I’m often asked what it’s like to be a writer — how I spend my days, how I experience the world. And so I will be sharing occasional essays from the front lines of my writing life. Enjoy!
Ah, the first true sign of Spring: I open a window. Not wide; the morning has a bite to it. But the sun is up, the sky is clear and I can feel the planet shift toward Spring. And if that weren’t enough, I have proof. There on my calendar, in black and white: March 20, the first day of Spring. Soon, soon.
It has been a long, cold, cold winter. Skies a listless grey, streets a slushy grey. A winter of faithlessness: that Spring would not return and bring with it its palette of blues and golds and splashes of hot pink and Day-glow green. Dabs of purple.
Through the sliver of my window, Springs slips in on a breeze. There! I feel it! The breeze puts its arms around my shoulders and whispers, “Believe in me.”
I lean into it and I say, “I always have.”