It's been an odd winter so far, from stretches with ten inches of snow and bitter cold, to days of seventy-degree T-shirt weather. And now, we're back to the cold stuff. It's almost worse when you get that taste of spring, and then have to rewind to winter again. I keep looking at my straggly butterfly garden, and dreaming of how it looks in high summer, when everything is green and bright-colored and smells lovely. I look longingly at my snow-covered garden bench, and imagine stretching out there in that shady spot with a book while the world goes by.
It's the waiting game I always play at the end of winter, when the seed catalogs arrive in the mail to tempt me with what delicious offerings I could plant in my vegetable garden. While my son is happy to put on his snow suit and tumble around in the drifts, I want to curl up on my couch with a plushy blanket, a thick book, and a cup of coffee. Winter is definitely my season of hibernation.
I should be glad of it, as it keeps me at the computer, rather than roaming outside. I'm plugging away at the middle of my latest novel, unequivocally my least favorite part of writing. I'm always eager to get to my favorite part: the editing. That's when my artistic side gets to come out to play, with the tweaking and fine-tuning it takes to turn a piece from its crude form to a polished work. Writing is itself a sort of waiting game for me: a process that can't be rushed, or it comes out too soon and too flat. So, I suppose I have to curl up (in my office chair) with my computer, my words, and that cup of coffee. Because good things come to those who wait (and work, and write) for it.