It’s been over a year since I’ve written in this very on-again-off-again blog, but for some reason, I was thinking about it today. Maybe it was the sky, huge post-stormy clouds with a brilliant sun and bright blue shining out behind them. The clouds, coupled with the air that blew a warm, heavy breeze against bare skin reminded me of Florida, and all of a sudden, I was desperately, painfully homesick.
Florida was my home for not quite two years, but I loved the physical environment of it like I have never loved a land before or since. California’s blue skies, cool breezes, and 70 degree days still “feel” like home to me, and I loved the snow in Massachusetts, and the sudden arrival of spring after long months of winter. Virginia summers remind me of childhood, watching fireflies, and I moved to Maryland just as the cherry blossoms burst into bloom, but nowhere else I have lived has so constantly reminded me of the world that existed long before humans arrived, and will remain long after. Broward County was built up out of the Everglades, and from the canals and ponds that criss-crossed the county, to the plants that couldn’t be stopped by the spread of golf courses, it showed.
And the skies were lovely. Here, if it rains, it’s gray for days before and after. In Florida, the rain came up suddenly, heavily, and then ten minutes (or two miles, if you were driving) it was gone, replaced by blue skies heavy with clouds, gray, and edged with the gold of sunlight.
Today, it was as if a little bit of Florida had wandered north for a visit.
And I found myself wanting to share.
I’ve been thinking a lot since the holidays about trying to write more in 2010. I’ve now gotten into a cycle in which I win NaNoWriMo only on even numbered years–2004, 2006, 2008. (Not-)coincidentally, this seems to match up exactly with my big life cycles, which is to say that the years I have a lot of upheaval or excitement in my life, I don’t win NaNoWriMo. And since I got to college, NaNoWriMo is pretty much the one time a year I devote myself to writing.
But this year, I don’t want to just participate in NaNoWriMo. I want to write more. By that, I meant fiction. But I reorganized my bookshelf recently, and I have quite a large collection of books of writing by fiction authors that isn’t fiction: memoirs, letters, journals, autobiographies… so if I recognize that as a proper genre, at least for my bookshelf, why wouldn’t I recognize it as a proper genre for my own writing?