I love winter. That is to say, I love winter when it's behaving like winter--when it snows and blows and tumbles and wraps the whole world up in white. I do not, by extension, necessarily like the months of December through February (or, more likely, March)--too often our version of winter is rain, ice, sleet, and something the weather people call "wintry mix" which sounds like a candle scent but it, in fact, disgusting on the roads. And grey. Very, very grey.
So I was thrilled when we got a half a foot of snow in the last two days. To top it off, I have a few evenings free, with nothing to occupy me but the new manuscript I've been plugging away at. So I sat down at my desk last night in the room in our New Old House that I'm calling, in historical parlance, the great room. The snow swirled outside, past the thick-paned windows. I could imagine a fire into the hearth behind me. I had a glass of some sort of spicy, earthy red wine from Chile with a name I couldn't pronounce. Enchanting and inspiring, all of it.
The trouble was that I am trying to write a very sweltering sort of book. A book about hot places during hot times of the year. About India and South Carolina and mosquitoes and sweating and dampness and really needing a glass of cold rum punch. It just wasn't happening. My toes were too cold to have my characters fanning themselves.
And so I allowed myself the lark of writing something entirely new, that's been bugging me for some time to let it come out and play. It's a colder sort of story, but one that I think will open into spring before it's finished.
I've never been a two-project writer before. I'll have to pick one to focus on. It's going to be difficult to shelf one when the crossroads hit. But for now, I'll permit myself this little winter lark, while the snow falls.
Do you tackle one project at once (of any kind--reading, sewing, household, writing) or have a few simmering at once? Am I the only one so affected in the weather when it comes to picking what to work on?