I once lived where the vernal equinox meant more than spring break was around the corner. Flowers bloomed for the first time in months, trees burst into leaf, snow melted. No one complained too much about a loss in productivity because everyone had spring fever.
Then I moved to California.
It isn’t that we don’t have seasons, we do: rainy season and fire season (we also have to deal with year-round allergies because something is blooming every single day). While I love the flowers, and the better-than-average chance of wearing a tee shirt and sandals at any given moment, I miss the excuse for not working.
When I say I miss the excuse, I mean exactly that. I’m not looking for another reason to delay working on my novel. I want something to say when someone asks how my novel is progressing. I miss being able to shake my head and mutter spring fever. Back East, people would pat my arm sympathetically and share their own inability to get anything done. Here, I get well-meaning and often useful advice on how to get back to the computer. There is no time to waste time here, and no excuse for it either.