I hate winter.
As each day gets shorter and nights get longer and
increasingly colder, people around me die. That, dear reader, is a fact.
It seems like all my good friends and close family members chose
to die between November 1st and March 1st: President
Kennedy in November; my mother and my wife in January; my father, my nephew, my
aunts and uncles in December; Rocky Wood and Chellis French last week; just the
night before last there was a fatal automobile crash directly in front of my
house that distracted me from writing with dozens of red and blue flashing
lights and wailing sirens; Elizabeth got a phone call yesterday that the pastor
of her church passed away; and early this morning I was awakened by more sirens
because the old guy across the street kicked the bucket. I was once again
reminded how fragile life can be as winter steals precious time from my life
and the lives of others.
I have tried to
protect myself and my house from death’s intrusion by surrounding the place
with huge living trees and a berm of thick bushes. Twice in the twenty-some
years I have lived here those trees and bushes intervened to save my life by
stopping careening cars from crashing through the front of my house. I live on
one of the busiest east-west thruways connecting the city of Rockford with
Chicago, and cars daily race past my house at dangerously high rates of speed. I
have witnessed automobiles crash into my big magnolia trees, and I have had my
picture window punctured by bullets during drive-bys while I sat near the
window writing. Not all of these things happen only in winter, of course. But
it seems attempts on my life happen more frequently between the first of
November and the first of March.
My thesis and dissertation advisors insistently reminded me throughout
grad school that correlation does not prove causation, and I rationally realize
that darkness alone does not cause death. After all, Elvis died in August, and
plenty of people do die during daylight hours. But I see the grinning spectre
of death hanging around my house during the darkness of winter, waiting
patiently for me to emerge from my fortress. Let him wait, I say. I don’t plan
to venture out into that long goodnight anytime soon.
This is the mood that infects my writing in winter. I have
half a dozen short stories currently in progress, plus three new novels. All
focus on death and dying. Come spring, my writing will focus on rebirth. Writers
cannot help but be affected by their environment, and that includes weather and
diminished daylight. Several of my writer friends have found their output in
winter adversely affected by bouts of illness. Other friends have mentioned debilitating
depression. I empathize with them. Winter takes its inevitable toll on all of
us. I hate winter with a passion.
My protagonists are survivors who battle darkness to emerge
victorious from winter, and the eight protagonists of my upcoming Abandoned-series of novels are able to
consciously choose when to die. They cannot escape death entirely, although
some of my antagonists try. Only one of the Abandoned
novels was written in winter. It’s titled Winds. It’s followed by Darkness
and then by Light. The fifth novel
is entitled Time. Abandoned
will be published next March by Eldritch Press. They are all stand-alone novels
with some recurring characters. Each is around 120,000 words. That’s nearly a million words devoted to the
themes of death, dying, and rebirth.
In each of those novels, a primary protagonist dies. I want
readers to know that death is not the end of the adventure but the beginning.
Yes, dear reader, there is light at the
end of the tunnel, and day always follows
night.
So be of good cheer, and don’t let the darkness get to you.
Celebrate the holidays and the return of the Light.
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