What is it about summer? I love the sunshine, the fresh air, the trips, the long days... and yet, yet, yet. Summer is a time to gather ideas for a writer, to look around, to talk to people, to get outside the little box of the office. Summer is not a time to write, not in depth.
This feeling -- and it is mostly a feeling because I could write more if I really wanted to do these days -- dates back to the days of having small children when the school or day care schedules were disrupted in the summer months. I loved my time with my kids. Don't get me wrong. I miss them to this day, their little bodies, their funny faces, their amazing insights and piercing laughter. I loved our times together as a family more than anything. It made me whole, for awhile. And yet, when they were out of school and I didn't have that thinking time for writing, when interruptions were more the norm than chunks of quiet, I sort of lost my center. I would drift off into thinking about my writing but more in a "wish I could chew on that for awhile instead of making lemonade" kind of way. Writing centers me. It has for years now. Without writing I would not be whole, I would be in pieces, shattered in a way. Writing glues it all together for me.
It's not the same these days. I can close the door and write when I want to, and I do. Yet summer is short. The fish are biting. The sun is shining. The river is twinkling in the morning light. Swallows swoop for bugs. Neighbors call over for a beer. It is a lovely, short-lived time called summer. My other self says: Enjoy.