We’re in the midst of a spell of heat and humidity that makes doing anything, even writing, seem dreary and unattractive.
Also, there are mosquitoes.
Midsummer in general has never been my favorite time for writing, despite the fact that more than once I’ve found myself head down and running for deadline daylight in the midst of the hot and sticky season. The dead of winter — that stretch from mid-January to mid-February when this part of the word gets hit with temperatures in the subzero-Fahrenheit range — isn’t much better. It’s hard to concentrate when your mind keeps drifting off-topic to the question of the winter electric bill.
The best seasons for writing, as far as I’m concerned, are spring, fall, late summer, and early winter. The temperatures are moderate (for local values of moderate); the weather is mostly well-behaved; and the local insect life is at worst only moderately annoying.
Summer, though . . . ugh. But I suppose it could be worse. I could always be trying to write through summer in Texas. Or any season in the tropics.
There’s a reason I wound up living — and writing — in far northern New Hampshire.
Dr. Doyle's Blog 
I’m in southern New England. I’m being a wimp: I just turned the air conditioner from “energy saver” to “constant cool”, and I’ve got a solid dose of caffeine, ibuprofen, and decongestant in me trying to fight the sinus headache. But I’ve got a deadline myself, and I SWEAR I can see the end of the story tonight. I think (touch wood) I’ll even escape the trap of Zeno’s Paragraph.
I also have to stay awake, because my teenager is at the school-sponsored all-night graduation party now, and said “I’ll text when I get tired.” Which might be an hour from now, or 2 AM, or when the party ends at 5. No way of knowing, so… I stay up.
And write.
It’s going to be so much easier when I move in with a friend across town. She has a shaded sun porch, with lots of airflow and natural light, and up in the bedroom I’m going to have there’s already a chaise longue, and my big desk is going not far from hers in the air-conditioned living room, on the wall where the piano isn’t going to be any more…
…um, yeah, I should quit daydreaming and go back to making wordcount, shouldn’t I?