As I glance out the window—and I wouldn’t dream of writing fiction in a room that doesn’t have a window—I see that the slushy rain has given way to steady snow, obscuring the last of the dead leaves on the lawns. As long as the power stays on, why should today’s dreary weather make any difference when I immerse myself in a far-away world, one that I’ll never be able to visit in person–and one that is arid, hot, almost suffering from an excess of sunshine? I can’t really answer this question, though I have come to see that I frequently find myself writing in opposition to the actual weather outside my window. This could be a reason why many of my stories created in the winter are set in the sun-drenched tropics. I do have to wonder if the realms I invent would be different if I did not live in a locale that has four seasons each year. If I lived in the tropics, would my characters never experience blazing heat and curl-your-hair humidity?
My method, and admittedly it’s generous to call it that, does have at least one disadvantage. I’ve got some scenes planned for a frigid, arctic setting. Guess I’ll set them aside and work on them when summer turns into a steam bath.
Side note for those who will ask about the photo: My husband took this shot of snow accumulating on one of his climbing roses. Extra credit to those who spotted the snowflake.