Every couple of months I come out of my writer’s hole and make with the human interactions. Learning to work in solitude takes practice. I think the first thing you learn is human’s need human interaction. For example, when I emerge out of the writer’s hole, I’m careful about my verbal exchanges. Not every check out clerk needs to know I spent a week talking to imaginary characters and didn’t shower or change out of my pajama’s for 3 days. I save that glamorous lifestyle for my partner. Now some writers are old pro’s at this, they’ve been doing it for 20 odd years they’ve got their writing schedules down to a science. They go into a room, first thing in the morning, shut the door and emerge four hours later and conduct the rest of their day. Or they have their day and at night they go into the room, shut the door, and come out a few hours later and go to bed. Either way - they’ve got it down, they are compartmentalized and they are bathed. I envy them. It’s part of the reason I dislike the month of February. I think February should be called cRaZy MoNth. And I blame the weather, in part. Now I’ve never been a fan of the month of February, it’s not May – with all the foliage blooming nor October with the crispy air nor even the “dog days of August”. No, February is just there. Cold, wet and dreary, with an angst ridden pseudo-holiday hanging in the middle of it. Blaugh. February is the red headed step child of the calendar.
“Look here’s June and July the twins of youthful summer-time, such a joy to so many children. Oh and February just walked in, such shifty eyes. So sad, don’t turn your back on it.”
But more to my point, February is the month when cabin fever starts setting in. Through the years I’ve noticed that people start getting really weird around the 10th of February. They start talking about inappropriate subjects with strangers. Feel the need to impose their opinions on anyone who will listen. Diabolical plans are made for when it warms up.
My opinion of February has not changed over the years. I used to bear down for the month and wait for it to pass. Frustrated every few years, unsure if it’s 28 or 29 days of misery. But not anymore, see I realized that I can’t cure what is wrong with February. It is systemic. Now, I am out there listening, taking notes, riding public transit, chatting to the shop owners. Not so much in judgment but in understanding watching the crazy take hold and collecting enough funny to fill 50 books – which in itself is a little bit crazy.