Easy to distinguish between the cluckers and laugh-snorters. The laugh-snorters are those who have known me for many years; hardy souls who have observed my writing process throughout the course of writing -- or not writing and bitching about not writing -- previous books.
I thank God for these dearly beloved friends whose FFS response yanks me back to this reality: I have never never ever ever written book stuff during the summer months. Never. Ever. Never ever. These friends remind me that I've always spent the summer gardening (or did, when I had a garden), reading novels, binge watching mindless crap, avoiding sunlight, and praying for cloudy days.
You'd think I'd know this, but apparently it takes a mini-village to calm me the F down, to remind me how summer is my fallow season, that I come to life during the Fall when everything else starts dying. It's true. I perk right up when I see the green-gold of twilight happening earlier; when I hear cicadas chirr at a slower pace. Instead of searching for a cave to crawl into for the winter, I stumble out of the one I've created to escape summer.
There are several official ways to mark the beginning of Autumn. For most (in the USofA) it's Labor Day (September 1) and when the school year begins, even if school hasn't been attended for decades. Purists (of some sort) might insist on waiting for the Autumnal equinox on September 23.
But the air has been cool with crisp edges for many consecutive days. My Thai basil has gone to flower. The plane trees have been shedding bark for weeks. This morning I woke up feeling words forming sentences and paragraphs, which I welcomed as yet another sign that this ghastly season known as summer is finally coming to an end. Also, I suddenly have a hankering for meatloaf and baked potatoes.
So that's it, then. I'm declaring the arrival of Autumn and will stop bitching about not writing. Laugh snorts? Anyone?
