On my Google Home Page, I have a countdown to Spring. I started this a few years ago, and, to my amusement, found when I checked this year that I always start it around the same day: January 23rd. I suppose that is the moment when the true desolation of January has really set in. After weeks of horribly cold weather, after surviving the holidays and New Year Celebrations, after the nice brief break of Martin Luther King Day, the truth must finally be faced: it's cold. It's dark. The nights are still way too long. And, inevitably, sitting down to write is a struggle amidst all this darkness and gloom.
I'm always of two minds about this. Is it better to just give in, and spent the worst parts of winter reading more than writing? Or perhaps sleeping, gathering strength for the longer days that must be coming? Or should writers Buckle Down, force themselves to honor their schedule, write against their mood and their inclination?
This month, I've taken a novel approach. I can't make myself write much, when I sit down, but I am for some reason suddenly able to submit. And for some even more obscure reason, I seem to be submitting across the board: short stories, plays, nonfiction - things that hadn't ever left my computer or desk are suddenly seeking the light of day - or at least the flourescent light in the office of an agent or editor or dramaturge. I just submitted a play I read at River Writers three years ago (at least!) for the very first time. I just sent a story off to an editor who hasn't heard from me in two years.
I think it must be the equivalent of spring cleaning (something which I am REALLY not ready for yet. ) But I think I'm hoping it is a kind of mental preparation for new growing green things that will come, perhaps, when those 44 days are up. I can but hope.
