Maine has terrible winter, very cold. Been hearing those before even moving here. It doesn’t alarm me. What thrilled me was overhearing, its why people here become writers. A welcome premonition when I decided I’d be one.
Today and the rest of the week weather forecasts is in the 40’s and above. After several inches of snow on top of each other, its time for shoveling. The neighbor on the other side of the fence said that this is perfect after drought last year, snow melting brings forth fresh water to brooks, rivers or lakes all over. Hearing this I am imagining our man made tiny brook behind the house, teeming with water, juice water flowing from the mountains and hills, under the sun’s scorching heat. It is covered with snow right now.
Writing is like winter. When words are frozen, untold tales and stories gets stuck like snow on top of each other waiting for the sun’s heat to melt them. When I heard that this is where writers become, I imagine this place juicing with words, untold tales and stories flowing from under the riverbed, swimming in lakes and rivers waiting to be fished out.
I surprised myself yesterday, when after checking thermometer I shouted “30 degrees, its getting warm”. I shut my mouth. I am getting to be a Mainiac, a derogatory term often used, but Mainers don’t care. Many days the temperature reading has always been below twenty, single digits, and negative and thirty was good enough.