Here's the thing, being an author is hard enough without life getting in the way. I find it hard to move from one end of the day to the other and appear normal. Look, writers are not normal, not like say, neurosurgeons or CPAs. No, writers have their own way of looking at life and cannot be held responsible to react in certain situations like everyone else. Take the recent blizzard for example. There is like fifty feet of snow out there and people are outside moving around, shoveling the stuff from one place to another. They call it digging out. And here's the really baffling part, they seem to be enjoying it! Sheesh. So here I am feeling guilty that my car is the only car on the street still invisible to the naked eye, still cocooned in snow. That's it in the picture up there. The truth of the matter is that I don’t like snow, no, I mean it's pretty and all that, but I could do without it. The snow that fell the other day was gorgeous. It was like being inside a Robert Frost poem. But this? Listen up my loyal subjects, there is like fifty feet of snow out there. It's cold. This is cruel and unusual. This snowfall is no longer pleasant.
But I choose to wax philosophical for a moment. Snow is wondrous and magical in many ways. It forces whole towns to stop and take a breath, to relax and watch TV, read a book, spend time with the family. Children, in particular seem to enjoy the snow the most. They build forts and snowpeople, the have snowball fights and bury each other in it. They go sledding.
When I think of snow I don’t think about the piles and piles of the stuff outside my house. I picture tiny bits and pieces, snowflakes, delicate and different, gentle and tiny floating down from the clouds. Snow this big is not so magical. And so with that in mind I leave you with this poem, Snow, by e.e cummings.
BYS FLUTTERFULLY IF
(endbegi ndesignb ecend)tang
BIRDS BECAUSE AGAINS
o(into whe)re f
GLIB SCARCELYEST AMONGS FLOWERING