Updated: May 3, 2022
I get what I call the winter blues. I don’t want to go so far as to call it seasonal affective disorder, because that sounds too official. I love spring—I’m kind of a spring junkie, and summer is the BEST, and autumn in New England is a holy experience. And then comes winter. Snow. Cold. More snow. Melting snow. Mud. More snow. Dirty snow. Mud. Crusty snow. Icy snow. No leaves on the trees. No flowers in my garden.
Last year, on April 17, the last of our snow finally melted. APRIL! Come on! “I can’t do this again without going on a killing spree,” I told McIrish, and he readily agreed that yes indeedy, I needed a little time away in the winter of 2016.
I chose Atlanta for a few reasons: it wouldn’t be that hot. It was a direct flight from Connecticut. I wouldn’t need a car because they have public transportation.
Yesterday, I took an Uber taxi to my house for the next little while. Dragged my suitcase up the steps and kablammy! I was in love. It’s a cute little apartment in a three-apartment Victorian, on a street filled with lovely little bungalows and Victorians. Oh, the strangeness of it all! The little galley kitchen, the stained-glass transom in my bedroom, the leather recliner upstairs!
I left my suitcase and took a walk, admiring the lovely houses, the blooming magnolia, the live oaks. I bought some groceries and lugged them back, unpacked, settled in.
For me, nothing stimulates my writerly imagination as being in a new place, in someone else’s place. A new neighborhood, different furniture, and wall colors, throw pillows and comforters different from the sweet familiarity of home.
So this is where I’ll be, gang! Staying in my PJs most days, eating when the mood strikes, hunkered down, writing you a book. xox