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.