Last updated on July 2, 2025

Sun in the sky and hands in the dirt

Winter is the worst. I know some people love it and while I really don’t have anything against it, I mean, it’s never done anything to me personally, it just feels like a lot of waiting around. At least as far as my seasonal creativity goes. And I hate waiting.

During the deepest part of the winter, when there’s snow and ice everywhere here, it makes me feel stuck. I dig in and hunker down for the long haul. And wait. I use the time wisely, of course. That’s when I stew on ideas and let them simmer while I’m huddled inside. If you cook, you know what it means to put something on the back burner and let it simmer on low. That’s winter to me. It’s lengthy and it doesn’t look like there’s a lot going on, but in reality there is. There’s magical blending happening there. Tiny bubbling transformations of random thoughts or the wisp of an idea into fully-matured concepts. Winter is the time I devote to editing and practical construction of ideas that were birthed in the other half of the year in the sun.

But as soon as the weather starts to break, I get antsy. It’s the impatient thing, what can I say? Sometimes it happens in March. And that’s a cheat because you know there’s a good few weeks before actual spring, at least in my part of the world. That just makes it worse. That’s the time I feel the new ideas just below the surface nearly ready to break free. “Nearly ready” is torture. I’m happier once they break free and I start automatic writing without thinking and getting it out of my head. But the time right before that? Ugh, it’s the worst.

And then, finally, the sun shows up. And I don’t mean just technically. Not the cold trickle of light we get in February that pretends to be helpful. I mean real sun. The kind that warms your skin through your jacket and makes the air smell like earth again. That’s when everything shifts for me.

The dirt in my container garden thaws, and I’m right out there, sleeves rolled up, fingers in the soil. Not just because I want to grow food (though I do), but because that first contact with the living ground does something to me. A key turning in a lock. My thoughts stretch toward the light, alphabet seedlings, and suddenly there’s no shortage of ideas. They start to tumble out, green and wild and full of promise. Some I plant deliberately. Others just show up, unannounced and kick the door in. Others more shyly – little self-seeded surprises from last year.

Spring is when I write like a mad thing. I don’t mean polish or structure – there’s definitely none of that. I mean raw, fresh, and weird new stuff. The creative tsunami is just… there. Tumbling out and pushing everything else out of the way. Not something I have to chase or coax. It’s already moving fast and I need to run to keep up.

So yes, winter might be for simmering, but spring is for starting. And the minute I feel the sun on my face and the cool, damp soil in my hands, I know my season of stories, that seasonal creativity, is cycling around again.