I am not a winter baby. Sure, there are those moments when I step outside into cold, crisp air on the way to meeting with friends and then warm up with a hot chocolate.
But it’s more likely I’ll be standing on an outdoor train platform while the wind whips through every layer I have on. That’s when I wish those standing billboards would face the other way so I’d have protection from the aforementioned wind. Of course, if that happened, I know the wind would change direction just to taunt me. (Bus stops are the same, minus the billboards.)
But there is one good thing about the season’s change. My first novel (not yet released) takes place in the summer. Book two will move into autumn and perhaps winter. So right now I can write down every cranky thought, every annoying detail of discomfort—all the things I forget in the warm months—and use them. They will offer a sense of recognition to readers who deal with the same thing or perhaps provide curiosity for those who don’t.
I’ll also see if my character agrees with me or if she’s going to turn into one of those people who likes this weather. I write her but that doesn’t mean she always listens to me. In fact, I have to listen to her. Writing a character in a way that’s not true to that person will result in an artificial voice. Deny this at your own peril.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to put on another sweater and get a hot drink.