For me, the biggest risk of losing it comes after the snow has melted and sap has stopped flowing, but before things start growing up out of the ground. Every trip outside results in pounds of red clay stuck to the muck boots, and hundreds of ticks stuck to the dogs. April really is the cruelest month.

“…we settle under a blanket of sullen sky, something stirs in the creative soul. At the calendar’s gloaming, while the landscape is inert, and all is dark, sluggish, bleak and cold, writers and cooks and artists and tinkerers of all sorts are at their most productive.

At least, that’s my theory. As a lifelong resident of a latitude well to the north of Maine, I’ve come to the conclusion that creativity needs a season of despair. Where would William Butler Yeats be if he nested in Tuscany? Could Charles Dickens ever have written a word from South Beach? And the sun of Hollywood did much to bleach the talents out of that troubled native of Minnesota, F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

I’m working against deadline on a detailed painting right now. The gray skies, just-below freezing temperatures, and sheets of ice left over from Tuesday night’s sleet/snow storm are all my allies in getting this painting done. I don’t want winter to go on forever, but a good long solid dose of it is a tremendous benefit for working through my painting and writing pipeline.

Egan’s essay can be found at:
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/01/10/the-longest-nights/