I love the summer and warm weather. People are nice to each other, friendly. They wear their summer clothes and they eat ice-creams and let's face it, who isn't happy with a 99 in their hand?
But the heat is no good for writers. Or at least, it's no good for me.
I'm indoors, editing my second novel. It's so hot my fingers stick to the keyboard. I'm concentrating on my work hard, for long periods of time, that I don't notice I'm dehydrated and when I stand up, I wobble. I wander downstairs for iced water, and the house feels swampy inside. I open more windows, but the breeze hides outside, somewhere. Indoors there's no air-conditioning, this is northern England after all.
In the study where I write, I have a door to my side which opens to a balcony. But the door remains closed. When I open it my paperwork flies, that pesky breeze that I couldn't find before is right there, swirling notes and photocopies around. I close the door. I open all of the upstairs windows. If the breeze is there, why won't it come in now?
I uncross my sticky legs. I blow on my hands to cool them down. I concentrate, I work. I melt. I head back to my editing, learning with every page of my editor's notes, making my novel stronger, tighter, better.
It's hot, it's sticky, but it's not this writer's weather.
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