My favourite time of year is summer. I have friends who would prefer their seasons to always be autumnal, the air crisp, with that feeling that comes from hunkering down in front of fires or beneath blankets with those you love the most.
I like those things too, but summer’s light nights and heady scents, the feeling of warm air on bare skin, are no match for the autumn, no matter how pretty its displays.
It’s been a great summer. Lots of travelling and time outdoors – not as much writing as I’d have liked though (the summer has its down sides). Not as many story acceptances as I’d have liked either. July and August racked up their fair share of rejections.
September brought better news on the writing front. I had a story published by Litro called Tilting on the Bluest Axis – a story about discovery and dying and people that you never meet. And I was a runner-up in Ambit magazine’s annual writing competition with a piece of flash fiction, judged by David Gaffney, which I was particularly pleased about.
Here in the UK the summer’s having one last fling – dog day temperatures that lack all trace of autumn’s bite. We’re sure to feel it soon though, and then the sun will sink lower in the sky and the nights will rush in before the day feels done. I’ll light the fire – we have a great fire, it burns logs – and I’ll hunker down. I’ll tell myself autumn is better for writing and that the winter is better still (it is better, it is. It is). And while I won’t wish the winter away, exactly, I’ll be sure to miss the long days the season makes us leave behind.