Spring, at last
It’s sort-of spring here in Interior Alaska, but then, spring comes in two parts here. First, break up: The snow mostly melts. The big early season mosquitoes start pestering us. Last autumn’s leaves, frozen beneath the snow all winter, re-emerge. The buds on birch trees make them look like knobbly strings unlit Christmas lights because they’re not quite ready to unfurl. A few days more and they’ll burst open for green-up, and spring will finally, really and truly, be here.
Spring marks the start of my writing season. The academic year is over, and I can turn my attention to half-written stories, and ideas that might-or-might-not turn into a novel one day. Ideas can put out roots while you’re not paying attention, or they can work their way around obstacles. But that will only get you so far. In the end, what your work needs is focussed attention. No more thoughts about work emails you need to send, or an idea for how to teach a class on point of view, to come pestering you like one of those early season mosquitoes.
To have time to write, to let my brain relax between sessions at the keyboard, to sink back into being entirely my writing self, is a remarkable thing. As spring slides into summer, interesting tidbits that could become stories come to me, and solutions to stories that are stuck in first gear, all because I’m open to them. So, now, in these days that have no night, and the giddiness that comes with it, I will write.
Photo credit: Jason Abdilla, Unsplash