We’re now in Spring. Spring was never my favorite season, to be honest. Spring where I’m from was a grey, melty, underdeveloped winter. The grass was visible, but it was flat and dead and cold, and the frost covered it on most days. Sometimes the flowers would grow impatient and bloom, only to have the next frost kill them, and the dead pink and lavender and yellow petals would litter the ground and wither as the bald tulips readied themselves for another hibernation. Easter egg hunts were done wearing winter coats and mittens, and when the sun shone, it was a false, white sun with a wicked cold wind.
[A wonderful little fact I recently learned: in Sweden, children celebrate Easter by dressing up as Easter Witches, wearing colorful clothes and having red painted on their cheeks, and going door to door to fill their baskets with candy. Sound familiar?]
Now, I don’t mind spring. The seasonal changes are subtle, especially in Los Angeles, but they’re quite poignant if you take the time to notice them. Roses in cream and orange and blush are blooming; trees are growing small, lime-colored leaves; and the air is sweeter, more pungent than the dead breeze of winter. Small, pretty, scented, subtle things. That is spring.
The world moves in cycles. It is strange how us humans pine for stability, for stasis, for a moment longer to relish an experience, or experience something again, exactly the same way as before, when our world tells us that this will never occur, says Alan Lightman. Our world dictates that nothing is constant. Winter will not last forever and neither will spring.
I immediately think of college when I think of cycles, and the analogy fits: I went to UCLA and was on the quarter system, and every ten weeks I would be given new classes and new lists of books and new faces who’d teach me. Sometimes I liked this, because classes I found subpar were quickly over and done with, but other times I resented this quick cycle because I felt I never got to spend enough time with the material I loved most.
The good is cherished, because it is novel and rare, and the bad ends fast, hopefully.
We’re in a new season, and I’m trying new things. I’ve written my first strictly science fiction story that also happens to be a flash-fiction series (each story less than 500 words), which I have now begun to edit. I’ve never written pure science fiction, partly because I thought I was not really equipped to do it. But to hell with that. It’s a good idea, and now it just needs some polish.
I’ve written thirty stories in these past three months. I am steadily building my way up to 10,000 hours. Right now I feel like the Beatles, when they were really, really bad.