Last month I wrote about St Lucy’s Day, and the importance of finding light in the darkness. Since then we have had the winter solstice, Christmas, that weird liminal week of Sundays, and then, with a little sigh of relief or regret, the turn of the year.
last year's leaves protecting this year's snowdrops
And now it is January, that dark everlasting month. A month of regrets about Christmas over-eating and over-spending; of having to do all the things you put off at the back end of last year because you were too busy being Christmassy; of resolutions made and broken; perhaps, eventually, of acceptance that winter (with a house full of wine and Quality Street and giant Toblerones) mightn’t be the best time to cut out booze/sugar/carbs. Maybe March – for centuries the first month in the calendar – would be kinder?
that lovely January light
You know, in January, that however bad the weather has been in December (in this case, ceaseless rain and flooding), it is only going to get worse. After all, ‘as the day lengthens, the cold strengthens.’ And when we turn our horrified eyes to world events, it would be disingenuous not to be concerned that, bad and all as 2023 was, 2024 isn’t showing any signs of improvement.
Lissan Water in full flood
In spite of all that, I rather like January. I like the snowdrops. I like knowing that even if (when) I break my resolutions (mostly regarding eating less), there are still eleven months ahead in which to start again. And I like wondering what new opportunities there might be professionally. At the moment I’m finishing the first draft of the sequel to last year’s Mrs Hart’s Marriage Bureau; waiting for the edits on my new children’s historical novel, which will be published this autumn, and looking forward to the UK paperback release (in a shiny new design) of Mrs Hart at the end of March. I’ll enter some short story and memoir competitions too, and work on some new book ideas. In January, everything feels possible. And in my diary I have two conferences booked – ‘Twentieth-Century Schoolgirls and their Books’ and the Romantic Novelists’ Association conference, both in August. So it’s a time of hope, even though August feels ages away – ‘unimaginable/zero summer’ as Eliot puts it.
spring colours for the new paperback of Mrs Hart
On my daily walks I’m noticing signs – not of spring, exactly, but perhaps of Eliot’s ‘midwinter spring’. I tend to walk ‘towards sundown’, when my day’s writing work is done, and I enjoy being able to stay out a little later each day, to say to the occasional person I meet, ‘Isn’t there a grand wee stretch in the evenings?’ The light in January always seems to have a particular quality, a promise of better days ahead.
more of that lovely light
It’s rather belated to wish readers a Happy New Year on the 13th day of the month perhaps, but given that January does seem to last for about seven weeks, that not all cultures celebrate New Year at this time, and that March was the official first month for hundreds of years, maybe I can get away with it.
You can get away with anything in January.
5 comments:
Perfect - this is just the way I feel about January!
Such a lovely post. Just how I feel about January too. I've always loved the feeling of possible new beginnings - even if in the end nothing much changes, it's the "potential" and hope. I always look out for the tiny buds on trees and plants and the snowdrops are so beautiful. One thing you'll notice in time though, January will one day no longer feel as though it is lasting for seven weeks. More like seven days, as will all the other months of the year! x
Sums up January very well. I'm looking forward to Bristol in August too - no talk planed this time, unless anything crops up to inspire me, but will probably be chairing a panel again. See you there!
Look forward to seeing you in Bristol.
Thanks for all the feedback, everyone! It means a lot to know the writing isn't just going out into the ether.
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