I love fall. There’s both an intimacy and a loneliness that arrives with the early darkness and woodsmoke. We’re driven indoors to share warm spaces, connecting in our common need for shelter and camaraderie. There’s a melancholy, too, that is present in the cry of migrating geese. A reminder that something is passing away, something is leaving.
I especially love November, because in addition to the brilliant foliage and an outstanding Thanksgiving meal shared with family and friends, it is National Novel Writing Month. Woo hoo! 30 days and nights of literary abandon.
And so it begins. Our heroine leaves for a weekend at her cabin on the lake. Alone. And, somehow, we just know that can’t be good.