Seasons Shape a Writing Practice

We’re about to turn the clocks back and I’ve noticed that my poems are shrinking. They do this every fall.  In theory, because I get up and write before sunrise, I have extra time and should be writing longer poems. But in November I seem to spend more of the early morning listening—to passing trains, to newly arrived coyotes howling from the woods near my home, to wind or rain, or to the quiet that sinks in as the insects and tree frogs die off. I do more listening than writing this time of year and draft only a few lines (or sometimes none) each morning.

I used to get nervous about this, worrying that I would stop writing altogether. But I’ve realized it’s more of an instinct than a problem. It’s a way of being in step with the world I write in. It’s a reminder that, even though writing can feel lonely, poems aren’t made in vacuums; they’re shaped by seasons and environments. Now is the time for shedding leaves and preparing to winter over.

For writers, this moment can be a chance to turn inward and sit through the long dark mornings, to wait and see what ideas will emerge in the spring. I’m trusting my instinct this year and using the fall to revise older drafts, paring back lines and phrases that seem less essential now in the cold and the quiet. After the winter solstice, I predict I’ll start writing longer drafts, reaching for the light (or poems about shoveling snow after a January storm). But for now I’m enjoying the listening, the revising, and the waiting.