As the summer ends, my writing season starts. Life slows down, allows me a breath so I can take a moment to reflect on the madness of the hot months. I’ve always struggled with writing during the summer. I make little time for it, I’m too busy moving – living. But I know by the end of it, when I’m exhausted and stupefied, that the writing season of fall will slow me down and make me reflect.
This phenomenon of my writing interlude – where does it come from?
It could be the echo of my childhood when we’d spend our time in pools and building ragtag forts and on constant adventure, abandoning the cerebral disciplines and casting off the yolk of education for a few fleeting wild months.
It could be the echo of the post-pubescent years with the discoveries of adulthood around drunken bonfires and during house parties, dabbling in sex and drama.
It could be the adult ambition to meet with old friends and recapture youth or fulfill the social responsibilities that seem to increase with aging.
Whatever it is, the cycle of writing always grows with summer’s fullness of life, and the fruits of the season’s mischief are always harvested and relished in the magic of autumn.
The time has come yet again, to tack headlong into the realm of writing and unravel the madness of summer.