We are going through the change of seasons at the moment from a wet, cold winter to a (no doubt) hot, dry summer. Some days are warm with balmy evenings, others so cold as to inspire you to light the fire. This has underscored a fallacy of mine which I have secretly suspected, but have now been forced to face.
There is no such thing as writing weather.
In summer I delude myself into thinking that in the cooler season I’ll be more likely to nurse the warm laptop and tap out the opus. In winter, shivering under my blanket, I think about how much freer I’ll be to type without having to worry about opening a gap in my tepee when I write in summer. Really, it’s all just bollocks.
When summer and winter come on top of each other in two concurrent days, as they have just recently, you are forced to face the fact that the writing either happens, or it doesn’t and the weather has absolutely no bearing on that whatsoever.
So instead of planning my writing calendar by the weather report I’ll just force myself to sit down and write every day. EVERY DAY! And if things work out, I shouldn’t even know what the weather is doing.