Winter in Cleveland is as much a state of mind as it is a physical season. I once thought it would be great to have an excuse to stay inside and write: cup of cocoa on the end table, heating pad behind your back, nothing but time to play with words and let your mind fill the page with the workings of your imagination. That’s how it should work.
In reality, the snow piles up outside, and if you don’t get your butt out there to shovel, you won’t be leaving the driveway to get to work. Yes, work. How else do you pay the bills? I’m lucky enough to have an occupation that challenges my mind daily. Otherwise, I’d go insane. But no matter if your job stimulates your mind or not, the component of your brain that composes your fantasy story is quite different. Mine is currently starving. After a full day of activity, it’s hard to sit down and devote time to your imagination. Most writers can relate; the situation is not uncommon.
What is unique (and I can say this, seeing as Cleveland was labeled one of the worst winter cities AND one of the most miserable cities) is the stale atmosphere of the world gone blue. No, not even blue. That shade of gray that stagnates there on the bottom of the stratus clouds—you know, the clouds that blanket the entire sky so that you can’t tell morning from afternoon. It’s a color that appears when you’ve hit too many potholes, suffered too many insurmountable bills, bickered too often with your best friend and partner. It’s the color of winter: a cold and lackluster season where life is absent or hidden.
Winter in the mind is parallel to the season. Your creativity is buried beneath a heavy, wet layer of “snow” (distractions). How to muster the effort to shovel it away? Easier to let it sit there until it hardens into ice (but then when it melts, it drips down into your basement and breeds black mold…oops…). Where did all the color go that stimulates your ideas? It seems just when you start to see the grass emerge, you’re hit with another storm.
There are many personal issues provoking the problem of mental winter and writer’s gray. I refuse to complain about them now, as that’s hardly a constructive pastime. (And who wants to read about all that anyway?) I do, however, want to share a challenge that I’ve never faced before: endless editing.
We have deadlines to meet, and the pressure is building. When each chapter is re-read for the tenth time, and each chapter takes at least an hour to refine, where is that promise of spring? There must be an end to mental winter. I thirst for new ideas, new discussions, and the long walks on a summer afternoon that spark fresh questions. I want to play with words again and trod upon paths not yet taken, but spring seems so far away.
In a city where it seems few people read books (all the bookstores around us have closed), and even fewer people read fantasy (NOT kids—they don’t count! I mean adult fantasy), who cares about our novel? The answer isn’t pleasant to look upon, but you have to be honest with yourself. Winter is winter, and no matter how warm you wish it was, you’ll still get hypothermia if you linger outside without a jacket (or several).
You have to create your own spring, or at least give yourself something to look forward to. The best answer I’ve found is to simply write for yourself. Do it because you love it, and if someone should discover you, then what a joy that will be! But until then, you have to keep that shovel handy. I’m trying not to let that snow pile too thickly, because I want to see those first flowers when they emerge. I don’t set high expectations that will leave me disappointed. All I ask is just a little sunshine, and it will do me wonders.
Anyway, I should be editing, not blogging. Come on, I had to create something new! It’s all in the mind….
-Stefanie
In reality, the snow piles up outside, and if you don’t get your butt out there to shovel, you won’t be leaving the driveway to get to work. Yes, work. How else do you pay the bills? I’m lucky enough to have an occupation that challenges my mind daily. Otherwise, I’d go insane. But no matter if your job stimulates your mind or not, the component of your brain that composes your fantasy story is quite different. Mine is currently starving. After a full day of activity, it’s hard to sit down and devote time to your imagination. Most writers can relate; the situation is not uncommon.
What is unique (and I can say this, seeing as Cleveland was labeled one of the worst winter cities AND one of the most miserable cities) is the stale atmosphere of the world gone blue. No, not even blue. That shade of gray that stagnates there on the bottom of the stratus clouds—you know, the clouds that blanket the entire sky so that you can’t tell morning from afternoon. It’s a color that appears when you’ve hit too many potholes, suffered too many insurmountable bills, bickered too often with your best friend and partner. It’s the color of winter: a cold and lackluster season where life is absent or hidden.
Winter in the mind is parallel to the season. Your creativity is buried beneath a heavy, wet layer of “snow” (distractions). How to muster the effort to shovel it away? Easier to let it sit there until it hardens into ice (but then when it melts, it drips down into your basement and breeds black mold…oops…). Where did all the color go that stimulates your ideas? It seems just when you start to see the grass emerge, you’re hit with another storm.
There are many personal issues provoking the problem of mental winter and writer’s gray. I refuse to complain about them now, as that’s hardly a constructive pastime. (And who wants to read about all that anyway?) I do, however, want to share a challenge that I’ve never faced before: endless editing.
We have deadlines to meet, and the pressure is building. When each chapter is re-read for the tenth time, and each chapter takes at least an hour to refine, where is that promise of spring? There must be an end to mental winter. I thirst for new ideas, new discussions, and the long walks on a summer afternoon that spark fresh questions. I want to play with words again and trod upon paths not yet taken, but spring seems so far away.
In a city where it seems few people read books (all the bookstores around us have closed), and even fewer people read fantasy (NOT kids—they don’t count! I mean adult fantasy), who cares about our novel? The answer isn’t pleasant to look upon, but you have to be honest with yourself. Winter is winter, and no matter how warm you wish it was, you’ll still get hypothermia if you linger outside without a jacket (or several).
You have to create your own spring, or at least give yourself something to look forward to. The best answer I’ve found is to simply write for yourself. Do it because you love it, and if someone should discover you, then what a joy that will be! But until then, you have to keep that shovel handy. I’m trying not to let that snow pile too thickly, because I want to see those first flowers when they emerge. I don’t set high expectations that will leave me disappointed. All I ask is just a little sunshine, and it will do me wonders.
Anyway, I should be editing, not blogging. Come on, I had to create something new! It’s all in the mind….
-Stefanie
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