I told a friend last night that summer is a time when I find it hard to write. Robin Becker, a PSU professor and poet, said at a reading that her body and mind is trained now to write freely and deeply when the summer comes and professorial duties are at their least. I have been trained on the opposite clock: to write for the assignment in the year. My mind is increasingly disorganized and lazy in these summer months, these brightest days of the year.
I love summer. I think that 81 degrees, low humidity, and bright sun is my favorite type of day. I love what wind feels like in that heat. I love how bright the sun is. I love sleeping out in it. I love the sunsets. I love sweet corn. I love being warm. I love summer.
Summer is like taking a shower for me. Some people think best in the shower. Their best meditative work happens there. Not for me. I’m so enjoying myself that I can’t think at all. I find it hard to think in summer heat, whether overly oppressive or just right. I can think all too well on cold and gloomy days.
What I do best in the summer is read. Lots and lots. I read from many genres, for intellectual growth and simple pleasure. Biography to essay to crime novels. It’s a time of feeding. Of growing. A time waiting for fall when that time kicks into gear for some academic work.
But perhaps I will someday be retrained. I won’t be returning to academic work this fall. No courses. No assignments. Will I write? Will I make things?
I think that is a choice (horribly) left entirely up to me.
What seasons do you do your best work in? What are other conditions that you need in place to make things? Am I just making up excuses for not having written anything this summer and barely posted?