It's not that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, at least not that I've ever had diagnosed. But there is something about getting up to go to work in darkness, and then returning home in darkness, that is at least as cold on the spirit as New England's February winds are on the body.
Mid June, the light itself wakes me up, even through our double curtains, and yet I find that doesn't bother me at all. I've never been truly a morning person, but these weekend mornings I feel I can be an absolute flurry of activity before nine o'clock, even if said activity ends up consisting of playing games, reading a few chapters of a book, and updating my Facebook status.
And in the evening? Early evenings it's light enough to go out running after seven o'clock, and even after doing that, I can still walk the dog in the gloaming, and we end the day smiling at each other.
My writing, however, waits until dark. Perhaps in some sad corner of my psyche I am ashamed of what I do, and I need the night to hide my illicit practice. Or perhaps the only way to tap into my own darkness, a necessary ingredient for any fiction writer, is on a shadowed stage.
Or maybe it's only a habit. I will admit that I am, as are most of us, truly a creature of habit.
***
Shade or sun, morning or night, today on the calendar happens to be Father's Day. There was some darkness in my father, Donald Roy Dorneman, particularly when he was suffering from cancer at the end, but even then, and always before, there was much, much, more light.
Happy Father's Day.
Rest in peace.
Thanks for reading,
Stephen
