I wrote the opening words to this post as the light faded on the shortest day of the year, the closing words as black lifted to blue early the next morning, the first of this new winter. For those of us who live in northern latitudes, Winter Solstice is a collective exhale. We made it, we exclaim, laughing a little shakily. We survived The Long Dark. It doesn’t matter that the coldest, wettest weather is yet to come. It doesn’t matter that, thanks to a cruel trick of earth’s tilt, we lose even more light in the morning for a few weeks until late January shakes off the dark. What matters is the promise of light and warmth to come. We are in ascension, like stars rising above the horizon.
Winter Solstice, far more than its expectation-laden cousin, New Year, ushers in a time of reflection and renewal. With its inherent quietude it invites a moment to balance between what has been and what could be, between contemplation and action. I wish for you — in these hours before the holidays demand attention to external commitments — time for internal stillness, a long moment in the dark. Perhaps like me, moments after taking the photo below, to get caught in a sudden rainstorm without hat or gloves, soaked to the bone, embracing the cold and wet what has been before returning to light and warmth what could be
Winter Blessings, all.
Read on- there’s more below!
Writing News
A story published
Several years ago I came across a magazine article that featured a photographed list of belongings a man took with him as he fled Syria, making a terrible — and for many, deadly — trek overland to Europe where he hoped to find refuge. Few countries were as welcoming and gracious to Syrian refugees as Iceland. So moved by this simple artifact of a life uprooted by war, I wrote piece of microfiction that imagined this man’s life and journey. It was soon accepted for an anthology by AROHO (A Room of Her Own) Foundation, which supports writing by women. For myriad reasons, the publication of the anthology was delayed by many years, finding its way into the world just this past summer. I share this story with you now - I’d forgotten that it ends — and in its own way, begins — in December.
A column to come
I was recently invited — thanks to my dear friend, author Kathryn Craft — to write a series of columns for the awesome online writer’s publication, Writer Unboxed. Writers at any stage of their craft or career will find a deep trove of knowledge and resources at WU; I’m so honored to be contributing in 2024 (beginning in January). Subscribe (it’s free!) and benefit from the collective wisdom of this generous group of writers.
Breath Held
My current novel, working title Good For Vanishing, continues on its journey, albeit in somewhat of a holding pattern. It’s still out on submission with several editors, but in this interim period, as feedback comes in that’s SO CLOSE but not the much-longed for YES, my agent and I agreed on several revisions, which took me all autumn to execute. I am now waiting on my agent’s feedback— I presented her with acres of red font as I rewrote huge chunks of the narrative. Once we agree on a final draft, she will send it out on a second round of queries to a new group of publishers. This is exhausting, y’all. I believe in this novel to my core and yet I am aching to be free of it, to start something new. 2024 will see it on its way, one way or another.
May your holidays be joyful and may the new year bring us peace.
Solstice
"This is
the shortest afternoon
of the year.
The cars pass
in a straight line
under my,
sitting in a
service area
aseptic,
with
scattered lives
so hot and
interesting like
mine.
The highway
watercolor is made
in my memory,
so fleeting
like this day"
Montse Montano
(As a gift for you)
In keeping with the season, your words chiming in the firs. All we need now is snow falling on Christmas Eve. "Refugee" was wonderful and painfully short. Nice and strong. ---clem