The Slug in Winter

Seasonal Affective Disorder – SAD.  I hate those pseudo-medical names for conditions that should be left to poets and fiction writers.  The sun goes away in the winter and inertia takes over.  It’s not quite depression, but death is much easier to imagine in this state.  It seems that for most of us the symptoms grow worse as we age, which makes sense – we’re already more aware of death because suddenly it’s a lot closer, and then comes Fall with the sun going out and the shriveling and dying of leaves and flowers and all that.  Fall just gilds the gloomy lily , so to speak.  This raises the question – why did lilies become the go-to flower for funerals?  Is it because they smell so strongly?  That would have been useful before the days of quality undertaking.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” I have loved that line from Dylan Thomas since I first heard it as a kid.  Very heroic sounding.  But now I don’t know if I would have the energy to rage against death like he wanted his father to do, especially if it was this time of the year, when the light is literally dying.

Actually, I credit my blog with rousing me somewhat from my stuporous lethargy.  I couldn’t let the entire month of November pass without an entry.  I might loose one of my four regular readers if I’m not diligent. And now that I’m on a roll, I should mention that an agent is looking at my book, and that I’ve signed up for that writers and editors speed-dating thing, the New York Pitch conference.

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