I hate the cold. But cold is subjective. It requires definition.
Today it’s under 70 degrees. That’s cold, to me.
I love the heat. I’m solar powered. A hundred and five without a cloud in the sky? Fantastic. I always tell people I’m 20 degrees below everyone else.
So this morning I woke up cold and did what one does when one wakes up cold. I put on long pants and … a hoodie. No, not a hoodie. The hoodie.
It’s dark green. It zips up. It has a finger-sized hole in the front pocket. It’s perfect.
It’s interesting what triggers memory. For me, a scent from the past has incredible power of flash-back perception. But this morning, it was the feel of that hoodie. I zipped it up and was right back in my usual writing spot, the first day I started my first manuscript just about a year ago.
There was no struggle that first day. The words of my story had been building up in me for literally half my life. They spilled onto the page and my fingers could barely keep up. When it got drafty that first night, I pulled up the hood and hunkered down. The words seemed to come even faster.
This green, worn-out hoodie has magical writing powers, writing powers that it generously shared with its three other hoodie friends in my closet. Tweeting #AmWearingHoodie is the long way of tweeting #AmWriting.
Two manuscripts later on the tail-end of summer, this hoodie found its way onto my shoulders again. Am I writing today? No, I’m not. And I won’t later. But it suddenly feels like my writing season again. It’s a good thing I have a story to tell, because this hoodie never lets me down.