My desk faces a giant window, whose ledge is dotted with orchids that I may or may not have remembered to water this week. The orchids and I get lots of sun. So much, in fact, that I sometimes have no idea what the temperature is actually like outside until I leave the office area and get somewhere close to the front door. And then, because “spring” so far this year has only been a suggestion, I freeze.
I would love if actual spring would show up sometime. I want to garden. I want to walk outside without a down coat and gloves. I want to get my Uggs cleaned.
In the meantime, however long the meantime lasts, I have to remember that the sunlight in my office is deceiving.
It’s a good thought to keep in mind while writing. There are all sorts of false impressions. Someone says one thing and does another. The perfect red apple turns out to be tasteless and bland. The sunlight pouring in doesn’t mean it’s warm outside. Things like that.
But sometimes that’s the interesting part of writing, and living — figuring out what’s really going on around you, and how you feel about it, and what you’re going to do about it.
Me, I’m going to hide inside for another month and wait for the sunlight to live up to its promises.