Seasons

The world here is filled with flowers.  Everywhere I drive I see dogwood flowers.  Blossoms cover the apple tree in our yard.  My columbine is starting to open, the bleeding-hearts are in full flower, and my lilly-of-the-valley actually survived another year.  (I'm in shock.  They've been doing their best to die off for several years now.)  It's beautiful and amazing, and it's driving everyone with allergies crazy.  



I told a friend recently that books have different seasons.  Tom Sawyer is a summer book.  I first read it in the summer, so reading it now makes me think of the smell of sun-warmed earth and dried out grass, the feel of dirt under my feet.  Mariel of Redwall is an Autumn book, filled with thunderstorms, the decay of fallen leaves, the fierce sunsets coming too soon as the days shorten.  


When I was about fourteen and first playing with the idea of writing stories, I was convinced a book could only be written during the season the story took place in -that a piece of that season would seep into what I wrote, just as it did when I read.  I had a winter book and a summer book, and I'd alternate, putting away the winter writing when spring came around, then dragging it back out in the Autumn.  


That's... not actually smart.  You don't get very far in a novel if you put it away every time the season changes.  I still think the changing season affect what I write, though, and I still hope bits season get caught in the pages.