Only three days left in January. Is that weird? I think that’s weird. Yesterday, I was sprawled out on my bedroom floor, scribbling in a notebook while downstairs my siblings counted down to the New Year. That wasn’t yesterday. But that feels like yesterday. That feels like months ago. It’s been a weird, full month. I taught. I wrote (some 20,000 words). I ran. I plied. I interviewed more applicants. I tutored. I freaked about the future once or, okay, two times. And I remembered something critical: I like winter.
I really, really like winter.
I like the quiet. I like the layers. I like the crunch beneath my boots and the skid of my tires and the rumble of the heater. (I don’t like the cost of winter, because oh my goodness, my electric bill is double what it was in September.) I like how it (kinda) transforms my (kinda) crummy street into a (kinda) homey neighborhood. I like falling asleep to a snows soft so soft fall then waking to whitewhitewhite from the blizzard in the night. I like the excuse to wear giant coats and hats and to hide in bed with a book. I like the nesting, the way the words flow. I like how the snow is like magic: magic writing glitter MAGIC. I like the night drives, just you and the storm, the snow like shooting stars in my headlights. I like feeling like all is right: it’s January and I live in Colorado and it’s snowing, it’s cold.
Colorado isn’t always snowy. South Park is misleading. Its reputation, however, of sunny clear days is based on truth. As is its mood swings. Sunday: sixty degrees and bright. Tuesday: -2 and bright from all the white. I preferred Tuesday’s style. It makes me anxious when it’s beautiful and warm (because 60 is warm after 10) in January. Not normal. Not okay. (Hot weather makes me anxious in the summer too. It might just be the heat, not the season.) During my first January in Colorado (2010), I swear it never pushed past thirty (it probably did, but whatever). Now, you never know. Now, the west is in a killer drought (don’t even get me started on the tragedy of California). But even if there wasn’t a desperate need for moisture, for snow, for rain, for melt, I would still love snow. I would still adore winter.
Is it weird that I equate snow with warmth? Not heat. Warmth.
I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: I’m kind of obsessed with the weather.
In other news, my rewrite is so entirely abstracted from the original draft that I’m hesitate to even call it a rewrite. It’s a first draft. That’s what it is. And I’m 25,000 words in and it’s kind of wonderful and rather horrific and feels so, so, so good (well, when it’s flowing right, otherwise, well, that’s a post for another night).