The Cold that Followed

This past January, we had record snow along the Gulf Coast (mind you, this was back in the olden’ days, when “gulf” still meant the Gulf of Mexico). I should have made time for a blog post about it, seeing as it really was a significant amount of snowfall for this part of the world — ten inches in a region that sees a flake maybe once every ten years —however, if you’ll note the gap in dates between this post and the previous one, it should be apparent that time and I aren’t on speaking terms.

Almost eight months have passed without a single update to this website, or a new short story written, or a revision to a chapter made. It’s been a difficult stretch for a lot of reasons that I’ve no interest in exploring here. Suffice to say, my hopes for weekly blog entries and lore articles were dashed (and remain so for the foreseeable future).

That doesn’t mean I’ve thrown in the towel (I’ve never known a towel I could part with) and can’t still sneak a quick update in here and there! The great thing about interruptions is there’s always the chance that they’ll knock you “back on track” instead knocking you off it. So it was when the snowball hit me in my face and I found myself laughing with the family as we watched our dog lope through ten inches of the magic white stuff. Hills too shallow for sledding were tested anyway. Shovels were hauled out to construct “mega-Frosty.” With work and school and everything else south of I-10 ground to a halt, routine was shattered and the long-absent “pause for reflection” allowed to reenter my world.

A chance to remember what it was I set out to do.

Last time I made an entry we were in the heat of summer and rushing toward the new school year. I was heading into a new job that would consume me whole, and the country a new election that would do the same to it. Now the air is cold, trees are brown, and the world is unraveling in so many ways I didn’t expect it would. Strange days to be concerned with myths and make-believe.

Or not. Perhaps it makes perfect sense to keep telling stories in an age of apathy, where societal norms seem to dissolve before our eyes. Maybe it’s precisely times like these, when truth and compassion stumble before tyrants, that we need good stories the most. Heroes to show us bravery. Villains to serve as warning. Tragedies and triumphs that reveal and remind us of our own humanity—the good we’re capable of. And the bad.

How better to bridge the differences in cultures and ideologies? After all, a good story can speak any language. It can touch any soul it reaches. It need only exist to inspire us to become the better versions of ourselves.

Perhaps that’s a bit melodramatic. If so, I blame it on the cold. It gets into my toes and fingertips this time of year, and my mood soon thereafter. It won’t be cold much longer, though. Things are starting to heat up, I feel. Here and there and everywhere. An early thaw to an unexpectedly acute chill.

It’s a good time for pause and reflection. And for updating fantasy blog posts long neglected.