The Autumn: people either revel in it or detest it.
For some it’s the slow suffocation of summer: weeks of creeping cold and damp, and just a few last warm exhalations before the earth grows cold and dies. For months. Many freezing cold months.
For others (like me) the arrival of Autumn is greeted with open arms (especially in sweaters, scarves or lovely pea coats). It can be intensely creative time. Perhaps it is related to the trees and plants slipping into dormancy. Their departure feels like a kind of loss, something to mourn. And our poems and stories and essays — borne of grief — become eulogies to the departed.
Or perhaps a less poetic take: the end of something often prompts reflection. So maybe the winding down of the seasons causes us to slow down and look back on the months before — whether we want to or not. The newness and excitement of summer is fading fast, and this dissolution of summer can allow some clarity to surface. And the emergence of these viscous truths can make great beginnings for great writing.
It could be argued that mourning the death of our happy seasons and waxing reflective on the year’s failures and disappointment both betray a depressive mind. Perhaps. But some would say that many writers are depressed anyway, so of course the Autumn is rife with creativity. That seems too easy. But I don’t know what the answer is.
What I do know is that the clutch of cold in the evening air or the cool brush of rain on my face makes me want to write. Compels me to commit words to paper.
I would bottle that feeling if I could.