have trouble with winter. A lot of us do. The cold and the longer stretches of darkness remind us of the death they brought to the world all around us. Autumn’s desiccated leaves paint the landscape gray-brown. If we’re lucky, we get snow - it makes things much brighter.

It all feels so cruel. The snow is cold, the sun doesn’t give any living thing nearly what it needs to thrive, the dark tells us to sleep and snuggle in. Our world demands more from us than the earth gives us fuel to provide.

When you get to be a bit older, and you’ve lived through enough trips around the sun, you live with this small, steady truth inside you - the truth of UNTIL.

The days are dark, until they begin to get brighter. We hold on tight as Earth hurtles back toward the sun, until the days grow luxuriously long. The snow is cold, until it melts into life-giving water that flows through the earth once again. The leaves covers everything green, until we clear them away so the roots can feel the sun again.

I try to remind myself that winter’s gifts are quiet, and less obvious than the riotous color of spring, heat of summer, and soothing rest of autumn. Winter’s gift is sleep; it is promise that energy stored now will be put to its perfect use later.

Soon, I’ll publish again. For now, it is winter.