I really hate summer — particularly writing in the summer.
Far too much light and heat. The synapses in my brain feel suffused with molasses, my imagination is cloudy and the proper words continually elude me.
It’s no wonder the authors I like most come from cold, wet locales. I mean, what writer feels like drinking whisky when sitting in the blistering sun? The summer is made for Mai-Tais and sand between the toes. I certainly can’t imagine someone like Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgaard producing anything readable while lounging on a sun-soaked terrace, Tinto de Verano in hand.
This summer has been a complete abomination. The normally chilly, wet Netherlands has morphed into the fucking South of France. Even my beloved Scotland has had nothing but mid-20-degree days and blue skies for the last two months. It’s a travesty. All I can manage to do is lay about, slug-like, worshipping the fan. Others trot off happily to the beach to absorb as much sun and heat as possible while I cower indoors between the hours of 8 am and 9 pm.
I detest the sticky feeling my skin gets in the heat, the constant sweat that drips from my breasts and thighs, and the need to shower sometimes multiple times a day to keep from offending both others and myself. The sun drains my energy as though it’s stuck a drinking straw in my brain.
“Take off more clothes!” my partner says, as if that would make me feel an iota cooler. I’m sorry, but I could walk around completely naked and I would still feel as though I were roasting on a spit.
Autumn can’t come too soon, as far as I’m concerned. Days when the sun both rises and retreats at a reasonable hour, when we can light candles at dinner. In autumn I can wear my favorite sweaters and curl up with a warm computer (or cat) on my lap and a pot of tea by my side; when the thought of being touched by another warm human being doesn’t elicit feelings of horror. The time of year when the world begins to draw back into itself, and us with it; when the ideas that have retreated to the far corners of my psyche once again poke their heads out. “Is it safe to come out now?” they say.
Yes, summer can just bugger right off.