The HEA Cafe

I like writing in the winter.  There’s something about the crispness in the air that galvanizes my muse.  That, and the lack of humidity.  In the winter I can take my laptop out onto my Florida porch and look at all my flowers in bloom, and gloat over how my colleagues up North are buried under snow.  In the summer, I’m out for brief periods in the morning and at sunset, because in between it’s just too, too oppressive.

But you still have to write, no matter what the weather.  I meet people all the time who tell me they want to write a book, and every time I have to bite my tongue.  My automatic response is, “Well, why don’t you?”  I’ve learned though that sometimes folks just don’t get it.  The only way to be a writer is to sit down and write.  The only way to get published is to finish the manuscript.  The only way to finish the manuscript is to keep plunking it out, one word after the other.

That’s all I’ve got today.  But even though I didn’t feel like writing, I sat down this morning and plunked it out, one word after the other.  It’s not perfect, and it’s not finished, but eventually it’s going to be a novel.  Then I’ll be able to lie out in the hammock (at least for an hour or two) and enjoy summertime the way it was meant to be enjoyed.