My writing right now is reflecting the schizophrenic and sometimes soul-sucking month of March here in the Northeastern US.  

In March, a sense of optimism cautiously infiltrates our world. We “spring ahead” and get that extra, delightful hour of light before the close of day, and then the vernal equinox seals the deal as spring officially arrives.  The birds that were stuck here with us through the long, cold winter begin to sing their distinctive mating songs. Those that wintered south appear in flocks and reclaim favorite nesting territories.  Right now, the male redwing blackbirds are outside my window, challenging each other in their song competition, filling the air with their churlish whirs, as the robins’ throaty chirps angrily scold anything that comes too close.  The world seems to be on the brink of bursting into green and blooms and warmth.

And then the winds from the north start gusting at 35 miles per hour and the precipitation that started as rain becomes ice, noisily pelting the house, turning the ground into a slick skating rink before the snow starts in earnest.

That’s how my writing has been this month.  I have been churning along, the plot of the initial book in my three-part mystery series starting to hum.  I’m seeing the finish line for the first draft of a complex and, I hope, compelling plot that will keep the reader engaged and guessing.  And then, I realize I’m 55,000 words short.  When you’re aiming at 80,000 words, this could be considered being snowed-in. This is truly still an outline!

So, I take a deep breath, look back through the plotting spreadsheet that has driven me so far, and start deciding just what seeds I’m going to plant to bring this garden to full fruition. I know that, when working this first draft, I might hit some bad weather, but, just as grabbing a shovel and digging will clear a path in a storm, focused and determined work will make this book the full and beautiful flower it is ready to become.

And I’m reminded of one of the greatest truths of spring: It always snows on the daffodils, but they still bloom in the April sun. And so will my book.