This is something I’d never really thought about but the topic forced me into recollection and now I find it humorous that I can learn something so profound about myself from a mere suggestion.

Because I write the cold.

I wasn’t really sure what that meant until I realized that I enjoy the idea of being bundled up, of seeing my breath in front of my face, of having a loved one press my fingers between their’s for warmth. I love winter. Not because I have the colorings of winter, black hair, white skin, although this helps. I love the crisp, cool evenings, a roaring fire, feet of blanketing pure, white snow and yet, this is not the prevailing reason. No, I mostly love the winter because it gets darker earlier. There’s only one thing I love more than the winter and that’s the moon and all that it entails. I love the night. I find it absolutely breathtaking. A moon’s glow provides just the right amount of light to see the earth’s wondrous beauty but keeps the rest mysterious.

And I suppose, when it’s boiled down to the barest of facts, I enjoy the mystery that night implies. Now, don’t misinterpret my meaning, I don’t like to be frightened, per say, I just prefer anticipation. It’s a thrilling concept, mystery, and one I think is chocked in my books, even my contemporaries. The unknown is equal parts suspenseful and invigorating.

And it’s why I write mostly in the winter. It’s the perfect backdrop.