It was the middle of November. I was outside in shorts and a t-shirt, sweating. That’s when I knew I couldn’t stay in Florida. Heat and I didn’t get along to well. But cold, now cold and I go back a ways. I grew up with cold. I knew cold and cold knew me
We knew each other’s fears. We know each other’s likes. We knew when the right time to come around was and just the right time to leave. Cold was always there when I needed it. But heat, heat would come in and ruin it all. In Florida, heat never let cold stay for a long; a few weeks, maybe a month and a half at most, then heat shoved the cold away so it could be center stage.
Try writing a story taking place in the Alps while you’re out back in December sipping some ice water and wishing it wasn’t eighty degrees. It was writing that exact story that I decided to more. I didn’t care where or how far, as long as it was cold. And good and cold. They say you’re not dead until you’re warm and dead. Well, I wasn’t alive until I was alive and cold.
I moved to Delaware for a while, figured that’d be cold enough. But then the summer came and I was struck with one hundred degree days again. Not a writer’s choice weather and not mine either. So I moved again.
Off to New York this time. Maybe I could hide out in upstate and never be heard from again. Just write in the cold and relax. But the pull of the big city was too much. One spring day I made my way down to visit Central Park; get some ideas for a new novel I was working on. And that’s when it hit me. Heat. Once again. Time for another move I thought.
And that’s how I ended up here in Vermont. A writer’s paradise. It was cold, or at least not hot all year round. Not too big city but not too middle of nowhere. And not too many people to bother me while I was writing. It was just perfect and just what I needed.
And that’s when Cold came back around to visit me again. We spent as much time together as I spent writing. It was lovely and beautiful. It still is.