Cold weather is good for writing. It pulls your energy inside. A writer must hold in the heat during the winter, which is good for contemplation. I've experienced some of my most productive writing months in December, the season some writers claim is worthless. They must be of the mentality of a kindergarten teacher I knew long ago, who told me school was pointless in December because the kids were too hyped up about Christmas.
It's one day.
I think the longer hours of dark cause me to sit with myself and think more. Not that I think less in the spring, summer and fall. I simply have no excuse to go out much in the winter. Too cold. Whereas inside, I can write about summer (which I am, come to think of it) in my book. I'll have to fess up that I write sporadically. Every week, for sure, but not from 5a-9a every single day, or until I've written 1,000 words or 5 pages, or whatever the going quota might be per your favorite mentor. I'm shamelessly all over the place. I've tried to change my habits, but so far, no luck. I keep telling myself, 'When I make money at it, then I'll write like a professional.' But then someone reminds me of the chicken-and-egg scenario. To make writing into a living, I have to live like a professional writer right now.
I do generally end the week with five good pages. This takes me about 4 hours of drafting and a few hours of editing and redrafting. Then I move on. I'm near the end, so close, to the second book in my Musketeer series. I'm actually enjoying writing the end because I know exactly where the story is headed and once I type the end, I live at least three days in utter euphoria.
What a great Christmas present to myself.
Then the revising starts. The real work begins. A draft is structure, a house with a skin on it, no windows or trim work or carpet. It's halfway. I don't mind. I squat in my unfinished work for a while, covering myself with the newspaper of my story. It makes a nice blanket this time of year.
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