Tis Ber season and nothing can ruin my mood. Nothing at all. Well, except a few things. But no, not really.Ber season
I have a neat theory about how people don’t like the season they’re born in but prefer other ones. My data is scarce and to date comes to the fact that Big C. and a friend of mine are crazy about the summer and they are both born in October, while I, born in July, am crazy about all months that end in -ber.
Spring is a fine season, no doubt. I’m not too crazy about the deepest cold of the winter but, and hence the Ber season, the deepest cold of the winter in my part of the world comes in January and February. Sometimes January, February and March, too. And sometimes April is more like November but anyway. The period between September and December is the best period of the year and the fact it comes after August is something I see as a reward for my surviving another August.
I love the rain, I love the turning of the leaves (who doesn’t, seriously?), I love the autumn and winter holidays, I love wearing long sleeves and coats, and boots. The one thing I don’t love is mud but every good thing has a price and mud is the price I’m willing to pay for the pleasure of the Ber season. Also the heat in early September. It’s not like the August heat and that’s it. Basically, I’ve been celebrating since Tuesday.
When ideas come crashing down
I might have mentioned it before, although by mention I mean complained about it, but I had a sort of a dry spell in the ideas department over the last three or four months. It may have been the heat, it may have been the pandemic, and it may have been the water outages from May, or it may have been all of the above. It was okay as I found things to do that needed doing but it appears now this dry spell has ended. And it ended overnight.
On Friday I woke up from a dream so fascinating I had to rest a little before I committed it to paper. It was a dream that gave me an idea for a whole new book and it sounded like a really good book. Before I was done writing the idea down, another idea struck me, an idea that would turn the rather bland romance draft I’d completed a couple of months ago into a great thriller. I know how this sounds. But I’m serious. This idea was like the best of Paul Sussman, with more sex. And feelings. And an intricate, ugly plot. And alarums and excursions. I’ve started on it already, I couldn’t wait.
This is one of the best feelings someone who writes can experience. It’s close to having a positive review, though I could only speculate about this since I’ve got no reviews to speak of. It’s a feeling akin to a publisher or an agent asking for a full manuscript, even if you know it will likely go no further than this. It’s the hope of something big and glorious. And what makes the ideas crashing down feeling better than those comparable to it is the fact that it all depends on you and nobody else. That’s the best part. Will you take the challenge? As if that’s really a question.
After three months of watching Little C. among peers I have become something of an expert in inter-child dynamics. Well, no, I tell a lie, I’d need decades to become an expert but I’ve learned a few things, chief among them how fascinating children are. And I used to think they were boring at best and scary at worst.
In all honesty, I still think that but I no longer think only that. Of course, they could be boring when they insist on enlightening you on things you already know but the light in their eyes while they pull the veil on the secrets of the universe is so bright you can’t hold it against them. And then you have to bite your tongue to not shatter their budding ego by telling them what they think they know is, in fact, not true. I may have occasionally failed at that in the beginning but I learned to do it.
They are also often scary, especially when they scream as though someone has just ripped their guts out while in reality they are just vocalising their excitement with chasing other children or being chased by them. And then there is the whole thing with the virtually boundless energy. It is scary as hell. Until you remember you’re the adult around.
I had trouble ending every day’s celebrations of life also known as children’s play because I knew they wouldn’t like it and I didn’t want to make them feel bad. Rookie mistake, of course. After hours of screaming I felt entitled to a couple of hours of silence so cruel or not, it had to be done. “Circus is closing in half an hour” became my go-to refrain.
And then, the other day, when I went to inform the gang the circus would be closing earlier, I got a “Why?” from Little C.’s main playmate. For a split second I was dumbfounded, being a chronic explainer and wondering how I would justify my statement to the stakeholders. “Because”, I said eventually. There were no more comments. I’ve never felt more adult or mature than in that moment.