The darkness these days makes me feel like staying close to home especially in the evenings. I want to sit by a fire and drink hot chocolate, curl up with a good book (we always say a good book as if we’d ever want to read a horrible one) maybe sit with the characters of the novel I’m writing and ask them a few questions, make them explain the who, what, when , where and why. Dream. I want to dream and imagine and pull the darkness in close like a warm fuzzy blanket. I want to feel the comfort of these dark nights knowing that I am safe and warm.
In about a month the days will begin to lengthen. Right now it seems a long ways off. This time of the year is my busiest and I struggle to find the time to do all the things I’d like to do. Its just the way things are and there’s not much point in complaining.
These past few days I have barely found time to write and that makes me feel even more rushed for time. Writing slows me down, helps me settle into a world of my own making with characters I’ve created that seem far too real for me to say I made them up. I sometimes wonder about the people and places a writer creates. How much of it is imagined and how much resides in a small corner of our beings? How much of it is really real? I mean, really REAL. I know, this all makes me sound weird, but aren’t writers supposed to be a little weird?
How are you coping with the shorter days? Do you mind the diminished daylight hours?