autumn of discontent
It does not have the same evocative impact as winter when it comes to discontent. There's something about winter's icy winds and freezing rain that soaks through to your bones no matter how hard you try to rug up against the elements. It's been three months since my last confession and winter has come early.
Autumn in Melbourne is actually my favourite season of the year. I like the vibrant colours of the leaves, the crisp mornings, and winds that aren't drenched in pollen (the most ruinous feature of the other season I like, spring, along with anaphylactic shock inducing bee stings). I like the plethora of festivals that fill the streets with throngs of people, especially the comedy festival. I like the spate of public holidays plumping up the cooling months to make exploration out of the city viable without the accompanying exhaustion of squeezing too much into a normal two day weekend.
I haven't liked this current season so much. My favourite housemate (the most lengthy stayer in decades) headed overseas for a long jaunt so the house felt suddenly quiet (except for the crying cats). My day job has been sucking the life out of me, more exhausting than usual. My dutiful daughter role is yet again draining my energy and bank balance. My first foray back into dating in two years has been hugely disappointing for the number of no-shows and, for those that are polite enough to make an appearance, a decided lack of connection with anyone remotely suitable.
I can and will, of course, find solutions to all of these things that fill me with discontent. Being a doer has its benefits. I remember quickly why I like the space of a home that has no need for compromises. I search for ways to strike work-life balance so that any job I do does not cause me stress. I resolve to take a break from the family. I readily slip back into my hermit shell with the realisation I am at my most content when I embrace my nature - an optimistic introvert who draws energy from the silence. Only then will my fractured heart's rhythm be restored to a gentle pace, erratic no more.
In the interim, as usual, the thing that keeps me from slipping, with a heavy chain and anchor binding my feet, into a muddy mire is my writing. It seems the creation of worlds to escape into has been my salvation my entire life. Working on my sixth novel now, the Peithosian Gift (working title) and it is going to be brilliant. I have never found the writing task as easy as this one. I love the story; I love the characters; I love getting up on a Sunday morning to enter my private sanctuary drawn by the excitement of discovering what happens next. If a reader eventually enjoys this story even half as much as I have been enjoying writing it, then I will know for certain that book number six is my swan song. It won't matter then if anything makes me discontent, the beacon of a beautiful story will always guide me back to joy.