Every year--usually beginning right after Groundhog Day--I've gone out searching for signs of spring, but this year, I haven't been looking, and, guess what? It's happening anyway. While I've been stuck in my writing cave for the past six months, spring has crept up on me. There's a bird building a nest in the window next to the air conditioner, and I can hear it chirping away as I write. The March winds are howling and when I went out to fill up the bird feeder, I spotted a flower blooming amid the piles of manure that protect my roses during the winter. The snowdrops are in bloom, too, and yesterday, I had to reset all of my clocks.
Where did winter go? I've been posting pictures of snow, but now the temperatures are suddenly in the sixties and seventies. Guess that's what happens to writers who seldom venture more than arm's length from their computer. Life goes on without them. Mother Nature obviously doesn't give a damn that I'm spending most of my time in outer space.
Working twelve-hour night shifts is a problem, too. Since I'm usually driving back and forth to work in the dark, last week, there was a revelation. I was suddenly going to work in daylight; didn't even need to turn on my headlights. Trees were starting to bud, but I hadn't seen them--hadn't even been looking for them. Rogue is now in most bookstores, so I know it must be March, right?