Can you smell snow?

Wintry feelings today. Thoughts turn to Christmas, and to snowboarding, and other activities enjoyed in the dark, dormant months. The darkness and the coldness combine with shuttered windows and bright lights to induce sentiments not felt for some time. I long for winter in summer and for summer in winter. And in autumn and spring, I anticipate, and grow restless.

Winter is book reading time, and book writing time. As the days draw in and it becomes too cold, wet or treacherous to venture far from home, the mind begins more than ever to turn in on itself, to wander further into the realms of the imagination. Summer may be a fertile time for plants, but winter is when literature is grown and harvested.

Perhaps this winter my labours will bear fruit at last. A good book is there, bubbling under the surface, ready-written, if only in my mind. To the page it must be committed, and then... and then, well, who knows?