It was such a long winter. More than once during those bitter months I wondered if the season would ever end. In many ways, winter personifies the writer’s struggle. Isolating. Bleak. Endless. No fruit, only icy gusts of rejection—or worse: silence.
As harsh as winters can be, without dormancy, there would be no spring. Writers’ winters may in some ways drain our tired souls when we feel there’s nothing left to tap, but at the same time, the isolating season helps us prepare for the time when we blossom. In our winters, we warm ourselves with the hope of spring. We see what creations will survive and what can’t. And somewhere in a forgotten cellar, we find what we need to continue our dream–and often they’re seeds labeled “Determination.”
When it feels like all we’re doing is banging our heads against the wall—or the keyboard—new beginnings are the satisfying promise. Whether our words go across the world or into the wastebasket, our efforts are never for naught. Spring’s leaves, after winter’s internment, reveal a new product that nourishes in a way it never could have before.
Winters never last forever. The seeds will bloom.
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