The Last Refuge of the Unimaginative

A Gloomy Day by Angela Northern

I suppose that, like me, you're pretty tired of winter by now. Winter doesn't usually get me down, but this year it has been gloomy more than not and the snow just never seems to go away, completely. When it does melt, leaving dormant dapples on what used to be a lawn, it's usually replaced within a day or two...

While I'm much more creative during the colder months, I look forward to those summer nights when I write on the front porch after everyone's gone to bed. A bottle of pinot grigio, a cluster of candles and lanterns, and the scent of vines and hanging flowers seducing me to write. Invariably, however, I am distracted by watching the neighborhood, hidden there in my bower, allowing my thoughts to wander and drift.

My latest book takes place in Vienna in the spring, and I'm finding it difficult to write. I scarcely remember what spring is like and how it feels to have the doors and windows open and vases of daffodils and crocuses around the house. I force myself to believe it'll flow with more ease when this long, gray winter is behind me and will act as inspiration.