Some people write in summer. Some write in fall...me...I write in winter. Something about the way the world slows down. At least in the Midwest it does. And the lack of light and the short days and everything dying. Time to grow a beard and sit by a fire and think about where you ended up and where you are going. And that's how books start. Some sort of reassessment of your whole life and hopefully you don't drink yourself to death or shoot yourself in the process.
But then a book starts. Kind of like a lawnmower that sat for a long time. Lots of smoke and cleaning out the pipes. Rough. Fitfully. Then it starts to turn over and you think that its been a long time since you used the thing. And you are amazed it still runs because every time you put it away you think maybe that is it and it wont start again. But it does.
And so the winter goes dark. And the world turns cold. And you figure what the hell. Might as well hide with the rest of the creatures and yeah you didn't get to where you wanted but maybe this time you might get it right. Who knows. So the snow falls and you wait and work and in the spring you will emerge again.
But for now... you're just gone.
www.williamhazelgrove.com
The Pitcher
But then a book starts. Kind of like a lawnmower that sat for a long time. Lots of smoke and cleaning out the pipes. Rough. Fitfully. Then it starts to turn over and you think that its been a long time since you used the thing. And you are amazed it still runs because every time you put it away you think maybe that is it and it wont start again. But it does.
And so the winter goes dark. And the world turns cold. And you figure what the hell. Might as well hide with the rest of the creatures and yeah you didn't get to where you wanted but maybe this time you might get it right. Who knows. So the snow falls and you wait and work and in the spring you will emerge again.
But for now... you're just gone.
www.williamhazelgrove.com
The Pitcher
