When I was young, summer was my favorite season, no school, that sort of thing. But after living in Britain for eleven years, California summers seem sort of endless; it’s called the Golden State for a reason. Now, with a few decades under my belt, I prefer autumn, which in California doesn’t last as long as in other places. But I’ll take what I can get.
Autumn means football, baseball playoffs, US Open tennis. That tournament only runs for two weeks as August turns into September, but ushers in my beloved American footie as the national pastime winds down. My San Francisco Giants are in the playoff hunt, which heightens the thrill. But even if they don’t make it, I’ll still be watching the divisional series games, then the World Series. In Britain those games were lost to time differences, although I taped them in 2006, the Detroit Tigers against the St. Louis Cardinals, all for writing. That autumn I was preparing for my first NaNoWriMo.
National Novel Writing Month doesn’t start until November, but I’m already pondering what to write alongside hundreds of thousands of others as if what I do isn’t only here, near the hummingbirds. The run-up to that month is a huge part of the adventure; I can’t spill in one blog entry how indebted I am to the notion of bashing out fifty thousand words in thirty days. All I can do is let the giddy rush fill my bones as I begin to outline yet another story, while the exuberance of sport placates.
And don’t even get me started on my crock pot! Autumn is truly the best season of the year.