Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that low’r'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. ~ Richard III

It’s only January 22, and the ‘winter of (my) discontent’ is firmly in place, with no ‘son of York’ in sight for relief. Usually I make it until at least early February before succumbing to the doldrums. I’m tired of being cold, of shoveling snow, of shouldering layers upon layers of garments to ward off the chill. The muse has fled (probably in hibernation!); I have no motivation. The stacks of half-read books on my desk, nightstand, and end table keep growing as I start a new book and lose interest after twenty or so pages. That’s no reflection on the authors. The call of Persephone is strong – I should be sleeping, not creating new projects.

From my DailyOm horoscope today (although according to new calculations, I'm a Virgo, not a Libra...):

"Feelings of distress can plague you today, causing you to second-guess yourself at every turn. You may consequently feel frustrated because it seems that the important matters in your life have slowed to a standstill. Any effort you make to resume your momentum will likely be blocked by what appear to be circumstances that are beyond your control. Yet you easily can overcome these difficulties today by adopting a flexible approach to your personal and professional duties and responsibilities...Even when our forward momentum seems to slow to a stop, we can see the hidden blessings in our situation. Your slow pace will not distress you today when you are flexible enough to cope productively with the change in your pace."

Either way, it's pretty much a reflection of my current state of mind, at least the first part detailing the frustrations. I haven’t made it to the hidden blessings. Maybe if I can find a way to thaw out...

I’ve made it through yet another final rewrite of my current WIP, printed a copy and set it aside to proof (back to my bread analogy) for a bit. In my current state of mind, I’m less than thrilled with it, hoping that with time I’ll regain my earlier enthusiasm.

Suggestions, fellow writers, on battling stagnation? Or at least the cold weather.

This afternoon I’m huddled at my desk watching the shimmering cold back yard, the oddly-still frozen pond, the stubborn orange beech leaves contrasting so beautifully against the white backdrop of snow. Sipping my fourth (fifth?) cup of tea, trying to stay warm and wishing the frenetic stress-inducing holidays were over and it was spring.

But it’s not. It’s early (can’t even stretch that to ‘mid’) December, and winter hit with a vengeance as soon as the calendar page flipped from November. Bone-chilling cold, icy sidewalks, blowing and drifting predicted for the weekend. So many of our fellow mammals are spot on with the whole hibernation thing, what was evolution thinking taking us past that lovely notion?

I must make the best of it, brew another pot of tea, pull on another layer of fleece, crank up the heating pad on my aching muscles, and keep my numb fingers moving over the keyboard. A book review to write, an essay to polish and resubmit (after four rejections, but we won’t go there today), a novel to finish editing, and a blog to update. My own personal deadlines, sure, but goals are important no matter the source, right? And another deadline down is another day closer to the end of winter.

I just realized all three of my novels, each at a different stage of completion, take place in warm weather, April through September, prime baseball season, with the occasional thunderstorm to cool the air. Nary a parka, mukluk or snow shovel in sight. My characters bike and swim, they don’t ice skate. I have one brief flashback scene that takes place along the Lake Erie shoreline in January. It’s bleak, depressing, and I shiver every time I read it. Sure hope that means it’s good writing and I’m not simply projecting.

It’s been said that all fiction is at least marginally autobiographical, albeit often idealized. In my case, that’s certainly true when it comes to the weather. And while I heed Elmore Leonard’s advice and never open a book with the weather, it is always at least a minor character, reflecting the internal tempests of my protagonists and the battles they face. Like me, my heroine is gloomy on dark, cloudy days; on edge – or in bed with a migraine – when the barometer drops and storms threaten, and more likely to be cheerful and productive when the sun shines and temperatures hover in the mid-seventies.

But I’ve lived in Ohio all my life except for a brief four-year stint in Wyoming where the weather is even more volatile, if that’s possible. I survived the Blizzard of ’78, among others; you’d think I’d have this winter thing down cold – pun intended. Alas, every year it gets harder to face the impeding winter, and I refuse to attribute such reluctance to my advancing age. I’m simply more willing to own up to my feelings and stop pretending to relish the changing seasons. I’m all for the circle of life, for plants regenerating in the frozen earth to burst forth again in the warmth of spring. I just wish I could join them and sleep until the ice is gone.

Now where did I put those open-fingered gloves my wonderful daughter crocheted...