Damn Weather! Why You Ruin My Story?

I have a problem. I almost always write books during the time of year I’m actually writing about. Similarly, I often write about places I actually am. Like, say, I write about Seattle because I live in Seattle. Simple, right?

My Holsum College series took place in Vermont, where I’ve never lived. But let’s face it—I went to college in New England. And the Pacific Northwest is not entirely unlike New Hampshire and Vermont in terms of people and seasons.

The problem occurs when I go somewhere and I get a desperate need to write about the place, but I’m not there long enough to even plot a book fully, much less write one. Case in point—East Coast beach areas. Every damn summer I go out to Long Island to vacation with my New York family, and Every Fucking Year I come up with story ideas I want to write while I’m there.

But here’s the thing—I’m busy with my family while I’m on vacation. I’m always already writing another book, or caught up in edits of something I’m already working on. So the story idea flits away, unexplored.

Well, this summer I went back east twice! Plenty of time for me to put together a story concept and plot it out. I was busy wrapping up the third Fire and Rain book, but once I got that submitted a couple weeks ago, I was ready and able to write THE east coast beachfront story I’ve been toying with for literally four years.

What I’m trying to write about.

I started writing… It was going well… I thought I’d get a lot done while it was still summer and sunny, and that I could kick in the end before the rains hit in October. And then…

We went camping.

Camping, in Canada.

And it started raining. For days.

My feet have been wet for 72 hours now, so how in the hell am I supposed to keep writing about sun and sailboats and fancy parties with twinkling lights and champagne? My kid wore pajamas to a sushi restaurant the other night! PAJAMAS! My life is so far from the idyllic dunes and white shingled houses of east coast beach communities as to be laughable.

I’ve forgotten what the sun looks like, much less what it feels like. And I’ve got 20,000 words on a story that I may as well shelve until next year because no way in hell am I going to be able to write New York summer in Seattle winter.

The weather I’m actually experiencing.

All I can say is, “Fuck you, rain! You gave me a great book in AFTER THE RAIN (which comes out in February), but you are screwing my royally on my beachfront story.”

There’s a reason why all my books have more than the average amount of dampness and precipitation. That’s all I can write in this climate. So, I hope y’all like reading about moss.

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