more (writerly) thoughts on the seasons
In January, I inaugurated a series of posts discussing the seasons, focusing on the sensory impressions and non-obvious quirks that might be of interest to writers. I hope this might be useful to anyone concerned they may have underwritten a scene and looking for inspiration, or for authors who hail from areas that don’t get the same broad annual variation of a northerly region.
Well, I didn’t forget! Below, some writing tips on writing spring.
swing season
Nothing about spring is more striking and unique than the vast gulf between how glad we are to greet it and how pleasant it actually is. Spring is fickle and deceitful. It smells bad.
It teases us with t-shirt weather, then snows on us again.
It hides the lengthening hours of daylight behind dense banks of clouds where we can’t enjoy it.
But even when hail smashes all the petals off our flowers and a late frost kills half the branches on our trees, we can’t get enough of it. To misquote the Starks: Summer is coming.
scents and sensibility
Spring is a season of stinks. Anywhere cold enough to frost will experience a spring thaw, filling the air with an earthy smell of rotting vegetation. Frequent, heavy rain adds humors of mildew and fungus to the mix. Spring is moist, which is practically a synonym for malodorous.
Birds are starting to come back, and it always seems to be the geese who are the pioneers. A few distant honks are the harbingers of a warmer season, but it may be weeks before the songbirds arrive in numbers. They’re noisy as they come in, feverish to find a mate.
Trees seem to be the first to flower. The ground remains brown; even grass is tentative. Spring is a gamble, and plants that commit too soon can be killed by a late frost. In my part of the world, the earliest bloomers are crocus, tulips, and daffodils. Tulips in particular are mavericks and often get snowed on.
the once and future king
It might be cold. It might be dumping a heavy mantle of sodden snow. It might be overcast for days or even weeks. But no matter what the weather throws at you, the sun is coming back.
Every day is a little longer. You feel your spirits lift each time you notice it. When it steps across the hurdle of a daily routine, you’re reminded that, last week, it was dark when you got off work/ ate dinner/ whatever.
Everywhere you go, you’re serenaded by a symphony of birdsong. That rotten stink is fading, greenery growing with more confidence. You go outside without a coat and don’t regret the decision.
Summer is waiting in the wings.
To find the other posts in this series, look here:
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